My Grandma’s Shawl
I passed through the matchsticks
– a dance hall of strange eyes,
Sawing firewood with one hand ,
Blazing the valley,
With the other,
Smothering the sunflowers
Immersed inside the earth…
The moment I wrapped myself in my grandma’s shawl
The clouds dispersed
Into a hungry
dough,
Lifting the lid from over the world,
Rejoicing at the invisible smoke,
Screaming as it prays,
And stumbling between its lips the moon is
The language of the rising day…
Begging existence,
Hastening the goodbye kiss,
Touching the mountain first,
Carelessly hurting its hand
On its pointy crest,
And departing, departing without regret
Washing its wound in the sea,
Removing the sand cover,
And falling asleep, falling asleep,
In every shell.
The Bird Dance
In the wilds smothered
With salt and alienation,
Foam sweeps away the kebbe mortar,
Grinding it,
Playing by the sun’s honeyed beats…
The steel nail scratches
The fig tree’s arm;
Here, here the sun is crucified;
The thumb thrusts
Into the green twig
Its path of disbelief…
The leafy smile dismantled
Amidst the wing of rain,
I feel the nakedness of the shirt…
The loose dance of birds
Keen for us to embrace the torch of time
It finds me white,
Waving for it to come forth… and we leave together.
The Last Tune…
The amphibious paintings grieving out
Of fondness for the clouds,
Nightingale of color
I waited for you… and it’s enough…
The light shall swim
In the depth
Of the dream…
I and you,
And the night smacks the offering fastened
To the orbit of the sky,
The eye trembles
In the tear-duct of the sun,
Snatching the swing from the worn-out cage,
The meadow blooms
Between the blue cloud
And the black mountain,
The vase of beauty blows for us
And so does the moon of giving.
But the wind…
The wind will irrigate the arch…
And the leaf witness of the remaining tune…
The Orange Coat
You haven’t dropped anchor,
You won’t understand,
Don’t weep,
The sun strokes its eyes
And the orange color
Unwraps between the cloud… and the tongue,
Black leaves oscillating with silver strings…
Before the torch of light is out…
And the bird comes and goes…
It won’t land on the ground,
No, nor on a stone…
There’s no olive leaf to come back with
Above the limited table of the sea,
The shells are silenced,
The branch leaned toward
The claws of winter,
Fearing the sting of spring;
It reprimands eternity
Coughing in the face of time,
My head walks without my consent,
Thirst persists
Up to the green apron,
And the sage meadow.
The wind burned
The wind burned,
With the rotten cage,
The drowning hollowed distances of childhood skin,
The spirit of darkness is splintering,
At the sides of the evening tale,
Disappointed,
By the mute snowflake,
And the arch of salt,
Trading with the drowning of rings…
The space of roads is locked,
Light unbalanced,
Enchanted by the blanket of the past.
Between the rattle of the chisel,
And the boisterous spider web,
And the meadows of drought, bitter
The illusions of yesterday wrapped up, vanquished,
Colonized by yellow leaves.
Photogallery of paintings by Laure Keyrouz: 1. Crossings, 2) Rhizome: our roots in the heart of the earth, 3) Beatrice’s return, 4) Towards spring, 5) Heavens’ justice, 6) Crucified spring woman, 7) Maryam’s pants 8) Eden
Laure Keyrouz, artist, writer, poetess. Born on April 6th, 1979 in Becharre, Lebanon. She received a Diploma in Arabic Literature from the Department of Literature and Human Sciences at the Lebanese University in 2002, a Diploma of Superior Studies in Arabic Literature from the Institute of Literature at the USEK University Kaslik, Lebanon in 2003 and a Diploma in “Art & Painting” from the Institute of Fine Arts at the Lebanese University in 2005. In the same year she received a scholarship from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Cultural Italian Institute, for a Masters Degree in Italian Language at the University of Udine. After that she received a Diploma in Superior Studies of Art & Painting at Accademia di Belle Arti of Venice in 2008. In Italy, she founded a magazine for Art, Poetry and Philosophy “Inchiostro e pietra” in 2009 and also an association, “Front of Art,” with Katia Baraldi in 2011. She travels between Italy and Lebanon to present contemporary art exhibitions and lectures in poetry.
