Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance - Carl Sandburg..........Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject - John Keats .........Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge - William Wordsworth ..........Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand - Plato .........No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language - Samuel Taylor Coleridge .........One demands two things of a poem. Firstly, it must be a well-made verbal object that does honor to the language in which it is written. Secondly, it must say something significant about a reality common to us all, but perceived from a unique perspective. What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves - W. H. Auden ...........Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash - Leonard Cohen .........There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know - William Cowper .........Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood -T. S. Eliot ..........Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason - Novalis...........He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life - George Sand .........A poem is never finished, only abandoned - Paul Valery ........A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland - Kahlil Gibran.............Poetry should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance - John Keats..........To be a poet is a condition, not a profession - Robert Frost........A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself - E. M. Forster.........Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo - Don Marquis...........Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things - T. S. Eliot ..........You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it tick. You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in - Dylan Thomas .........Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words - Paul Engle......... There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away! Lord Byron

Shehrayar’s Dream

By Abdennour Driss - Morocco

Translated by Mohamed Said Raihani - Morocco


"Another dream targeting the dark


Dream is that whiteness blackening the night,

That thirsty desire

Trying to wake up in me,

That heavenly testimony

Which the river praises


I am the dream of a fish

Predicting inundation"…

Abdennour Driss

Scholar & Short-Story Writer

Author of:

"Women’s Writings"

-A Study-


"Woman’s Novel & Reality"

-A Study-


"Taboo Myth & Religious Discourse"

-A Study-


Getting ready for printing:

"Feminizing Virility"

-Short Stories-

       The inner gap is as deep as labyrinth whereas the outer clothes tell about the imprisoned body.

       He used to sow his masculine name in his wives’ wombs but was good only at giving birth to females. All the new bellies would bear him new expectations in ending that crop.

       The flag of victory , however, cannot be raised by catastrophe-loving feet obsessed with the nine scenes which had danced both in the emptiness of the belly and in the belly of the emptiness.

       These are the ends that he feels running deeply in his dry veins coming from no-one knows, bearing shameful masks!

       “Cursed is he who gives birth to females!”

       “Damnation” is his word to justify his impotence while cosmetics are women’s way to sneak into his pocket and organ, giving birth to a non-stop set of females. His poor status has not killed him. Rather, it might drive him mad or perhaps paralyze him or even redirect his thinking towards suicide.

       Tackling this topic in his daily life will revive the old painful moments that has never stopped proliferating in his endless questions…

       “Cursed is he who gives birth to females!”

       That was his echo whenever his salt-filled worries and injuries flow out in his long journey to salvation through sorcery and magic weeds…

       His childhood was a wretched past stamped exclusively for him. He was the only boy to love dolls. He used to find in this hobby real happiness and true pleasure. Dolls would stick to his hand and never fall. Memories lay new bridges towards the past proving that life has not changed. Memories are still standing against any possible change. Gloom and mud are the distinctive poetic feature still present in children’s hymns playing carelessly with the angles and sides in the quarter…

       He drowns himself in his night pleasures and never gets sober before experiencing the butterfly joy… He has such a crazy story with females starting from his early admiration to dolls and ending with absolute adoration to them all.

       He was sober but the moaning of the glasses made him drunk again. His looks seemed unsteady, wandering, fluffy, drifting away with the winds of his song towards the sterility of the whisper , towards the heart of the scream , towards the menopause that has eaten his wife’s womb. There is nothing that can be done. That is the law of feminity…

       Never in his life has he faked a “foreign” greeting until that day when he met her. His memory is very creative. It is the most spacious place to sleep in, à la scarecrow.

       “Cursed is he who gives birth to females!”

       This is the female’s labyrinth: a singular caravan made especially for loss and parting. There is no male to inaugurate her salvation from this never-ending painful memory. This is a typical caravan for loss and parting. This is the female’s labyrinth . There is no male to inaugurate her deliverance from this this never-ending painful memory.

       He was lost in the arches of feminine lips juicing his dreams. Now, his ambitions are redirecting him to his private doctor’s cabinet. He is in such a hurry to have male dolls and perpetuate the torn-out moments he will forever have with women tired of vain memories.


       * The writer, Abdennour Driss, is a Moroccan scolar & shortstory writer , born in Meknes. Author of:" Women’s Writings " (Study) in 2004 , " Woman’s Novel & Reality " (Study) in 2005 and " Taboo Myth & Religious Discourse " (Study) in 2005. He is getting ready for printing a collection of short stories entitled :" Feminizing Virility "

       * The translator, Mohamed Said Raihani, is a Moroccan translator, scholar & shortstory writer , born on December 23rd 1968 in Ksar El Kébir. He published in Arabic "The Singularity Will " (Semiotic Study on First-names) 2001, "Waiting For the Morning" (Short stories) 2003, "Thus Spoke Santa Lugar-Verde" (Short stories) 2005, "The Season Of Migration to Anywhere" (Short stories) 2006. he is getting ready for printing:"Beyond Writing & Reading " (testimonies) and "Kais & Juliette" (An E-Love Novel).

       * "Shehrayar’s Dream" is the third narrative text in the "The Moroccan Dream", Anthology of Moroccan new short story directed by Mohamed Said Raihani.




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