Live Encounters Arab Women Poets & Writers June 2026
No conditions, poems Maha Alautoom.
Translated from Arabic by Dr. Salwa Gouda.
No conditions
The conditions of metaphors give me a headache
and meter wears me out.
Ever since I gained weight
I have thought about the lightness of words
on the line,
on the chest,
on the belly.
I walk a lot
to chisel away the flab in my language.
I rehearse my words in front of mirrors
as if writing is surgery
and everything my hands have done
has drained my blood.
Am I tired of walking
or has bitterness weighed me down?
Did fear torment me?
If only I had a different body
to write lean poetry,
light on my shoulders,
something people could carry
like a cellphone.
I’m sick of crawling,
of flying.
I want poetry to handle
my new intentions,
not erase me
like my old poems did.
I want it to walk slowly beside me
as if
me and it
we are the only lovers,
walking through the night.
What the poem left behind
I left this poem
more than poplar trees on my balcony.
I left fledglings naked,
waiting for my hand to make them fly
handkerchiefs fluttering behind windows
in my name.
I left my lungs for her
and filled a spoon with oxygen
so she’d know the air is scarce
and that I spoil her.
I left my mistakes,
my longing to cross through her to somewhere else.
I left women who clung to my language like silk,
and sewed a dress from my blood
my loneliness wears it.
I left her half of everything:
two obsessive women
who shared their fear
of where partnership leads in death
when they become one,
spreading like a spider over my face.
Truth is,
I left her everything
so she would leave me,
so she’d believe
I sing those little songs
for myself,
for love,
for lovers like Sylvia Plath,
and for death
which teaches, like poetry,
in my every step.
It teaches me
that my small shadow on the earth
fades with time.
To the boredom that bullies my voice
I want to scream louder and louder,
play without getting bored,
come back a little lighter.
Maybe I’ll return without rain
lurking around the trapped words
inside my cloud.
Did you forget the way?
As you edge along a thread of dawn,
committing to nothing,
unwinding only the night
from the night’s spool
you don’t weave.
You tripped over description
more than once.
You forgot the way.
That poem’s recipe
can’t be repeated
or retrieved.
You forgot.
Maybe the coldness has a reason
like women crying for no reason,
like waiting for my lover.
I try a field of chamomile:
he comes back,
or maybe not.
I try my luck
with a roll of dice.
Where did I lose the truth?
How did I forget the way?
I come back to spell out poems
from the very beginning — from the alphabet.
I lift every stone
maybe the poem is underneath.
I dig through every cloud
maybe the poem is above.
I part the wool, the chickens, the vermin.
I vanish like all devotees in the presence
of ancient poets,
modern ones,
and those who’ve stripped off modernity’s clothes
without covering their nakedness underneath.
I see so much on my way.
I see poetry in everything
and forget the way.
Neither pre-Islamic imagery is poetry,
nor modern rambling,
nor elegant words,
nor the garden’s daughter — jasmine.
The poem was
walking right here with me,
and I lost it in a minute.
© Maha Alautoom
Dr Salwa Gouda is an accomplished Egyptian literary translator, critic, and academic affiliated with the English Language and Literature Department at Ain Shams University. Holding a PhD in English literature and criticism, Dr. Gouda pursued her education at both Ain Shams University and California State University, San Bernardino. She has authored several academic works, including Lectures in English Poetry and Introduction to Modern Literary Criticism, among others. Dr. Gouda also played a significant role in translating The Arab Encyclopedia for Pioneers, a comprehensive project featuring poets, philosophers, historians, and literary figures, conducted under the auspices of UNESCO. Recently, her poetry translations have been featured in a poetry anthology published by Alien Buddha Press in Arizona, USA. Her work has also appeared in numerous international literary magazines, further solidifying her contributions to the field of literary translation and criticism.
Maha Alautoom is a poet and academic, holding a PhD in Arabic Literature and Modern Criticism. She is a member of the Jordanian Writers Association and has authored several poetic works, including Circles of Mud (1999), Half of It is Lilac (2006), More like Her Dreams (2010), Down the River (2013), and Upper Rooms (2019). In recognition of her contributions, she was honored with the Jordanian State Appreciation Award in 2017.