Biography of Venus Khoury-Ghata
énus Khoury-Ghata (born 1937, in Bsharri) is a French-Lebanese writer. In 1959, she was Miss Beirut. She married French researcher Jean Ghata. She collaborated on Europe magazine, directed by Louis Aragon, translating it into Arabic with other poets.She has lived in Paris since 1972 and has published several novels and collections of poems.
Venus Khoury-Ghata Poems
As Night Became Talkative
we were lent a window on a fragment of the world We we re the house and the road that led to the house The mother moved the door each time a train went by and at each procession toward
What Can Be Said About The Women Who Hun...
Calling trees and children to put their noises away in their pencil-cases And come sit at the table with their backs to the fire where the bones of a thousand-league old willow are burning
In those days I know now words declaimed the wind besides pebbles, there were moons, but no lamps the stars would emerge later from a brawl between two flintstones
When Did Their Language Mingle With Ours
so my brother spoke the words of the arbutus so the mother thickened her sauces with the ash tree's black resin The female branches made off with the laundry on our lines the young shoots leapt into our nights
For Noha Al Hegelan
At that time the earth was so high up women hung out clouds and laundry on the same line angels gripped their skirts to keep them from following stray souls
Where Do Words Come From?
Where do words come from? from what rubbing of sounds are they born on what flint do they light their wicks what winds brought them into our mouths
In The Village Of The Mothers
The days remain in a bucket of water The wells are kept for the use of the dead who splash the walls with their silence
Her Apron Drawn On Her Skin
the mother sent us out in the street naked Walnut husks served us for ink Fences we'd jumped were the pages we leafed through Euphoria in the evening when she multiplied her arms
The Sailors Without A Ship
The sailors without a ship have strange hallucinations when the sea does its spring cleaning The bare-armed fronds of gesticulating seaweed are defunct sweethearts The taut swings between the continents are filled with seagulls and
The first day after his death she folded up her mirrors put a slipcover on the spider web then tied up the bed which was flapping its wings to take off
It Was A November Of Bitter Rain And Sno...
we filed the dead leaves by size to ease the task of the forest that was absent for reasons known only to itself The parents had left with the door
the mother looked like the linden tree in the square like the wood of the table on which she wrote our faces like the log that didn't sweat or complain about the smoke dead
The Cloud Hanging Over The Valley Has Be...
The cloud hanging over the valley has been there forever Trains come from the coast cross it without stopping Gloomy travelers would photograph the cemetery but not the children, despite the little bells they wore on their ankles
God, The Mother Claimed, Is Behind Every...
his right shoulder lower than his left heavy with rocky snowfalls from such endurance It's his motionless breath that fissures our walls in the night when one winter hands
the mother looked like the linden tree in the square
like the wood of the table on which she wrote our faces
like the log that didn't sweat or complain about the smoke
she began to avoid us
turned her back to the mirror to the moon to the skylight
she would say that the moon was a loaf of bread baked between two stones