#joyce mansour

[the-cricket-chirps]

Joyce Mansour (Egyptian-French, Bowden, U.K. 1928–1986 Paris)

Untitled (Objet méchant) (Nasty Object)

1965–69

[henk-heijmans]

Portrait of Joyce Mansour, ca. 1950 - by Gilles Ehrmann (1928 - 2005), French

[antigonick]

—Splayed on your shadow Pounded by your tongue—

—Joyce Mansour, excerpt of "I want to Sleep with You Elbow to Elbow", in When Can I See You Again, translated by Emilie Moorhouse

[majestativa]

He removes her soul from the comfort of her bed And sucks on her agony.

— Joyce Mansour, Emerald Wounds: Selected Poems, transl by Emilie Moorhouse, (2023)

[mournfulroses]

Joyce Mansour, from a poem titled "Tinfoil," translated by Martin Sorrell

[hangsawoman]

the poetry foundation poem of the day ……..

[les-cris-des-fendues]

Ph. La bouquiniste

*

Une femme créait en elle le soleil

Et ses mains étaient belles à voir.

La terre s'ouvrait sous ses pieds fertiles

Et l'enveloppait de son haleine orangée

Fécondant ainsi la sérénité.

P.33

Joyce Mansour " Cris" Pierre Seghers Ed.

[mythologyofblue]

For I must wander On the deep sea bed Showering pearls on dead men Gathering shells And sweeping the shadows of passing boats With my falling hair Across the sliding sands into the mouth of hell

-Joyce Mansour, "Torn Apart"

[arablit]

Joyce Mansour's 'Emerald Wounds' Makes Griffin Poetry Prize's 2024 Longlist

March 21, 2024 – The Griffin Poetry Prize — one of the world’s largest and most celebrated poetry prizes — yesterday announced their 2024 longlist. Among the longlistees was Egyptian poet Joyce Mansour’s Emerald Wounds: Selected Poems, translated from French by Emilie Moorhouse. (Read selections from Emerald Wounds here.) Joyce Mansour (1928-1986) was born in Bowden, England, to Jewish-Egyptian…

[violettesiren]

Three days of rest Why not the tomb I can't breathe without your mouth The wait distorts the close morning And the long hours of the staircase Smell of gas Flat on my face I wait for tomorrow I see your skin glowing In the big gap of night The slow swing of the beautiful clear moon On the interior sea of my sex Dust on dust Hammer on a mattress Sun on a lead drum Always smiling your hand pounds indifference Cruelly dressed leaning toward emptiness You say no and the smallest thing that Bends its back shades a female body Artificial Nice Imitation perfume of the hour on the couch For which pale giraffes Did I leave Byzantium The putrid solitude A moonstone in an oval frame Again sleeplessness of stiff joints Again a flickering dagger in the rain Diamonds and delirium the keepsakes of tomorrow Sweat of taffeta beaches with no shade Foolishness of my lost flesh

The Sun in Capricorn by Joyce Mansour (Translated by Molly Bendall)

[leggerezza-dell-essere]

Mentre tu dietro la finestra inzuccherata di rabbia

Tu sporchi il tuo letto di sogni mentre mi aspetti.

Joyce Mansour

[la-scigghiu]

"Apri le porte della notte. Troverai il mio cuore impiccato. Nell’armadio, i sentori dell’amore appesi tra gli abiti rosa dell’alba divorati dalle tarme, la sporcizia. E gli anni, appesi senza vestiti, stracciati dalla speranza. Il mio cuore dai sogni galanti vive ancora".

.🦋.

🔸Joyce Mansour ~ dip. Anatoliy Kalugin

[majestativa]

For your name will be written on the tablet of her soul In capital letters of blood.

Joyce Mansour, Bird of Prey: Rapaces

[surrealistnyc]

Emerald Wounds, a new translation of Joyce Mansour's poetry, is out today from City Lights Press, which is offering 30 percent off the cover price on their site.

[razorsadness]

Geneva

From my bed I imagine the strange quiet of the graveyard. I fidget at the thought of spilled blood; my cheeks burn, my foul teeth bite the slippery harpoon of dementia and I moan in the dark like a flattened crayfish.      A tuft of your hair lurches on my tomb. My chest is chapped by a thousand wavelets, restless; I think I hear the screams of our parents, those tapeworms without opacity even in pain—who crisscross the alleys with sullen mossy walls, they scream and lament, spreading my spasmic delight all the way to the back of the garden. Beautiful garden with pinecone silences, with marble and octopus dreams, with cockroach spells and soft womanly smells. I will crush my cigar in your eye poached by late nights, I will crush your penis with my tired heel, I will crush you completely in the stench of my refusal.      Your voice breaks the divide. You’re complaining. My vagina tightens. To be touched, and then to wait ... 

—Joyce Mansour, translated from the French by Emilie Moorhouse (Poetry Magazine, June 2023)

[beastandbird]

:: I Stole the Yellow Bird, 2023 by Joyce Mansour ::