French Women In Nicosia


It is my aesthetic poetic fate,
That I am near Kyrenia gate.
In Nicosia walled city, I am sitting on a bench,
And they are sauntering and speaking in French.
I see the Parisian bilabial musical notes on their lips,
And the exhausting hills of Lacoste village on their hips.
Their blonde hair serenades me when Paris is sunny,
In a summer morning perfumed with pure honey.
This French woman seems revolutionary,
And is expert in confectionery.
The tyranny of her brassier, she wants to resist,
Feeding her freedom from her crème caramel- like breast.
Her loose T-shirt is just a handkerchief conceals some cheese,
Trying to preserve it away from Nicosia’s hot summer breeze.
The other French seems expert in fishing and sea- foods,
And in the unique paintings of the nudes.
Is that a coral oyster or a vivid orange piece of underwear?
The transparent short dress portrays her in an atelier, almost bare.
My teeth turn to a Barbarian butcher when I look at their flesh,
No! I am a Libyan poet and I love etiquette and everything French.
This is an inevitable aesthetic golden chance,
To see two Louvre feminist masterpieces from France.
In Nicosia walled city,
For my poetic self I feel pity.
For I am carrying a paper and a pen,
Writing about those French women.
If I said to them as the singer Joe Dassin sang “Salut”,
I would be with them in Kyrenia eating oyster and cheese melted in a stew.

by Alaa Elgadi

Comments (1)

So romantic... Poetic... Honest... Our Arabic background needs to be tamed... Those women you described, their souls might be as transparent as their clothing... I loved your poem.... Thumbs up.