Kingdom prose poem

Photo by ajacorrea

It is, first and last, my small kingdom. It has a ceiling closing off on me the gates of sun, stars and curses; it has walls ornamented by my dreams, and a mirror which sleeps whenever darkness passes by.
At my room I am occasionally a small god, at other times a slave improvising hymns, gluing voodoos and rituals, inhaling incense, while dust and moth reside inside cushions and books.
At my wish, in my little room, I climb up on the lion’s lane, I yawn as wide as the universe, I make a mosquito my friend, hang to her neck a fragile name, blow the wind into her wings, sharpen her front-teeth by a penknife, clear up by my own hands her buzzing voice, open for her the fifth direction, and let her drink what I pluck out off the sky and some of my blood.
Here, at my little room, I am whatever I desire; I declare war on fleets, break the generals thorns by a wish, transfer Constantinople to Istanbul, plant the remnants of Carthage into the remnants of Iraq, and walk barefooted in the corridors of the UNO with a T-shirt imported from the rubbish market.
In my little room, I write history according to my size, so I seat Electra on the throne dangling from the king’s eyelids, I play logo through which I bring continents back to their former place and time, I flake snow on my heart’s embers, and pour fire into icy hearts.
And, when desire inflames, my blood becomes a salt sea, so everything becomes mine; the pretty ladies of the lands/nymphs of paradise/ the golden fish/ the lantern of Alaa’-Aldin/ the invisibility cap/ Phoenician canoes/ curtains, booklets, sad wood, the lungs of Earth, the spring of the sparrow over my garden’s chest, and – if I wish – also the clouds which pass by my northern window.
Here, in my little room, I draw myself out from the pile of straw, and become me.
But, behind the threshold, when the door which is decorated by secrets and red seals, my mirror gets infected by the blues, because of existential questions and a sharpened word, my cloud and my mosquito fly away from my hand
Here, beyond the threshold, noise propagates. At the gates of my kingdom, beyond the door which is decorated by secrets and red seals, flies land on sweet candies, water and money flow into my mouth, then come yells:
Checkmate, checkmate.
So, I come, completely alone, out of me,
to a space wide enough for nothing.

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Fareed K. Ghanem

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I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
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