Two Poems

Joyce Mansour Introduced and translated from the French by Emilie Moorhouse
July 28, 2023
Alexandra Segova / Alamy Stock Photo

Joyce Mansour (1928–1986) was born Joyce Patricia Adès in England and raised in Cairo in a wealthy family of Jewish Syrian descent. Her early life was marked by two tragedies: When she was 15, her mother died of cancer, and barely three years later, she lost her husband to cancer as well, only six months into their marriage. It was too much to bear. She locked herself away, refusing to see anyone, and suffered from night terrors and sleepwalking. Plunged into a deep depression, Mansour turned to poetry as a way to cope and, in the words of her biographer Marie-Laure Massir, “remove the blood from [her] dreams.” She began composing poems in the bathtub, which she spoke loudly to herself “as though to cover the sound of the water,” in a practice Massir calls “a kind of revolt”—an exorcism of the pain that burrowed inside her.

After Gamal Abdel Nasser solidified his power in Egypt in the early 1950s, the majority of Mansour’s family’s assets were seized by the government, and Mansour, along with her second husband, Samir Mansour, was exiled to Paris. There she became more deeply involved with the Surrealists, who cast off the rational and plumbed the generative possibilities of the subconscious. Mansour’s poems are fierce, macabre, erotically charged—characterized by a femininity of irony and rage. She mocked the superficial ideal of women as innocent, submissive. She illustrated her poetics with the following anecdote: “I went to the cemetery for a Muslim funeral. Suddenly a woman started to scream . . . It seemed to come from the top of the skull, you know, the fontanel, from which religions often say that the soul escapes at the moment of death. It’s terrifying. That is poetry.”

– Emilie Moorhouse

Listen to Emilie Moorhouse read "I lift you in my arms" in the original French.

Listen to Emilie Moorhouse read "Endlessly Midnight" in the original French.

Listen to Emilie Moorhouse read "I lift you in my arms" in her translation.

Listen to Emilie Moorhouse read "Endlessly Midnight" in her translation.

(English follows the French, below.)

Je te soulève dans mes bras

Je te soulève dans mes bras Pour la dernière fois. Je te dépose hâtivement dans ton cercueil bon marché. Quatre hommes l’épaulent après l’avoir cloué Sur ton visage défait sur tes membres angoissés. Ils descendent en jurant les escaliers étroits Et toi tu bouges dans ton monde étriqué. Ta tête détachée de ta gorge coupée C’est le commencement de l’éternité.

Minuit à Perte de Vue

Enfin des nouvelles L’eau resplendissante crie hosanna Mes yeux disparaissent Par à-coups Oui par spasmes Happés par la candeur De l’onde Les puissances d’erreur Arpentent le terrain Qui borde les deux rives Sagesse étroite Des cosaques Aux blessures brasillantes De vitraux J’attends la faucille Et le beau paulownia dans mon jardin saccagé Ceint le ciel de ses feuillages sonores Telle est la sagesse de l’ombre La femme hurla Pourquoi cacher tes seins L’eau ne saurait oeuvrer Que dans l’absurde Laisse-moi souffler sur leurs pointes précises De ma bouche aux brindilles de Mongole Jaillira une pensée sévère Suis-moi clitoris rauque hérisson rose du désert Brise tes diadèmes broie tes fiers oiseaux Je suis tout ce qui reste de ta mère Je vis alors d’autres personnages Qui venaient armés de gui et de virgules Plus dangereux et mutilants Que maints fusils de guerre Avide de grands mots la femme chuchota M’aimes-tu encore Vois-tu les escadrons de la tradition Et leurs reliquaires voués aux ossements De chien Verseront leurs repas leurs rébus Leurs Rébecca Dans la zone interdite Du cigare Mais qu’adviendra-t-il de l’expérience matérialiste Les hommes adossés aux lotus N’ont que faire de nos épines Totémiques De quel coin du néant viendra la fontanelle obscure De quel obélisque bestial Tombera le prépuce L’oeil vague et triste de la mamelle féminine Doit savoir J’ai enterré mon image Yeux ouverts dans la chair Et la femme sur l’humus Laissa choir Son masque-éclair Dans le tombeau de son miroir À l’Est Le soleil chemine Drapé dans les vocables Inodores Les offres de reddition Lance-flammes et travaux d’aiguille Qui de tout temps décrivent Dieu Les deux rives se courbent Féconde Je reste là Fascinée Le regard fixe le ventre sombre Maudissant ma grande faim de ton sexe Verrouillé Par la famille Je vois encore L’escarpement circulaire de ces falaises Cruelles Lamentables ruines de combien de devantures Placées De l’autre côté de la fièvre Aussi ne résisterai-je plus À l’envie Je finis pourtant par m’endormir Mon glaïeul éteint Entre tes quatres dents de devant Tel le couloir d’un train Qui fuit Tes maigres jambes de rongeur Augmentent Mon mal De mer Je finis pourtant par m’endormir Une main dans le seau où grondent les orties L’autre sur mon pubis aux bornes fluides Et atermoiements De fille Quelle est donc ma patrie Une ramille jaune dans le fourneau De ta poitrine J’aime aussi dit le moine Le poison le dur hibou Le demi-aveugle aux pupilles rugueuses Qui devance le jour binoclé de frais Louvoyant lentement Autour de son orbite L’araignée touffue Ma route bifurque autour de ton doigt La moelle tombe Floconneuse Sur le blaireau familier Il fait froid dans l’armoire Dit la perle Mon ventre est de cire Ainsi que mon retard Sur l’horaire Un désir vert et clapotant Tend sa vertical Vers la cire Reconnais regarde cède Et écoute L’araignée manger la perle Ô introuvable son d’une voix lointaine Dans mille ans tu sauras Qu’il y a plus de passion Dans le manchon d’une juive Que dans les ajours De la plaine Je suis la pierre qui pèse entre tes jambes Pierre souffrant de la végétation Frôleuse Pierre de ton signe embrasé Pierre de ton crâne battu Je suis le fou-rire de l’occasion perdue Je suis le fugitif qui court entre les murs De sa peine Je suis le cerne de ta vaste clairière Je suis les barreaux qui meurtrissent ta raison Je suis la route libre et la chair Évanouis Les crampes les ciseaux la maison Dans la triste rue latérale De la sonde Pourquoi tes taches de rousseur Pâlissent-elle Mes dents sont inactives Les vacarme cristallin des ramilles Qui enlacent de leurs tendres injures tes bottes molles Ne pénètre point le champ clos de ta petite oreille J’espère que tu souffres Loin de mon haleine Et le réseau de tigres Dans ma main Que ton buste change d’aspect Empourpré par la glace Ta fugue sera ma discipline Ta coupole mon soleil rougi Par les morsures De l’éther Viens tambouriner dans le creux de mes genoux La triste réalité de l’heure Viens prendre possession de mes décorations De mes fourmis chevalines aux pattes allègres À l’infime blessure De blonde Viens prendre possession de mon suicide Tu souilleras mon oreiller de tes paroles de lymphe La publicité Dilatera tes pupilles Sans avoir recours à la fellation Poétique Sans bannir le sexe du sol Pourquoi tenir la main du cadavre Pourquoi souffrir Le cancer mythique du temps Passé Retournera les galets sur la plage inique Pourquoi chasser la marée au large de la dernière terre Effacer le contour du grandiose Mexique Quand dans mon coeur La vague pulpeuse de l’Orient Scintille Un jour je lâcherai la rampe Et mes jupons coquelicot Planeront dans le ciel Comme une terre J’ai mal Écumée par la bourrasque J’entends le chant de ton pipeau Il glisse sur la lame comme un blessé Sur la banquise J’écoute La douce rumeur de ta langue maudite Elle vibre dans le sillon De ma glèbe J’ai mal Mais le veilleur passe

I lift you in my arms

I lift you in my arms For the last time. I hastily place you into your cheap coffin. Four men lift it once they’ve nailed the lid On your undone face on your anguished limbs. They go down the narrow stairs swearing And you are moving in your narrow world. Your head removed from your slit throat It is the beginning of eternity.

Endlessly Midnight

Finally news from the river The radiant water shouts Hosanna My eyes disappear In jolts Yes with spasms Caught by the frankness Of the wave The powers of mistakes Pace on the ground That lines the two rivers Narrow wisdom of the Cossacks With glowing wounds Of stained glass I wait for the scythe And the beautiful paulownia in my ransacked garden Surrounds the sky with its musical foliage Such is the wisdom of shadow The woman howled Why hide her breasts The water would only know how to work In the absurd Let me blow on their fine points With my mouth of Mongolian twigs Gushing with a harsh thought Follow me hoarse clitoris pink hedgehog of the desert Break your tiaras crush your proud birds I am all that is left of your mother I now embody other people That were armed with mistletoe and commas More dangerous and mutilating Than many weapons of war Eager for big words the woman whispered Do you still love me Do you see the death squads of tradition And their shrines devoted to bones Of dogs Will pour their meals their scraps Their Rebeccas In the forbidden zone Of the cigar But what will become of the materialistic experience Men backed up against the lotus Care nothing for our thorns Totemic From which corner of the void will the dark fontanelle arrive From which beastly obelisk Will the foreskin fall The sad and dimmed eye of the feminine nipple Must know I buried my image In the open eyes of the flesh And the woman on the top-soil Let fall Her lightning mask In the grave of her mirror To the east The sun ambles Draped in words Without smell The offers of surrender Flamethrowers and needle work Who are always describing God The two shores are curved Fertile I stay there Fascinated My look fixed, my stomach gloomy Cursing my great hunger for your sex Locked away By family I still see The circular escarpment of the cliffs Cruel Pathetic ruins of so many facades Placed On the other side of the fever Also I will no longer resist The urge And yet I finally fall asleep My gladiola turned off Between four front teeth Like the corridor of a train That flees Your skinny rodent legs Increase My sickness Of the sea And yet I finally fall asleep One hand in the bucket where the nettles growl The other on my pubis with fluid boundaries And procrastinations Of girls Which one is my country A small yellow branch in the furnace Of your chest I also like it says the monk The hard poison of the owl The half-blind with rough pupils That gets ahead of the glasses Slowly wavering Around its orbit The bushy spider My path forks around your finger The marrow falls Fluffily On the familiar badger It’s cold in the cupboard Says the pearl My stomach is of wax So is my lateness In the schedule A green lapping desire Stretches its vertical Towards the wax Recognize look yield And listen To the spider eating the pearl O unobtainable sound of a distant voice In a thousand years you will know That there is more passion In the muff of a Jewess Than in the openwork Of the plain I am the stone that weighs between your legs Stone suffering from the greenery Teasing Stone of your burning sign Stone of your beaten skull I am the giggles of the lost opportunity I am the fugitive running between the walls Of his hurt I am the dark ring of your vast clearing I am the bars that bruise your reason I am the free road and the flesh Fainted Cramps scissors house In the sad lateral street Of the probe Why do your freckles Go pale My teeth are inactive The crystalline din of small branches That entwine with their tender injuries your soft boots Does not enter the arena of your small ear I hope you are suffering Far from my breath And the network of tigers In my hand That your bust changes in appearance Crimson from the ice Your fugue will be my discipline Your dome my sun reddened By the bites Of the ether Come drum in the hollow of my knees The sad reality of the hour Come take possession of my decorations Of my horse ants with buoyant feet To the tiny wound Of a blonde Come take possession of my suicide You will dirty my pillow with your lymph words The advertising Will dilate the pupils of your eyes Without the help of fellatio Poetic Without banning the sex from the ground Why hold the hand of a corpse Why suffer The mythical cancer of time Past Will overturn the stones on the unjust beach Why chase the tide off the coast of the last earth Erase the contours of grandiose Mexico When in my heart The luscious wave of the Orient Sparkles One day I will let go of the handrail And my poppy skirts Will glide in the sky Like an earth I am in pain Frothing from the squall I hear the song of your flute It slips on the blade like a wounded man On the ice floe I am listening The soft rumor of your cursed tongue Vibrates in the path Of my glebe I am in pain But the watchman passes by

Reprinted from Emerald Wounds: Selected Poems. Copyright © 1953, 1955, 1958, 1959, 1960, 1965, 1967, 1976, 1982, 1985, 1986, 1991, 2014, 2023 by Cyrille Mansour for the Estate of Joyce Mansour. Translations and Introduction copyright © 2023 by Emilie Moorhouse. Reprinted with the permission of City Lights Books.

Joyce Mansour wrote 16 books of poetry, as well as prose and plays. She was part of the inner circle of post-World War II Surrealists.

Emilie Moorhouse was raised in a French-speaking household in Toronto, Canada. She now lives in Montreal where she works as a teacher, writer, translator, and environmentalist.