Anissa Sboui

A University teacher and poet, living in Sousse, Tunisia.

-The writer of 5 volumes in English language: Transcend (2018), Rebirth (2019)and Number One (2020), The Co-Avid Breath (2021) and Hurricane (2022). She wrote 2 poetry books in Arabic and 2 short-stories, entitled “Alone” and “Coincidence”.

– Her poems featured in Writing in a Woman’s VoiceThe Writers’ Club, The Criterion Galaxy: International Multidisciplinary Research Journal, Dumpster Fire Press, Medusa’s Kitchen, The 2020 Annual by the Elizabeth River Writers, Valiant Scribe, Impspired Magazine.

The Moon

I stopped staring at the moon,
Projecting beautiful female faces into it,
Admiring unattainable ladies,
Wishing to become their lovers soon,
I ceased talking to the ‘mone’
The way Philip Sidney did,
Why asking whether love there was like here?
And if the moon sympathized with his lovesickness,
Isn’t that weird, reader?
Didn’t he know that it’s of no use
Conversing with a speechless muse
In the heart of that blackened afternoon?

I ceased talking to the moon,
The way Percy Shelley did,
Why the pillar is its pallor,
It’s weird reader, isn’t it?
What matters is not the color,
Solitary, among the stars, yes,
Yet, can oust them and be the tycoon
With the spell of a sparkling spoon.

What I can say about the moon,
It looks like a round cocoon
Filled with heavenly omens,
Billion eyes witness the light,
Only poets romanticize the breasttaking sight

What I can say about the moon,
It looks like a distant balloon,
We’ve been accustomed to investing our childhood
Through nickelodeon cartoon

To breathe or not to breathe

To breathe or not to breathe
That's the answer
When the sun layers
Infringe my slumber,
Allah, I turn to, 
With solemn heart,
Secular brain thoughts,
Apolitical chamber
His grace, I do remember 
Eyes open,
Hands stretched,
Legs straightened, not like cucumber
To breathe or not to breathe
That's the answer
When the sun layers
Tickle my makeup-free face
In the heart of windy September
I crawl into the silky bed
Made of tender timber
Touch the bone of my North African race
Jolt forward
At the view of the chaste sky,
Neat breeze, 
Potent scent of amber

Amidst a crazy, 
Deadly world
My transient insomnia
Not yet fixed by that psychiatric plumber 
To the question of possible trace
Of surpassing doomed December,
To breathe or not to breathe
That's the answer ...

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