“ Abu Arwas moalaka ” (Arwas is a Berber word that

symbolizes everything that is bad or negative).

Written by: the poet Abd jlil ould hammouya

Translated into English by: the scholar Mohammed Gharioua

My clockwise is dead by its venom That I am me

My heart is ticking with 60 sighs in a shriek My lovely

A pillow that has been shaped from my tears

My eye is fluttering like a butterfly My son

Want to change the history A dream that will carry the curse on my
behalf

My father
My diaries has been eaten by a goat
He did his best to look like me
but it didn’t get copied
My friend

Another one that I know

The comb that helps me to adjust the youth
in my head The misery

Idea by idea The symbol of poor people

its teeth got decayed The poverty

As an idle mouse

When I arrive home drunk My mother

The dog gets to know me before my wife The only one that gave me her hands

When My hands cut off

Her friend, the mirror is whispering in a And she cooked the existence with her age
fondness way spices
 My misery is tired of me

The mouse that I draw my programs with He left me empty

Has given birth by someone

His sexual orientations are doubtful My existence Destroyed by questions

With no answer

My moustache is a man To gather my remains

It limits my childishness

My age

My prominent tooth Still counting it wrongly

An axe that I catch the ideas with Every time I reach a number

Hunger said : come back

My hair is wavy

Surrounded with a blacked night My faith was stolen by a bachelor infidel

Almost wanting to replace me

My face is a child

Seems to be aging before autumn My smile brightens with nicotine

It caused cancer

And life is asking me as a pregnant lady To my beloved

What to do?

My white hand

My frivolity is jealous That I raise for prayers

Wants to live me alone She Returns into my pocket blacked

My bank account is vintage wine My heart is red

Empty as an orthodox church Pumping only blood

Crowded with hope With no color

The last time it pulsed

I took it as The kiss

A tremor of love A life that prepares

My lips kiss with desire Life

The butts of cigarettes A maze without a door

And spits so well Asking me as if I deflowered her virginity

What to do?

My glass is not satisfied with the tea My fingers are long

As I do with my only beloved I dig the fate using them

It wants vodka without concentrated alcohol

My palm is harsh

The bottle of the fighter I smack time with it

I drink it every day And I get hurt

And sit on my thoughts

The Contradiction

The water bottle Is a hasheesh not brominated

Is an unlucky beer

Philosophising

The cup of coffee Drunk without alcohol

An unripe pot Looking for a toilet

To urinate on history

The rose

A naked female Once of a boring morning

I dragged paradise

The poem Then I slept

A miserable painting
Another once I dragged Not written by the poet

Hell

Then I lived The virgin leaf

A soldier's wife

A lady who gave birth to me by C-section Gave birth to chauvinism

Then she regretted

The phone

I create gods in my hut with dementia Was Invented by a yearning person

Once, I created a giant Tired of waiting the letter

And once I created a universe

And once I failed The car

I created life Instead of living it A female lacking breasts

She got pregnant

Then screamed in my face: Life

What to do? A whore that lives us

As she pleases

The apple that Adam ate And in the morning she asks the first
passerby
Was an existential
What to do?
Trap

Yesterday, I thought I knew

Today, I thought I believe

The eternity that Eve sang
Tomorrow, I won't think
Layla lived it
So I can emit
In Qais's heart
From the mist

The devil's whispers

The Pen
Poetic images
A rusty sword
Used

To poke the donkey inside me

So he can sleep

I looked beside me

My life was lying on her stomach

I closed my mind and asked her

What to do?

Glimpse about the poem:

The literary text is born with its criticism methodology and its criticizer. The creator
stretches his hands out to the reader/criticizer to take their first step towards the text
and remove any ambiguity, symbolism, or metaphors that may be present.

He extends bridges between him and the society that produced the text, or bluff to
find the psychological relationship to these productions. However, these contextual
approaches are helpless in the face of postmodern prose poetry, where meaning
becomes like shifting sands or a mirage in a barren desert. Every time the
reader/criticizer thinks he has grasped some parts of the text, others slip away,
making the process very difficult.

In this context comes the poem "Abu Arwas" by the poet Abd Jlil Ould Hammouya, in
which Arwas becomes the Amazigh word for solemn speeches and the semantic
center of a poetic flow that is immersed in its surrealism.

At first glance, the reader might think that it is a bunch of contradictions, and indeed
it is, but it is dualistic oppositions that draw the aesthetic meaning of the poetic
sentence. An unruly meaning from the moment and reality.

Once, Theodore Adorno asked, "What's the point of writing a poem after Auschwitz
massacre?" Perhaps we could ask the same question to the poet's, "What's the point
of poetry if there is no ego? This "ego" that wanders in the nebula where there is no
beginning and no end. It's the same existential anxiety that makes the poet feel like
he was thrown into this universe without his will, without belonging or love, and it is
a situation closer to absurdity, where he says:
 My heart is red

Pumping only blood

With no color

The last time it pulsed

I took it as

A tremor of love

The poet's self has always been perplexed amidst this great loss and immense
confusion, where the heart pumps colorless blood, and the last time it pulsed, I took
it as a tremor of love.

These are poetic images that derive their uniqueness from the worlds of the
unconscious. The meaning corrodes like the edge of a river, and the human
disappears in the vicissitudes of life, and all that remains is a desperate attempt to
recognize the features of a man who looks at a stranger from the mirror.

The experience of the poet Abd Jlil Ould Hammouya transcends the boundaries of our
region, and perhaps our country, to reveal one mask after another, our ugliness and
failure, in a poetic language that can be described as shocking, surreal, and
completely unfamiliar.