Literature

Poetry: When the Evening Comes

When evening comes,

My morning revolution subsides

I live in my mother’s lap.

Turkia Loucif, an Algerian writer and poet, shares her poetry

Turkia Loucif is an Algerian writer who grew up in a family of many members and lived in a house left over from the houses of French centenarians in the neighborhood of arches. Her passion began with telling oral stories to her two sisters before bed, her mother realized her talent and she loved nature, flowers and squirrels, she frequented the school library and read novels in French. She dreamed of becoming a journalist and used to take this profession as a child, she used to make her notebook a microphone and talk to some of her family members. Her writing style caught the attention of her teacher, who registered her in a literary competition and won first place at the age of 12. 

Turkia Loucif-Book-Sindh CourierShe published the novel “The Legend of the Squirrel” in 2016. Another novel “Virginia Park” was published in 2018. She published her first short story collection “Aboud Cannot Endure the Whip” in 2021. Her play “Dance of the Puppets” was adapted from her story “The Puppeteer Moussa and the Others.”  

The Squirrel was a bestseller with Golden Jerusalem House, which accompanied the author over nine years of participation in book fairs. This novel was selected in the literature of young people through a competition in which the participants of the Ajlana Library participated and in which a boy and two girls won. As for her collection of short stories, she presented critical readings by critics from Algeria and the Arab world. Among her global achievements is the book Together All of America by the American principled writer Kogetim Hadjari, which she considers Turkish in her honor.

Currently, she is a writer and has a fictional novel The Legend of a Squirrel published in 2016 and signed in front of readers at the International Book Fair in 2017, then presented a romantic novel entitled Virginia Park, then presented her collection of stories Abboud does not bear the whip. Currently she works in the field of cultural journalism in Al-Masar Al-Arabi newspaper.

She won second place in the Arabic Story Competition by the “Narrators Sing” club. Her story “The Squirrel” won first place in the “Tell, Scheherazade” story competition. She received honors on Press Day from the Governor of the state of Médéa. She was honored in children’s literature with a squirrel statue for her novel “The Legend of the Squirrel” in June 2024 by Dar kuds

Anthology-Sindh CourierWhen the Evening Comes

When evening comes,

My morning revolution subsides

I live in my mother’s lap.

My scattered tresses arrange it

In a spring braid

Swim in her eyes and read the boat

And the lifetime oars

I accepted it and I repeat it for her ten

Scatter it on the hands and the corner

When evening comes,

I love my mother and her survivors.

The words of a poet taking her first steps

In words and prose whenever evening falls.

***

Judgment in a rejected case

The lawyer collected my case papers

And he said: your case is rejected.

The judge will reject it

And the offender rejects it

And the violinist rejects it

Your crime, Ma’am, is that you dropped the victim.

Your crime ma’am what happened to him

Crazy singing

Crazy writes love words

I said, “I’m innocent, sir.”

And the rain showers are witness

And my broken rain

And my short skirt

And my hair flowing

Witnesses, sir.

We didn’t see the victim.

The lawyer returns and checks the papers.

He found a poem he read.

She shivered and shouted, “I’m accused!”

The lawyer read…

She dragged my killer and her broken emollient

I got wet and squeezed the skirt

Slim figure, wet butterfly

Jana Haha trembling and eulogizing

I dried it and gave it my perfume

I perfumed and strutted and left

My perfume draws me to it

The thief of my heart shivered wet

And I shivered in hope

And my perfume is a witness to it

***

Don’t Leave…

Don’t leave

The soul accompanies you

And you slip from me

I’m the dead woman.

After counting the steps of departure

Don’t leave…

The Miqat is October

Leaf I was flowering

Until

Don’t leave.

All the seasons you were with me

And leave

In my last chapters

After inhaling all the winds

Console me now, don’t you fool around?

My tears dried up

My soul is burned

You made me a graveyard for my sorrows

And to whine

Don’t leave.

***

With a dry olive branch carved a spear

With a dry olive branch carved my spear

And I call Nidal and Basil and Marai

I am the sculptor, spears and conquerors

And I am the shooter and I am the one who is right with my spear

Shrapnel and shrapnel in Gazaya

And the three of us were in a holy wrath.

Guys and guys and they are like me

Spears and spears in the breasts of Moshe

 The spears fell and they fell,

And the three of us fell with the coffin.

And the dry olive branch remains in my palm.

***

Delightful butterfly

I ask her, why you are hovering around me!?

Her eyes speak green.

You land on the dry branch!! It is affected

She sheds dew from her eyes on yellowish paper

I see you my mother and the world remembers me and more

You look like a big butterfly, even more.

She was delightful and you were the youngest cheerful

Did I answer your question?

Tell me how you were

And where are the butterflies in the flowering field?

 Showed the cheerful great influence 

And she moved her wings.

  The weight of her wings   

And her eyeballs were teary

 

I’m no longer the cheerful butterfly.

Be the cheerful butterfly.

The field is green

And the cast is red

And the dew is dripping

Stay away from my dry branch and more

 Threads weave and multiply

And wrap you around like me. She was looking.

________________ 

Read: The Power of Children’s Literature

Related Articles

One Comment

  1. Turkia Loucif’s verse beautifullyBlog Comment Creation captures the emotional retreat from the day’s turmoil into the comfort of the familiar—especially that tender image of a mother’s lap. I found it especially powerful how her personal history as a storyteller and nature lover filters into the quiet intimacy of this poem. It’s a lovely reminder of how evening can be both an end and a return.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Back to top button