Just because the stitches in my back are itching
doesn’t mean they want to heal.
You should know better,
you who’s been itching for years
and yet…
It flashed on the screen
in the corner of the room
like the shape of a desire that was.
You almost recognize it,
masked like the face of an old lover
by time.
The room brightened a bit
and everything darkened around,
like silhouettes against a sinking sun.
You stood there, paused in half-turn,
and stared—zipper undone, index finger
on the remote’s “Power” button—
and yet…
The rest of the night packs itself away,
a force of habit:
mugs in the sink, keys in the lock,
phone off and plugged,
the routines of a day ready to turn in.
Gingerly you lift the back of your hand
to your face and inhale.
At that point you don’t care
if it makes you nauseous,
if it smells like spring
or just the soil beneath.
You fill your lungs hoping
—you’re not sure what for—
and yet…
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
"Scorched" at the Wilma
Today I had the great opportunity to see a preview of the Wilma theater's upcoming East Coast Premiere of Scorched, a tour de force from highly-acclaimed Lebanese-Canadian playwright Wajdi Mouawad. Directed by the Wilma's incomparable co-Artistic Director Blanka Zizka as part of the theater's 30th Anniversary Season, Scorched is a deeply affecting play of mythical proportions. Superbly cast, the production boasts lush original music, a brilliantly minimalist stage set and inspired artistic direction. It's only the second U.S. production of the play, and it will be playing at the Wilma from March 4th till the 29th. And it is a must-see show: if you are to see only one play this year, make it this one!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Fabulous Fundraiser for the Courageous People of Gaza
Saturday February 28 from 5-8pm
@ Calvary Church
(48th & Baltimore Streets - Philadelphia, PA)
@ Calvary Church
(48th & Baltimore Streets - Philadelphia, PA)
Featuring: Middle Eastern Food
Presentations: Dr. Labiq Syed & Dr. Labib Syed, brothers out of John Hopkins & members of the Islamic Medical Association of North America, who recently traveled overseas to provide care in war-torn Gaza and will share information about their trip.
Informational Loop Presentation created by Aine Fox
Spoken Word: Poets Aysha El Shamayleh & Ashraf Osman
Music by: Paddy Corcoran (of Paddy and the Hostages)
Tickets:
$10 - General Admission
$25 & Above - Solidarity
$5 for unemployed & students
Call 215-724-1618 or email phillyiac@action-mail.org for ticket information or to make reservations.
All proceeds go to the Emergency Gaza Appeal of the United Palestinian Appeal
Sponsors:
Philadelphia International Action Center
EON (End Oppression Now)
PRAWN (Philadelphia Regional Anti-War Network)
FIST (Fight Imperialism Stand Together)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
azure letters
Joe Bolton wrote in Departure:
"And if poetry is a bond betweenPoetry may be a frail bond, but sometimes it is the strongest we have. Which is why, when we are lost, a good friend finds us in a poem...
Two hearts, it is a bond too frail:
That night words failed, I too, was lost--"
azure lettersThank you, dear, again and again...
by Katy Acheson
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
The Comstock Review
I am thrilled to let you know that, amid all the rejections I garnered this fall, I had one bright spot of good news: my poems Tired and The Coming were chosen by the Comstock Review as Poems of Special Merit in the 2008 Muriel Craft Bailey Award Contest. They were two of the twenty-six poems that were sent on to the final Judge this year, one of my all time favorites, the incomparable Marie Howe!
Here's an excerpt from the e-mail from the Comstock Review's Managing Editor, John M. Bellinger:
http://www.comstockreview.org/contestwinners.html
You can see me read Tired here. Thank you, Comstock Review! Please support the journal by subscribing today.
Here's an excerpt from the e-mail from the Comstock Review's Managing Editor, John M. Bellinger:
We had an outstanding group of poems this year, and to land anywhere near the top of the thousands of entries we received is an accomplishment to be proud of. All of the top poems ranked very closely in overall score, and I am certain Ms. Howe will have a tough decision on her hands in awarding the top three prizes.As Poems of Special Merit, my poems will be published in issue 22.2 of The Comstock Review, due out in January of 2009. You can find a list of all Winners, Poems of Special Merit, and Finalists on the journal's website at:
http://www.comstockreview.org/contestwinners.html
You can see me read Tired here. Thank you, Comstock Review! Please support the journal by subscribing today.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Reading at Robin's
I will be reading at Robin's Bookstore on Tuesday, November 11 at 6pm. The reading is part of the bookstore's Moonstone Poetry Series, features Hanoch Guy, and is coordinated by Justin Vitiello. An open reading will follow:
http://www.robinsbookstore.com/events/111108.html
http://www.robinsbookstore.com/events/111108.html
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Death by Water
"Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
_________________A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
_________________Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you."
-T. S. Eliot
Friday, October 03, 2008
Mad Poets at the First Friday Main Line
I will be reading tonight, Friday, October 03 2008, between 6:30-10:00 pm, part of the Mad Poets Society at the Main Line First Friday. The reading will be at:
Suburban Office Equipment
49 E. Lancaster Avenue
Ardmore, PA 19003
610.896.7022
I will be reading along with RICHARD S. BANK, DAVID W. WORREL & EILEEN M. D’ANGELO, Editor of the Mad Poets Review and Director of the Mad Poets Society. For more information, see: www.firstfridaymainline.com/events.asp
Suburban Office Equipment
49 E. Lancaster Avenue
Ardmore, PA 19003
610.896.7022
I will be reading along with RICHARD S. BANK, DAVID W. WORREL & EILEEN M. D’ANGELO, Editor of the Mad Poets Review and Director of the Mad Poets Society. For more information, see: www.firstfridaymainline.com/events.asp
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Mad Poets Festival
I will be reading at the Mad Poets Festival, which is on Sunday, October 5 2008, from 12 pm - 5 pm at the Media Borough Hall (at 3rd & Jackson Streets in Media, PA). I'll be in the last set which features Leonard Gontarek, Richard Bank, Ray Greenblatt, Alison Hicks, Amy Laub, and lots of other great local poets!
Since 1987, the Mad Poets Society has proudly hosted the Festival on the first Sunday in October, in conjunction with the Media Food & Arts Festival (which packs State St. in downtown Media with a wide variety arts, crafts, live music, and fresh food). The Mad Poets Festival features five hours of short readings (approx. 5 minutes) by 40 locally and nationally known poets, followed by a reception.
There will also be munchies. But you can walk up to State Street (only two blocks or so) and be at the Media Food Festival where there's lots of good food, bands in the streets, etc. So come to town early, catch some poetry, run up to the fair, eat yummy stuff, and be back in time to hear me read! It’s a party, get together day.
And if you want to read your work at this special event, contact Eileen D'Angelo at madpoets@comcast.net.
Since 1987, the Mad Poets Society has proudly hosted the Festival on the first Sunday in October, in conjunction with the Media Food & Arts Festival (which packs State St. in downtown Media with a wide variety arts, crafts, live music, and fresh food). The Mad Poets Festival features five hours of short readings (approx. 5 minutes) by 40 locally and nationally known poets, followed by a reception.
There will also be munchies. But you can walk up to State Street (only two blocks or so) and be at the Media Food Festival where there's lots of good food, bands in the streets, etc. So come to town early, catch some poetry, run up to the fair, eat yummy stuff, and be back in time to hear me read! It’s a party, get together day.
And if you want to read your work at this special event, contact Eileen D'Angelo at madpoets@comcast.net.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
East Falls Rise: A Multi-Cultural Extravaganza
Join me on Saturday, October 11 2008, from 1:00pm - 3:00pm at McMichael Park in East Falls (Henry Ave & Coulter - Philadelphia, PA 19129) where poets from nearby neighborhoods gather to celebrate the diversity of our community. Here's the schedule:
1:00 -- Intro/Welcome/General Plug for author books, etc.
1:05 -- PETER KROK, editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal and humanities/poetry director of the Manayunk Art Center
1:15 -- PHYLINDA REYNOLDS, native Oklahoman and current Germantonian
1:25 -- SYDNEY COFFIN, East Falls resident and University City High School English teacher
1:35 -- YOLANDA WISHER, Germantown Friends School English teacher
1:45 -- ASHRAF OSMAN, Mount Airy resident and administrator of PhillyPoetry.com
1:55 -- Catch-up/Reintroduce event/Plug author books, events, etc.
2:00 -- DONNA WOLF-PALACIO, UArts workshop leader and author of an Academy of Fine Arts’ Print Award-winning book of translated and illustrated Chinese poems
2:10 -- MIKE COHEN, host of Poetry Aloud and Alive at Big Blue Marble in Mount Airy
2:20 -- MELISSA DEGEZELLE, Manayunk resident and new mother
2:30 -- HAL SIROWITZ, author of Mother Said, the best-selling translated book of poetry in Norway
2:40 -- TRAPETA MAYSON, Germantown resident and Pew and PCA fellow and Leeway awardee
2:50 -- Closing/Plugs/Spillover/etc.
For more info:
www.eastfallscommunity.org/fallfestschedule08.htm
1:00 -- Intro/Welcome/General Plug for author books, etc.
1:05 -- PETER KROK, editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal and humanities/poetry director of the Manayunk Art Center
1:15 -- PHYLINDA REYNOLDS, native Oklahoman and current Germantonian
1:25 -- SYDNEY COFFIN, East Falls resident and University City High School English teacher
1:35 -- YOLANDA WISHER, Germantown Friends School English teacher
1:45 -- ASHRAF OSMAN, Mount Airy resident and administrator of PhillyPoetry.com
1:55 -- Catch-up/Reintroduce event/Plug author books, events, etc.
2:00 -- DONNA WOLF-PALACIO, UArts workshop leader and author of an Academy of Fine Arts’ Print Award-winning book of translated and illustrated Chinese poems
2:10 -- MIKE COHEN, host of Poetry Aloud and Alive at Big Blue Marble in Mount Airy
2:20 -- MELISSA DEGEZELLE, Manayunk resident and new mother
2:30 -- HAL SIROWITZ, author of Mother Said, the best-selling translated book of poetry in Norway
2:40 -- TRAPETA MAYSON, Germantown resident and Pew and PCA fellow and Leeway awardee
2:50 -- Closing/Plugs/Spillover/etc.
For more info:
www.eastfallscommunity.org/fallfestschedule08.htm
Sunday, August 10, 2008
In Memory of Mahmoud Darwish
In fond memory of the great Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who passed away just a few hours ago, below are a few of his own words...
إلى شاعرٍ عراقي ...
( 1 )
أُعِدُّ لأَرْثيكَ ,
عِشْرينَ عاماً مِنْ الحُبِّ ,
كُنْتُ وَحَيداً هناكَ
تُؤَثِّثُ مَنْفى لسَيَّدَةِ الزَّيْزَفُونِ ,
وبَيْتا ,,, لِسَيِّدِنا في أعالي الكَلامِ .
تَكَلَّمْ لِنَصْعَدَ أَعْلى..وَ أَعْلَى ... وَأَعْلى ...
على سُلَّمِ الْبِئْرِ ,
يا صاحِبي , أَينَ أَنتَ ؟
تَقَدَّمْ لأَحْمِلَ عنكَ الكَلامَ ..
وأَرْثيك
... لو كانَ جِسْراً عَبَرْناهُ ,
لكنَّه الدَّارُ والهاوَية
وللقَمَر البابِليِّ على شَجَرِ اللَّيلِ مَمَلَكَةٌ لَمْ تَعُدْ
لَنا , مُنْذُ عادَ التَّتارُ على خَيْلِنا
والتَّتارُ الجُدُدْ يَجُرُّونَ أَسْماءَنا خَلْفَهُم
في شَعابِ الجِبالِ ,
ويَنْسَونْنا
وَيَنْسَوْنَ فينا نَخيلاً ونَهْرَيْنِ :
يَنْسَوْنَ فينا العِراقْ
أَما قُلْتَ لي في الطَّريقِ إلى الرِّيحِ :
عَمَّا قَليل سَنَشْحَنُ تاريخَنا بالمَعاني ,
وَتَنْطَفِئُ الحَربْ عمَّا قَليل
وَ عمَّا قَليل نُشَيِّدُ سُومَرَ , ثانِيَةً , في الأَغاني
وَنَفْتَحُ بابَ المَسارحِ للنَّاسِ والطَّيْرِ مِن كلّ جِنْسِ ؟
وَنَرْجِعُ مِنْ حَيْثُ جَاءَتْ بِنا الرِّيح ...
(.... )
( 2 )
لَنا غُرَفٌ في حَدائِقِ آبَ , هُنا في البِلادِ الَّتي
تُحِبُّ الكِلابَ وتَكْرَهُ شَعْبْكَ واسْمَ الْجَنوبِ
لَنا بَقايا نِساءٍ طُردْنَ مِنْ الأُقْحُوانِ
لَنا أَصْدِقاءُ من الغَجَرِ الطَّيِّبينَ .
لَنا دَرَجُ الْبَارِ .
رامبو لَنا ,ولنا رَصيفٌ مِنَ الكَستَنْاءِ .
لَنا تكنولوجيا لِقَتْلِ الْعِراق
تَهُبُّ جَنُوبيّةٌ ريحُ مَوْتاكَ , تَسْأَلُني :
هَلْ أَراك ؟
أَقولُ : تَراني مساءً قَتيلاً على نَشْرَةِ الشَّاشَةِ الْخامِسَة
فَما نَفْعُ حُرِّيَّتي يا تَماثيلَ رودانَ ؟
لا تَتَساءَلْ ,
ولا تُعَلِّقْ على بَلَحِ النَّخْلِ ذاكرَتي جَرَساً .
قَدْ خَسِرْنا مَنافِينا مُنْذُ هَبَّتْ جَنوبِيَّةَ ريحُ مَوْتاك...
.... لا بُدَّ مِنْ فَرَسٍ لْغَرِيبِ ليَتْبَعَ قَيْصَرَ , أَوْ
ليَرْجِعَ مِنْ لَسْعَةِ النَّايِ .
لاَ بُدَّ مِنْ فَرَسٍ للغَريبْ
أَما كانَ في وُسْعِنا أَنْ نَرى قَمَراً وَاحِداً لا يَدُلُّ
على امْرَأَةٍ ما ؟
أَما كان في وُسْعِنا أَنْ نُمَيِّزَ بَيْنَ البَصيرَةِ ,
يا صاحِبي , والبَصَرْ ؟
( 3 )
لَنا ما عَلَيْنا من النَّحْلِ وَالمُفْرداتِ .
خُلِقْنا لِنَكْتُبَ عَمَّا يُهَدِّدُنا مِنْ نساءٍ وَقَيْصَرَ ..
والأَرْضِ حِينَ تَصيرُ لُغَةْ ,
وَعَنْ سِرٍّ جلَجامشَ الْمُستَحيلِ ,
لِنَهْرُبَ مِنْ عَصْرِنا إِلى أَمْسِ خَمْرَتِنا الذَّهَبيِّ ذَهَبْنَا ,
وَسِرنْا إلى عُمْرِ حِكْمَتنا
وكانت أَغاني الحَنينِ عِراقّيَةً ,
والعِراقُ نَخَيلٌ وَنَهْرانَ ...
... لِي قَمَرٌ في الرَّصافَةِ .
لِي سَمَكٌ في الفُراتِ ودِجْلَةْ
ولِي قارِئٌ في الجَنُوبِ ,
ولِي حَجَرُ الشَّمْسِ في نَيْنَوى ونَيْروزُ
لِي في ضَفائِرِ كُرديّةٍ في شَمالِ الشَّجَنْ ...
ولِي وَرْدَةٌ فِي حَدائِقَ بابِلَ .
لي شاعِرٌ في بُوَيْب,
ولي جُثَّتي تَحْتَ شَمْسَ العراق
(....)
( 4 )
... قَبْرٌ لِباريسَ , لُنُدنَ ,
روما , نيويورك , موسكو ,
وقبر لِبَغْدادَ ,
هَلْ كانَ من حَقْها أَن تُصَدِّقُ ماضيَها المُرْتَقَبْ ؟
وَقَبْرٌ لإِيتاكَةِ الدَّرْبِ وَالْهَدَفِ الصَّعْبِ , قَبْرٌ لِيافا ...
وَقَبْرٌ لهِوميِّر أَيْضاً وَ لِلبُحْتُرِيِّ ,
وَقَبْرٌ هو الشَّعْرُ, قبرٌ من الرِّيحِ ... يا حَجَرَ الرُّوحِ ,
يا صَمْتَنا !
نُصَدِّقُ , كَي نُكْمِلَ التَّيهُ , أَنَ الخَريفَ تَغَيَّرَ فينا ..
نَعَمْ , نَحْنُ أَوْراقُ هذا الصَّنَوَبَرِ , نَحْنُ التَّعَب...
وقَدْ خَفَّ , خارِجَ أجسادنا , كالنَّدى ... وَانْسَكَب
نَوارِسَ بيضاءَ , تبحثُ عن شُعَراءِ الْهَواجِس فينا ..
وعَنْ دَمْعَةِ الْعَرَبِيِّ الأَخيرةِ ,
صَحْراء ... صَحْراء....
(....)
ولا صَوْتَ يَصْعَدُ , لا صَوْتَ يَهْبِطُ , بَعْدَ قَليل ..
سَنُفْرِغُ آخِرَ أَلْفاظنا في مَديحِ المَكانِ ,
وَبَعْدَ قليل سَنَرْنو إلى غَدنا , خَلْفَنا , في حَريرِ الكَلامِ القَديم
وسَوْفَ نُشاهِدُ أَحْلامَنا في المَمَرَّاتِ تَبْحَثُ عَنَّا
وعَنْ نَسْرِ أَعْلامِنا السُّود ...
( 5 )
صَحْراءُ للصَّوْتِ , صَحْراءُ للصَّمْتِ ,
صَحراء للْعَبَثِ الأَبَديّ
للَوْحِ الشَّرائِعِ صَحْراءُ , للكُتُبِ الْمَدْرَسِيَّةِ , للأَنبِياء وللَعُلَماءْ
لَشيكسبير صَحْراءُ , للباحِثينَ عنِ الله في الكائنَ الآدَمِيّ
هُنا يَكْتُبُ العَرَبيُّ الأَخِيرُ : أَنَا العَرَبِيُّ الَذي لَمْ يَكُنْ
أَنَا العَرَبِيُّ الَذي لَمْ يَكُنْ
قُلِ الآنِ إِنْكَ أَخْطَأْتَ , أَو لا تَقُلْ
فَلَنْ يَسْمَعَ المَيتونَ اعْتذارَكَ منهم , ولَنْ يَقْرَؤوا
مَجَلاّتِ قاتِلِهمْ كَيْ يَرَوْا ما يَرَوْنَ ,
ولن يَرْجعِوا إِلى الْبَصْرَةَ الأَبَدِيةِ كَيْ يَعْرِفوا ما صَنَعْتَ بأُمِّك ,
حِينَ انْتَبَهْتَ إلى زُرْقَةِ الْبَحْر ...
(....)
سَأُولَدُ مِنْكَ وَتُولَدُ مِنّي .
رُوَيْداً رُوَيْداً سأَخْلَعُ عَنْك أصابعَ مَوتايَ , أَزْرارَ قُمصانهمْ.
وبطاقاتِ ميلادهمْ وتخلعُ عنيِّ رسائلَ مَوْتاكَ للْقُدْس ,
ثُمَ نُنَظِّفُ نظَّرَتَيْنا من الدمِ , يا صاحِبي ,
كَيْ نُعيدَ قِراءَةَ كافْكا ونَفْتَحَ نافِذَتَيْنِ على شارِعِ الظِّلّ ...
... في داخِلي , لا تُصَدِّقْ دُخانَ الشِّتاءِ كثيراً
فعمَّا قليل سَيَخْرُجُ إِبْريلُ مِنْ نَوْمِنا ,
خارِجي داخِلي فلا تَكْتَرِثْ بِالتَّماثيلِ ...
سَوْفَ تُطَرِّزُ بِنْتٌ عِراقيِّةٌ ثَوْبَها بأَوَّلِ زَهْرَةِ لَوْزِ ,
وتَكْتُبُ أَوَّلَ حَرْفٍ مِنَ اسْمِكَ
على طَرَف السَّهْمِ فَوْقَ اسْمِها ....
في مَهَبِّ الْعِراق ..
(من ديوان " أَحد عشر كوكباً " 1992)
To an Iraqi poet
(1)
To elegize you
I bring you twenty years of love.
You were alone there
furnishing exile for our lady of lime,
a house for our master at the height of speech.
Speak for us to ascend higher and higher
along the well’s spiral stairway.
O my friend, where are you?
Step forward,
let me bear the burden of your speech,
let me elegize you.
If it were a bridge we would have crossed it already,
but it’s a home, it’s an abyss.
The Babylonian moon has established a kingdom in the trees of the night that is no longer
ours, since the Tatars returned on our horses.
Now new Tatars drag our names behind them
through the dust of narrow mountain passes.
They forget us.
They forget palm trees, the two rivers
and the Iraq in us.
Didn’t you tell me on the way to the wind
we’d soon be filling our history with meaning?
That the war should soon be over,
that we’d build Sumer in song again,
soon open the theater doors to everyone and to every kind of bird?
That soon we’d return to where the wind first found us?
(.... )
( 2 )
We have rooms here in the gardens of August,
in a country that loves dogs but hates your people and the name of the south.
We have remains of women banished from daisies,
our good Gypsy friends,
the stained steps of bars,
Rimbaud, a sidewalk of chestnuts,
and enough technology to wipe out Iraq.
The wind of your dead blows northward.
You ask me, “Do I see you?”
I say, “You see me dead on the five o’clock news.”
So what good is my freedom, O statues of Rodin?
Don’t wonder
and please don’t suspend my memory like a bell on our date palms.
Our exile’s been lost since the wind of your dead blows northward.
There must be a horse for the stranger so he can trail behind Ceasar
or return from the sting of the flute.
There must be a horse for the stranger.
Couldn’t we have sighted at least one moon
that didn’t signify Woman,
couldn’t we have seen the difference,
O my friend, between sight and foresight?
(3)
We have what veils us of bees and words.
We have created to write about what threatens us of women and Ceaser,
earth when it becomes speech,
the impossible secret of Gilgamesh,
the escape from our era to the golden yesterday of our wine.
We walked toward the life of our wisdom,
our songs of nostalgia were Iraqi songs,
about palm trees and the two rivers.
I have a moon in the region of al-Rusafa,
I have fish in the Euphrates and the Tigris,
I have an avid reader in the south,
a sun stone in Nineva,
a spring festival in Kurdish braids to the north of sorrow,
a rose in the Gardens of Babylon,
a poet in the southern province of Buwayb,
and my corpse under an Iraqi sun.
(.... )
( 4 )
A grave for Paris, a grave for London,
a grave for Rome, New York and Moscow,
a grave for Baghdad.
Was it right for Baghdad to take its past for granted?
A grave for Ithaca, the difficult path and the goal,
a grave for Jaffa, for Homer and al-Buhturi.
Poetry is a grave, a grave of wind.
O stone of the soul, O our silence!
To complete the labyrinth, we think Autumn’s lodged within us.
We are pine needles,
fatigue bathing our bodies like dew,
pouring forth in floods of white gulls
looking for the poets of foreboding in us,
looking for the Arab’s last tear,
looking for the desert.
(.... )
No voice rises, no voice lowers.
Soon we’ll be uttering our last praises of this place,
gazing at tomorrow with silks of old speech trailing behind us.
We’ll see our dreams in corridors looking all over for us
and for the eagle of our blackened flags.
( 5 )
A desert for sound and a desert for silence,
a desert for eternal absurdity,
a desert for the tablets of the law,
for school books, prophets and scientists,
a desert for Shakespeare,
for those who look for God in the human being.
Here the last Arab writes:
I am the Arab that never was,
the Arab that never was.
Either say you have erred or keep silent.
The dead won’t hear your apology,
they won’t read their killer’s journals to find out what they can,
they won’t return to Basra the Eternal to find out what you did to your mother
when you recognized the blue of the sea.
(.... )
I’ll beget you and you’ll beget me,
and very slowly I’ll remove the fingers of the dead from your body,
the buttons of their shirts and their birth certificates.
You’ll take the letters of your dead to Jerusalem.
We’ll wipe the blood from our glasses, my friend,
so we can reread Kafka,
and open two windows onto a street of shadows.
My outside is inside me;
don’t believe winter smoke.
Soon April will emerge from our dreams.
My outside is inside me;
pay no attention to statues.
An Iraqi girl will decorate her dress
with the first almond flowers,
and along the top edge of the arrow
drawn just above her name
she’ll write your name’s initial letter
in Iraq’s wind.
-from Eleven Planets
(English translation published in The Adam of Two Edens
)
إلى شاعرٍ عراقي ...
( 1 )
أُعِدُّ لأَرْثيكَ ,
عِشْرينَ عاماً مِنْ الحُبِّ ,
كُنْتُ وَحَيداً هناكَ
تُؤَثِّثُ مَنْفى لسَيَّدَةِ الزَّيْزَفُونِ ,
وبَيْتا ,,, لِسَيِّدِنا في أعالي الكَلامِ .
تَكَلَّمْ لِنَصْعَدَ أَعْلى..وَ أَعْلَى ... وَأَعْلى ...
على سُلَّمِ الْبِئْرِ ,
يا صاحِبي , أَينَ أَنتَ ؟
تَقَدَّمْ لأَحْمِلَ عنكَ الكَلامَ ..
وأَرْثيك
... لو كانَ جِسْراً عَبَرْناهُ ,
لكنَّه الدَّارُ والهاوَية
وللقَمَر البابِليِّ على شَجَرِ اللَّيلِ مَمَلَكَةٌ لَمْ تَعُدْ
لَنا , مُنْذُ عادَ التَّتارُ على خَيْلِنا
والتَّتارُ الجُدُدْ يَجُرُّونَ أَسْماءَنا خَلْفَهُم
في شَعابِ الجِبالِ ,
ويَنْسَونْنا
وَيَنْسَوْنَ فينا نَخيلاً ونَهْرَيْنِ :
يَنْسَوْنَ فينا العِراقْ
أَما قُلْتَ لي في الطَّريقِ إلى الرِّيحِ :
عَمَّا قَليل سَنَشْحَنُ تاريخَنا بالمَعاني ,
وَتَنْطَفِئُ الحَربْ عمَّا قَليل
وَ عمَّا قَليل نُشَيِّدُ سُومَرَ , ثانِيَةً , في الأَغاني
وَنَفْتَحُ بابَ المَسارحِ للنَّاسِ والطَّيْرِ مِن كلّ جِنْسِ ؟
وَنَرْجِعُ مِنْ حَيْثُ جَاءَتْ بِنا الرِّيح ...
(.... )
( 2 )
لَنا غُرَفٌ في حَدائِقِ آبَ , هُنا في البِلادِ الَّتي
تُحِبُّ الكِلابَ وتَكْرَهُ شَعْبْكَ واسْمَ الْجَنوبِ
لَنا بَقايا نِساءٍ طُردْنَ مِنْ الأُقْحُوانِ
لَنا أَصْدِقاءُ من الغَجَرِ الطَّيِّبينَ .
لَنا دَرَجُ الْبَارِ .
رامبو لَنا ,ولنا رَصيفٌ مِنَ الكَستَنْاءِ .
لَنا تكنولوجيا لِقَتْلِ الْعِراق
تَهُبُّ جَنُوبيّةٌ ريحُ مَوْتاكَ , تَسْأَلُني :
هَلْ أَراك ؟
أَقولُ : تَراني مساءً قَتيلاً على نَشْرَةِ الشَّاشَةِ الْخامِسَة
فَما نَفْعُ حُرِّيَّتي يا تَماثيلَ رودانَ ؟
لا تَتَساءَلْ ,
ولا تُعَلِّقْ على بَلَحِ النَّخْلِ ذاكرَتي جَرَساً .
قَدْ خَسِرْنا مَنافِينا مُنْذُ هَبَّتْ جَنوبِيَّةَ ريحُ مَوْتاك...
.... لا بُدَّ مِنْ فَرَسٍ لْغَرِيبِ ليَتْبَعَ قَيْصَرَ , أَوْ
ليَرْجِعَ مِنْ لَسْعَةِ النَّايِ .
لاَ بُدَّ مِنْ فَرَسٍ للغَريبْ
أَما كانَ في وُسْعِنا أَنْ نَرى قَمَراً وَاحِداً لا يَدُلُّ
على امْرَأَةٍ ما ؟
أَما كان في وُسْعِنا أَنْ نُمَيِّزَ بَيْنَ البَصيرَةِ ,
يا صاحِبي , والبَصَرْ ؟
( 3 )
لَنا ما عَلَيْنا من النَّحْلِ وَالمُفْرداتِ .
خُلِقْنا لِنَكْتُبَ عَمَّا يُهَدِّدُنا مِنْ نساءٍ وَقَيْصَرَ ..
والأَرْضِ حِينَ تَصيرُ لُغَةْ ,
وَعَنْ سِرٍّ جلَجامشَ الْمُستَحيلِ ,
لِنَهْرُبَ مِنْ عَصْرِنا إِلى أَمْسِ خَمْرَتِنا الذَّهَبيِّ ذَهَبْنَا ,
وَسِرنْا إلى عُمْرِ حِكْمَتنا
وكانت أَغاني الحَنينِ عِراقّيَةً ,
والعِراقُ نَخَيلٌ وَنَهْرانَ ...
... لِي قَمَرٌ في الرَّصافَةِ .
لِي سَمَكٌ في الفُراتِ ودِجْلَةْ
ولِي قارِئٌ في الجَنُوبِ ,
ولِي حَجَرُ الشَّمْسِ في نَيْنَوى ونَيْروزُ
لِي في ضَفائِرِ كُرديّةٍ في شَمالِ الشَّجَنْ ...
ولِي وَرْدَةٌ فِي حَدائِقَ بابِلَ .
لي شاعِرٌ في بُوَيْب,
ولي جُثَّتي تَحْتَ شَمْسَ العراق
(....)
( 4 )
... قَبْرٌ لِباريسَ , لُنُدنَ ,
روما , نيويورك , موسكو ,
وقبر لِبَغْدادَ ,
هَلْ كانَ من حَقْها أَن تُصَدِّقُ ماضيَها المُرْتَقَبْ ؟
وَقَبْرٌ لإِيتاكَةِ الدَّرْبِ وَالْهَدَفِ الصَّعْبِ , قَبْرٌ لِيافا ...
وَقَبْرٌ لهِوميِّر أَيْضاً وَ لِلبُحْتُرِيِّ ,
وَقَبْرٌ هو الشَّعْرُ, قبرٌ من الرِّيحِ ... يا حَجَرَ الرُّوحِ ,
يا صَمْتَنا !
نُصَدِّقُ , كَي نُكْمِلَ التَّيهُ , أَنَ الخَريفَ تَغَيَّرَ فينا ..
نَعَمْ , نَحْنُ أَوْراقُ هذا الصَّنَوَبَرِ , نَحْنُ التَّعَب...
وقَدْ خَفَّ , خارِجَ أجسادنا , كالنَّدى ... وَانْسَكَب
نَوارِسَ بيضاءَ , تبحثُ عن شُعَراءِ الْهَواجِس فينا ..
وعَنْ دَمْعَةِ الْعَرَبِيِّ الأَخيرةِ ,
صَحْراء ... صَحْراء....
(....)
ولا صَوْتَ يَصْعَدُ , لا صَوْتَ يَهْبِطُ , بَعْدَ قَليل ..
سَنُفْرِغُ آخِرَ أَلْفاظنا في مَديحِ المَكانِ ,
وَبَعْدَ قليل سَنَرْنو إلى غَدنا , خَلْفَنا , في حَريرِ الكَلامِ القَديم
وسَوْفَ نُشاهِدُ أَحْلامَنا في المَمَرَّاتِ تَبْحَثُ عَنَّا
وعَنْ نَسْرِ أَعْلامِنا السُّود ...
( 5 )
صَحْراءُ للصَّوْتِ , صَحْراءُ للصَّمْتِ ,
صَحراء للْعَبَثِ الأَبَديّ
للَوْحِ الشَّرائِعِ صَحْراءُ , للكُتُبِ الْمَدْرَسِيَّةِ , للأَنبِياء وللَعُلَماءْ
لَشيكسبير صَحْراءُ , للباحِثينَ عنِ الله في الكائنَ الآدَمِيّ
هُنا يَكْتُبُ العَرَبيُّ الأَخِيرُ : أَنَا العَرَبِيُّ الَذي لَمْ يَكُنْ
أَنَا العَرَبِيُّ الَذي لَمْ يَكُنْ
قُلِ الآنِ إِنْكَ أَخْطَأْتَ , أَو لا تَقُلْ
فَلَنْ يَسْمَعَ المَيتونَ اعْتذارَكَ منهم , ولَنْ يَقْرَؤوا
مَجَلاّتِ قاتِلِهمْ كَيْ يَرَوْا ما يَرَوْنَ ,
ولن يَرْجعِوا إِلى الْبَصْرَةَ الأَبَدِيةِ كَيْ يَعْرِفوا ما صَنَعْتَ بأُمِّك ,
حِينَ انْتَبَهْتَ إلى زُرْقَةِ الْبَحْر ...
(....)
سَأُولَدُ مِنْكَ وَتُولَدُ مِنّي .
رُوَيْداً رُوَيْداً سأَخْلَعُ عَنْك أصابعَ مَوتايَ , أَزْرارَ قُمصانهمْ.
وبطاقاتِ ميلادهمْ وتخلعُ عنيِّ رسائلَ مَوْتاكَ للْقُدْس ,
ثُمَ نُنَظِّفُ نظَّرَتَيْنا من الدمِ , يا صاحِبي ,
كَيْ نُعيدَ قِراءَةَ كافْكا ونَفْتَحَ نافِذَتَيْنِ على شارِعِ الظِّلّ ...
... في داخِلي , لا تُصَدِّقْ دُخانَ الشِّتاءِ كثيراً
فعمَّا قليل سَيَخْرُجُ إِبْريلُ مِنْ نَوْمِنا ,
خارِجي داخِلي فلا تَكْتَرِثْ بِالتَّماثيلِ ...
سَوْفَ تُطَرِّزُ بِنْتٌ عِراقيِّةٌ ثَوْبَها بأَوَّلِ زَهْرَةِ لَوْزِ ,
وتَكْتُبُ أَوَّلَ حَرْفٍ مِنَ اسْمِكَ
على طَرَف السَّهْمِ فَوْقَ اسْمِها ....
في مَهَبِّ الْعِراق ..
(من ديوان " أَحد عشر كوكباً " 1992)
To an Iraqi poet
(1)
To elegize you
I bring you twenty years of love.
You were alone there
furnishing exile for our lady of lime,
a house for our master at the height of speech.
Speak for us to ascend higher and higher
along the well’s spiral stairway.
O my friend, where are you?
Step forward,
let me bear the burden of your speech,
let me elegize you.
If it were a bridge we would have crossed it already,
but it’s a home, it’s an abyss.
The Babylonian moon has established a kingdom in the trees of the night that is no longer
ours, since the Tatars returned on our horses.
Now new Tatars drag our names behind them
through the dust of narrow mountain passes.
They forget us.
They forget palm trees, the two rivers
and the Iraq in us.
Didn’t you tell me on the way to the wind
we’d soon be filling our history with meaning?
That the war should soon be over,
that we’d build Sumer in song again,
soon open the theater doors to everyone and to every kind of bird?
That soon we’d return to where the wind first found us?
(.... )
( 2 )
We have rooms here in the gardens of August,
in a country that loves dogs but hates your people and the name of the south.
We have remains of women banished from daisies,
our good Gypsy friends,
the stained steps of bars,
Rimbaud, a sidewalk of chestnuts,
and enough technology to wipe out Iraq.
The wind of your dead blows northward.
You ask me, “Do I see you?”
I say, “You see me dead on the five o’clock news.”
So what good is my freedom, O statues of Rodin?
Don’t wonder
and please don’t suspend my memory like a bell on our date palms.
Our exile’s been lost since the wind of your dead blows northward.
There must be a horse for the stranger so he can trail behind Ceasar
or return from the sting of the flute.
There must be a horse for the stranger.
Couldn’t we have sighted at least one moon
that didn’t signify Woman,
couldn’t we have seen the difference,
O my friend, between sight and foresight?
(3)
We have what veils us of bees and words.
We have created to write about what threatens us of women and Ceaser,
earth when it becomes speech,
the impossible secret of Gilgamesh,
the escape from our era to the golden yesterday of our wine.
We walked toward the life of our wisdom,
our songs of nostalgia were Iraqi songs,
about palm trees and the two rivers.
I have a moon in the region of al-Rusafa,
I have fish in the Euphrates and the Tigris,
I have an avid reader in the south,
a sun stone in Nineva,
a spring festival in Kurdish braids to the north of sorrow,
a rose in the Gardens of Babylon,
a poet in the southern province of Buwayb,
and my corpse under an Iraqi sun.
(.... )
( 4 )
A grave for Paris, a grave for London,
a grave for Rome, New York and Moscow,
a grave for Baghdad.
Was it right for Baghdad to take its past for granted?
A grave for Ithaca, the difficult path and the goal,
a grave for Jaffa, for Homer and al-Buhturi.
Poetry is a grave, a grave of wind.
O stone of the soul, O our silence!
To complete the labyrinth, we think Autumn’s lodged within us.
We are pine needles,
fatigue bathing our bodies like dew,
pouring forth in floods of white gulls
looking for the poets of foreboding in us,
looking for the Arab’s last tear,
looking for the desert.
(.... )
No voice rises, no voice lowers.
Soon we’ll be uttering our last praises of this place,
gazing at tomorrow with silks of old speech trailing behind us.
We’ll see our dreams in corridors looking all over for us
and for the eagle of our blackened flags.
( 5 )
A desert for sound and a desert for silence,
a desert for eternal absurdity,
a desert for the tablets of the law,
for school books, prophets and scientists,
a desert for Shakespeare,
for those who look for God in the human being.
Here the last Arab writes:
I am the Arab that never was,
the Arab that never was.
Either say you have erred or keep silent.
The dead won’t hear your apology,
they won’t read their killer’s journals to find out what they can,
they won’t return to Basra the Eternal to find out what you did to your mother
when you recognized the blue of the sea.
(.... )
I’ll beget you and you’ll beget me,
and very slowly I’ll remove the fingers of the dead from your body,
the buttons of their shirts and their birth certificates.
You’ll take the letters of your dead to Jerusalem.
We’ll wipe the blood from our glasses, my friend,
so we can reread Kafka,
and open two windows onto a street of shadows.
My outside is inside me;
don’t believe winter smoke.
Soon April will emerge from our dreams.
My outside is inside me;
pay no attention to statues.
An Iraqi girl will decorate her dress
with the first almond flowers,
and along the top edge of the arrow
drawn just above her name
she’ll write your name’s initial letter
in Iraq’s wind.
-from Eleven Planets
(English translation published in The Adam of Two Edens
)
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Hakawati
I am so glad to see that the latest masterpiece, The Hakawati, by my friend, the sinfully underrated Rabih Alameddine, is finally getting some of the attention it so greatly deserves:
Sunday Book Review, May 18, 2008
Once Upon Many Times
If any work of fiction might be powerful enough to transcend the mountain of polemic, historical inquiry, policy analysis and reportage that stands between the Western reader and the Arab soul, it’s this wonder of a book — a book not about a jihadi but a hakawati (Arabic for storyteller). “Listen,” Rabih Alameddine invites. “Allow me to be your god. Let me take you on a journey beyond imagining. Let me tell you a story.” (Read More)
All Things Considered, May 18, 2008
The Pull of the 'Hakawati'
Rabih Alameddine discusses his new book, The Hakawati. As the protagonist sits by the bedside of his dying father, the reader is pulled into an otherworldly web of stories inspired by Arab legend, Greek myth and the Bible. (Listen Now)
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