I Say a Woman and Don’t Mean ‘Karbalaa’



    المساهمات : 496
    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    I Say a Woman and Don’t Mean ‘Karbalaa’

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 4:14 pm

    Translated by Najah Al-Jubaily
    Edited by Mark Pirie

    All of them
    are my shadows…


    I seduce
    my dreams to a hearth;
    my fingers stagger in it.
    The house doors become tired of wailing.
    My mother’s aba is like a flag flapping hopelessly
    and hopelessly my steps wander the times.
    Nostalgia corrodes in my tongue,
    and one who kept silent doesn’t shed my shadow in vain.
    Instead, he sets free my forests by his sand.
    Narcissus procreates in my hand;
    yet there is no spume in my water.

    I burn the clouds,
    knowing that remembrance has thorny flasks.
    I plough the sky by sea,
    knowing that tears are bluer than my joy.
    I watch my follies in fancy, hoping that sparrows inherit my maze,
    and listen to those who rouse war from its nap.
    I see my blood trundled at the borders,
    I plead to words to gather it on the page.

    How can I let myrtle not point out the secrets?
    In its right hand rests what nips at the vision,
    and here the candles I have forgotten
    are busy with my bed.

    I say: It’s time for your fields to lisp my name!
    And then you ignite your stars to see my light
    and enter.
    From a distance, the court of my hymn appears.
    O, don’t make your sky sleepless with the branch of wisdom!
    For in order not to plant my letters
    and show my anger
    all of them are my shadows…


    The springs point to me,
    and date palms wave,
    despite the thick plumes from the prisons.
    The stations with their dull yawning
    eat my years.
    O my years – that were punched by the shelters!

    One who’s buried his Narcissi
    wears it for sheer consolation
    contemplating my fate, and slaps his bell
    washing his thirst from his waiting.
    He is pointing to the rivers, and cries ‘Ascend your isthmus
    For Black* is pale and gasping, without madness
    knocking at my door, hoping to touch the sky.
    I behold the windows
    and see their fancy pervade my lungs
    till I forget that my remembrances are sleepless
    and hanging by their coo.

    O my steps: the wilderness can’t contain you!
    Why do you knock at your dreams mercilessly
    and watch the angel descend
    to tear the heart of the country, and place my song within it?
    I draw steps – unlike mine – on the roads.
    How can it reach me?
    How can I expel
    the trees
    from my head
    and not let the chirps of birds
    follow me?
    How can I denude my father
    of his caliphate
    and not let the Euphrates overflow in my hand?
    How can I say a Woman
    and not mean ‘Karbalaa’!


    I say: City!
    and my mother doesn’t perk up,
    wearing all the night and seeming white.
    The flute flows in drops in my mouth,
    and you bring me back to the beginning of the tale,
    the beginning of the tale in which I bathe in conviction.
    I see the Indian jasmine wrapping my sleep
    crowded, and accompanying the streets.
    The women, going across, spell it
    except for one. It spells her ashamedly and heads to me.


    I didn’t hide my childhood in my shirt
    but my childhood stole me from war,
    and I prepared my heart for it as a bed and woke up.
    I called to my pain; it looked through the window
    scared of the neighbours.
    I gestured to it with my hands
    and soon it brimmed with tears
    fearful that the poem
    might (finally) be complete.

    * Iraq has many names: Sumeria, Mesopotamia, and also ‘the land of the Black’, symbolizing that the country was once covered in date palms.

      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأحد يناير 20, 2019 10:14 am