I Paint Baghdad



    المساهمات : 496
    تاريخ التسجيل : 14/09/2010

    I Paint Baghdad

    مُساهمة  Admin في الإثنين أبريل 15, 2013 5:56 pm

    Translated by Abdul Monem Nasser and Abbas El Sheikh
    Edited by Mark Pirie

    Whatever I wish, I wish
    I release the dawn, to feel a night drowned in blackness
    I write the history of Southerners on my mother’s gown
    In the rain I discard the death shrouds of pain,
    Trailing from her braids
    A cemetery of years stretches along a street
    Filled with scars of war
    A mourning is engulfing our lives
    I breathe nothing but destruction
    I try in vain to open a window there
    I see nothing but beaming defeat
    I tower over all and saddle the horizons beneath me
    Behind the words fringes peer intensely
    And billboards search for Jawad Saleem

    It seems time is embroidering an exile for the gowns of palm trees
    I undo its buttons and read:
    Childhood means queries never ending, ever and ever more
    Or queries that grow at the moss of days
    Here the evenings settle whenever the sun departs
    As if from the womb of an agate
    The waiting is but wisdom that takes me to certitude
    My lifespan curls along the frozen rain
    And under the wandering gazes of virgin clouds
    Swaggers frivolously under the spillage of warplanes
    And my body, to which splinters are addicted,
    Takes refuge in the taverns of exile
    I am without pleasures, or glories
    My dreams have all but let me down
    Isolated in a most far-flung Diaspora
    Elegized by my calamity
    And guided by my wreckage
    I chase the trails of childhood
    And stitch together my aspirations
    That have been trampled by tanks
    I spot the signs of fear, pouring from my pockets
    And as the sea is similarly isolated
    It begins to share with the exile its estrangement

    No one resounds in my voice
    I have stolen the memory of my forgetfulness
    And although I have tried a thousand times to hide the Euphrates
    Instead I have hugged it
    And the screams of guns have dripped from my chemise
    I have painted a clear sky through which to escape
    Only for it to be robbed by rockets
    I have painted a brook and have said: Al-Hussainiyah river it is
    But the airbases take me from it
    I have painted a minaret and a palm tree
    Lonely, I have been arrested, but still I held onto my mirror
    And the days slapped me, whenever I screamed: Father, oh father!
    Because the more I go deeper into his death
    He entombs my dreams in dust
    I hurt not the timidity of violets
    Though their rustle is now intimate with the dew
    I put on the glasses of time in the room of my wishes
    Silence gulps me down through the folds of farewell
    And I remember that in order to not awaken the jasmines,
    I must gently brush their petals with my hands
    My rags mocked the bombers, yet beyond my doorstep lay a mirage
    That window too is a map that clips off the wings of waiting
    And rubs out what may be encrypted by imagination in the mind

    I had waved to the trees: Protect my shadow from the madness of their steps!
    But I was pelted by Void
    The seasons shed their garments, so the South could pass by
    Jubilantly, dejection opened out the keys to my defeat
    How could I pilfer joy from a wreck?
    Should I shoot down my headstone?
    Pallid is the warmth of my palms
    Pallid I am when my wrists denude their melodies
    I shoot down my headstone

    Now stars rest on the lap of sea creatures and shine for me
    By one hand I mend my heart,
    By the other I care for the rose not to fall into delirium
    I care for the balconies not to crumple into a swamp flushed with heaven
    The ocean clutches me, as it falters with my innocence
    Doubts climb the edges of time
    Piles of syllables scramble on the sides of words

    I made you hear my song, yet you only made me hear my burning
    I led rain to your door, its fingertips slipping against my forehead
    I set loose my lullabies to the gardens,
    As I appeared before an inferno of the butterflies
    And my destruction was witnessed by the flowers and by the sparrows
    Then, upon my pages dreams awakened
    I filled up a ditch of light, my shades were denuded
    For the whinnies of sin could no more guide women to my inferno
    I entombed wind on the corpse of gods
    I broke down the whimpers of dusk on the windows
    That point to none but me
    And do not succumb to the nakedness of a wailing one
    Lost in the rumbles of defeat

    Now shall I name a rendezvous to entertain my friends -
    Without the pomp of companions, or the adornments of angels
    Nor with the crimson dew that draggles the scent of exile?
    Could it be true that thirty compasses missed me
    Except him, the passport officer, so reluctant to leave my memory
    So that I might redouble within the shades of words?

    The ocean took refuge in my bed, as did the desert
    In each dream songs were drowning
    And borders became thirsty by the closeness of their spans
    My palms bled with ice that faltered whenever mist peeled off my lungs
    On the borders of my forgetfulness, the reeds awakened
    Only to be sunk by the songs of the sparrows
    Shall I now call upon my thirty years so as to protect
    The stature of Narcissus from my virility?
    More of wonder in the traps of the text!
    More astonishment at elegies of drunkards as the dusk falls …

    O, entice me to witness the desolation of the date palms
    And gulp the residue from the glass
    In which our mirrors crowd together!

      الوقت/التاريخ الآن هو الأحد يناير 20, 2019 10:29 am