THE STONES

The horizon fills with
all kinds of stones.
The country sky is bursting with stones.
Stones cover the sea, 
clouds of stones on the trees.
Wherever I go stones greet me.
My house is of stone,
there are stones in my bed,
there  are stones on my bookshelves.
Sometimes I read an ancient book inscribed on stone.
Sometimes I walk outside my stone house
to cross a stone wall,
cross, and stones shower over my head.
My life is being plundered by stones,
but I will never turn to stone,
like a number added to the other millions of stones. 

     31 December 1994
 
 

THE BIRDS

Bronze birds
peck at the wind and the ceiling,
their droppings land on the curtains
or their feathers fall
on the balcony and the window ledges.
The birds build their nests in the chimneys,
eggs hatch all the year round
beaks . . . beaks . . . beaks.
These beaks challenge the wind,
they peck even the drizzle, 
they peck the flickering light
in the lanterns.
There's a cooing on the roof
and in my soul many feathers.
The birds will cover my face.

    5 December 1994
 
 

THE ISLAND

Always
when winter comes
I think of an island 
made of luminous gold,
of tiger skins,
of intimacy hidden in copper.
A copper sky approaches 
floating over the sea.
Tiger's gold in the sun
will streak the waves.
Suns on the sands
suns striping the sands, 
and straw sunshades on the golden shore
submerging with their colours into tenderness.
Striped and coloured swimsuits
- tongues lolling in the wind,
a copper wind
and kiosks of reeds and canvas,
kiosks forever fed by 
boats of wine.
There, even a dappled darkness tempts
us, sleepless, towards a delicious dawn.

    12 December 1994
 
 

SUPPLICATION

Nothing
will stop this rushing  wind.
Not a woman's hand
with henna patterns 
painted on the palm,
not a talisman with seven eyes,
hung at the holy man's window,
Not a shining horseshoe
on the neighbour's door
Not even an archbishop's hat
will stop this wind breaking out in human beings. 
I called,
I raised my hand
in thirsty supplication . . .
My God,
stop the flow of the wind
and plug its current.

      23 January 1997
 
 

SAADI'S BALCONY¹

Saadi's balcony 
was crammed with plants.
The sea sprouted from them
sprouting and gurgling
to the very last plant on the ledge,
borage blossoms dangled
over the side of a Greek flowerpot.
Venus' flytraps with their open mouths, 
mushrooms with white caps,
cypresses wrapped in coral,
and elegant basil.
Saadi's balcony
was crammed with wines
facing mountains lit by the sea,
with collared doves
donning golden winds.
Saadi's balcony
used to gaze at the late summer moon
through palm fronds,
and savour the smell of cork drifting
along the bank of the Ashshar  river.
Grass grew on the anchor
and round-roofed houses opened
to a pure air coming
from the language of the river.
 
 
 

IN SEARCH OF A CERTAIN TIME

From Tel Mohammad², 
from the neighbourhood of the Forgotten,
I will go down in the evening to the Armenian Camp  . . . 
Who's waiting there?
Katherine's small house, 
her tavern,
or my peasant neighbour?
No one asks about you,
the woman at the tavern in Cyprus says.
Right then,
I put my questions out 
in the ashtray
and I'm grousing like a drunkard
at climbing that tel, that hill
drunk
finished
tottering.
I look for my house
in Tel Mohammad
but there's no house there
nothing
but black flags³ 
fluttering in an occupied twilight.

    Nicosia, February 1986
 
 

ADJUSTMENT

With every breath 
the door quivers.
A breeze disturbs my window
and I am between the two.
I watch my movements,
they're like bare feet walking on a cloud,
exploring with tongues
the twinkling light
of the farthest star.

    21 March 1997
 
 
 

Notes

1  The balcony is that of the poet Saadi Youssef
2  Tel Mohammed is the poet's birthplace in Iraq 
3  During the Iraq-Iran war black flags were flown from people’s houses to mark the death of a husband or son
 

Translated with thanks to Banipal from the author's collection Ma'ata Qassida wa Qassida [A Hundred and One Poems], Dar al-Anwar, Beirut, 2002, republished from Banipal No 17, Summer 2003

Translated by Camilo Gomez-Rivas