Tens of thousands of water droplets
Fashion ladders between lofty trees 
And the footpath.
The wind lends a hand 

White flowers swirl and tumble 
I shall gather snow in the palms of my hands
And enter my house
And spread these tissues 
On the silence of my sheets
And on my corner pillow.
This snow will not melt into tears.
I know, of course, that the white flowers will soon wither,
I know that the wind will stop blowing,
That the sun will be the summer sun,
And that I will leave for an unknown country.
But what will I do with the world?

The moment is enough
For me.
The moment is white
Is white.
 

London, 30 April 2003
Translated by the author and republished from Banipal No 17
 
 
 

HAMLET'S BALCONY

1
"Denmark's a prison" . . .
Your only claim to life is for you
to die in your father's sight;
the nightly castle
is sealed off; is that the shell of doom?
The staircase is invaded by shadows . . .
Horatio will say:
"Calm down, Prince.
Night is deeper than our fears,
and more dangerious than yesterday's battles.
What you know exceeds what the wise men of old
and hardened sailors know,
for you have battled yourself
and survived, but night is eternity . . ."
And Marcellus says awkwardly:
"Calm down, Prince.
Didn't you say
Denmark's a prison?
Then, what will you gain from ascending there?
And whom, pray tell, will you meet?
Your father? 
We have seen him; he was armed."

 *

It is midnight
and this sea castle bumps against its shore
while Hamlet 
climbs the ramparts.
 

2
Here stood Rosencrantz:
It wasn't a balcony,
as people might think or books might tell -
It was a promontory
overlooking the abysmal sea.
But Rosencrantz saw it as an isthmus,
the zero point between life and the angle's apex.
He watched what the sea disgorged:
the wreckage of ships or principles;
captains and mariners
landing here, or departing at dawn
or in stormy night there.
O Rosencrantz!
You make of all that you see,
replete with questions, a play
(and let it be, as you want it, simple)
but this morning you are being examined,
my friend: Hamlet's ship is anchored now.
The play is not even begun.

The play is not even begun,
so reveal the secret, Rosencrantz:
Could it have come to an end?
 

3
I am on the platform of the watch now:
the wind mingles with the sea,
the sea mingles with the wind,
the horizon is salt,
even the ships look diffused in the gloomy harbour.
The meaning I dream of
is not likely to hail in Denmark.
The evening will come
and as the night falls,
the owl will hoot with a sound more desolate
than the moat.
The royal ball is tonight.
Let us party then:
To be or not to be
It is then that madness will come.
 

Translated by Sargon Boulus and republished from Banipal No 15/16
 
 

THAT RAINY DAY

Not because a rainy day is knocking strangely at my window like a thief.  Not because I am dwelling in this watery steppe.  Not because the sun has dwelt in the books of travellers and poets.  And not because . . .

I say:  I am burdened by waiting angels; the trees are only trees, while I am looking for shade.  The falling rain is not deep waters.  Through the skein of its pulse surge rivers, ships of timber and boats of papyrus.  The rain does not reach me.  The rain does not moisten my lips.  But the green railings over there are shimmering with watery light.  And in the distance flowers and headstones are quenching their thirst.  No more squirrels or birds.  My very pores open to the music.

She was on the balcony.  The sun rose in the corner of her garden, a bower for grassy tones and dry, rustling leaves.  The woman was neither looking nor being looked at.  The woman was absent.  I, alone, was collecting the fragments of her image, her limbs, and the memory of a kiss one day in the corner café.  What planted this green in the blue?  Music.  A sun from volcanic islands.  The woman is about moving, about taking a form. Now I glimpse a tress of straight hair, I glimpse the fullness of a lower lip.  Music.  The balcony becomes the balcony of a house: a small table, two chairs, a bottle of wine, two glasses and some Spanish peaches.  And in the corner a cactus.  The woman turns.  Now we are two. We shall dwell on the balcony.  The sun will come to our glasses.  We shall see the moment. 
Music. 

The falling rain is falling.
We are behind the balcony's glass screen.  The room is a bit cold.  Her room was charged with the smell of paint and the aroma of the Kirghiz carpet.

The wetness of the day is sticky beneath my shirt.  The woman gave me the ember of her lips.  Did she slip the ember under my shirt?  I feel like a wanderer in a land of hot springs and tors. 
My breathing is the continuous music of strings. My fingers are the bars. My breathing is the continuous music of strings.  The music throbs. 
I don't see any rain.  A crystal light falls across the glass screen.

But the falling rain is falling.
This falling rain is falling.
Falling . . . 

I feel the hot rain.

Minutes.
Minutes only, and I shall make with your love a narrow bed.

Music.
 

London, September 2001
Translated by the poet, and republished from Banipal No 12.