Adonis; Kamal Boullata (tr); Susan Einbinder (tr); Mirene Ghossein (tr);
If only the sea could sleep: love poems
Green Integer Books (77), Los Angeles, 2003, 150 pages
ISBN 1931243298, 9781931243292
topics: | poetry | arabic
After struggling for several years to get hold of a book of Adonis' poetry, I managed to get this used copy on a visit to Los Angeles. Many of the poems work well for me, especially the "Beginning of ..." series (excerpted below). The translations are straightforward, and work on the content and not the form. In some of the poems, the text has been truncated, e.g. in "Unintended Worship Ritual", the missing first paragraph makes it harder to make sense of the poem. (see different translation at http://alltimeisunredeemable.blogspot.com/search/label/adonis
A small book, and well worth the read, but I am somewhat mystified by the poet's amazing reputation - Adonis has been a Nobel nominee many times over. Personally, I can relate more strongly to the intensity of Mahmoud Darwish.
(from Qasa'id UlaIf, 1963) The road and the house love me The living and the dead The red jug At home Its water in love with it The neighbor loves me The field and the threshing floor The fire The arms that toll Happy with the world or unhappy the tear my brother shed hidden by the crop Anemone that mortifies the blood I have been here as long as the god of love What would love do if I died.
Excerpts I love you as if all hearts were a mirror of mine as if life were invented for my love I love you O how much I deleted from your lips built my heart into a road and a house hung it as a cloud over clouds and how I equated beauty with you and her fantasy sprout and how and how I love you the light in your eyes has withdrawn it has been flooded our hair like drifts of snow poured on your shoulders braided, tied or loose I feel time has melted in my eyelids solidified and tumbled like silence.
My days are her name The dreams, when the sky is sleepless over my sorrow, are her name The obsession is her name and the wedding, when slayer and sacrifice embrace is her name. Once I sang: every rose as it tires, is her name as it journeys, is her name. Did the road end, has her name changed?
Night was paper -- we were ink: "Did you draw a face, man, or a stone?" "Did you draw a face, woman, or a stone?" I did not answer We loved Our hush has no way like our love, it has no way.
Encounters come, the sun dips in them encounters go, the wound opens in them I do not know the tree's branch anymore nor does the wind remember my features is this my future? the lover asked a flame. Yearning for the journey rising in her face he sailed in her.
Lovers read the wound We wrote the wounds into another time We painted our time: my face was evening your eyelashes the morning. Our footsteps are blood and longing. Every time they rose they plucked us, hurling their love, hurling us, a rose to the winds.
Room balconies darkness tracing of wounds a body breaks slumber between wandering and loss our blood revolves in question and answer speech is the maze.
Rooms bending in arms, and sex uplifting its towers- thrown into a gulf of sorrow sorrow within a gulf of waists- and sex opening its gates- we entered. Fire was growing and night huddled its lanterns we fashioned a mound, filled a pit and whispered to the far-reaching space to offer up its hands. The light of bitterness was like a river its banks lost, we made its water ours, we made our own banks a garment for the whims of the river's banks...
Our two bodies thunder you say, I listen I say, you listen, words mingle. Our two bodies an offering you fall, I fall fantasies and flares around us you fall, I fall. Between you and me words gather and blaze.
"Body of night" she said, and continued "home for the open wounds and their days..." We began as dawn begins, we enter the shadow our dreams interlaced and the sun loosens its buttons:"foam veiled by the sea shall come." We were reading to ourselves our own distance. We rose and saw the wind erase our traces we whispered we will resume our secret meetings and parted...
Now we may wonder how we met now we may decipher the road of return and say: seashores are abandoned and masts are news of a wreck. Now we can bow and say we came to an end.
When your winds swept over his boundless forests he said: death has the shape of a butterfly and sex the face of madness. There he is now, wearing what the sacrificial victim wears his tomorrow his yesterday his horizon a blade, and dust of words before his eyes.
(from al-Masrah wal-Maraya, 1968)
Khalida A branch for twigs to leaf around Khalida A journey which drowns the day In the water of eyes A wave which taught me That the light of stars The face of clouds The moaning of dust Are all one flower...
We slept in a cloth woven From the crimson of night -- a night of nebula and guts A cheering of blood, a beat of cymbals A lighting of suns beneath the water. The night was pregnant.
...Once I got lost in your hands, my lips were A fortress Longing for outlandish conquests In love with siege You came forth Your waist a sultan, Your hands the vanguard of armies, You eyes, a hiding place and a friend. We clung together, drifted, entered The forest of fire—I outline the first step You open the road.
The old fatigue my love is blooming by the house it has a drawer by now, and a window. It sleeps in its huts, and disappears. O how we worried about its wandering, we ran roaming the place asking, prying we sight it and scream: how, and where? each wind has come each branch but you did not...
Then the little hours come Steps and roads recur Then the houses decay The bed puts out the fire of its days and dies as does the pillow. (end A mirror for Khalida)
[p.63] You were the desert and I jailed snow in you like you I split into sand and mist You were a god to whose face I cried to erase the semblance between us, I said I merged your body with mine You were the crack filled with my waves I was the barefoot night when I admitted you through my navel You multiplied my footsteps into a road, you entered into my innocent water. Expand. Strike roots into my loss. On my pleasure's ice I walk between riddle and miracle within a rose. I slipped into your basin an earth revolving around me, your limbs a flowing Nile we floated we sank you crossed into my blood my wves crossed over your bosom You broke. Let us begin: love has forgotten the edge of night should I shout, flood will come? Let us begin: a scream mounts from the city, people are walking mirrors. If salt goes by, we meet, will you? My love is a wound my body a rose upon the wound to be plucked by death, a branch surrendered of its leaves and settled. I entered your basin holding a city beneath my grief what transforms the green branch into a snake the sun into a dark lover. We were fused into each other I heard your heartbeat within my skin (are you an orchard?) the barrier fell (were you a barrier?) the seagull asked the thread woven by the sailor the traveler's snow sang an invisible sun (are you my sun?) the lost man heard a voice (were you my voice?) my voice my lifeline your lustful pulse your breasts were my darkness and every night was my whiteness. A cloud rolled I surrendered my face to the flood and stayed among my own remains. In my passion you melted No borders bound my senses no sword sweeps asunder... We were both one face. My shirt is no apple nor you a paradise. We are field and harvest guarded by the sun. I made you ripen. Come forth from the green edge. This is our plenty: our bodies are the sower and the reaper. Only you are one with my limbs and organs Come forth from that edge I bespeak my own death. You define your own skin loosen your lips fuse them between my teeth I am night and day a lull in time in our fusion strike roots into my loss.
One of the greatest poets of Arab literature, Adonis's work often centers on the process of poetic creation, but his work has somehow remained highly appealing to Arab readers, and his has had, perhaps, more influence in terms of innovation and modernity than any other contemporary Arab poet. Twice he has been a finalist for the Nobel Prize. For Adonis, poetry is a vision (ru'ya") a "leap outside of established concepts, a change in the order of things and in the way we look at them." Selected from Al-A'mul al Shi'riyya, 1-3 (The Complete Works, 3 volumes) the current book explores the great Syrian poet's oeuvre more than any other previous collection in English.
(from Yawmiyyat al-hozn al-'aadi) http://alltimeisunredeemable.blogspot.com/2009/04/mountain-of-wind.html I was born in a poor and simple village called Kassabeen, in the area of Ladhkia, in the year 1930. A village that belonged to the beginnings of creation; huts made of stone and mud that we called our houses. The mud cracked every season, and we had to fix the roof with new mud and thatch to make it withstand rain and wind and time. Nevertheless, the rain kept seeping through invisible cracks and its drops fell on our heads – father and mother and kids – as we sat to rest, or eat, or sleep. The house was so narrow that my father built a big wooden bed and raised it on high stilts where we all slept: it was like a smaller house inside the house, and we used the space beneath it for many purposes. In winter, when it was cold, our only cow, and her companion ox, slept under it. Every day I went barefoot to the ‘Kuttab’, which means the village teacher’s abode, where the old man taught me how to read and write. I sat near him and he hooked his cane’s pointed tip between my toes, to keep me there, in case I thought of running away to roam in the fields, as I usually did whenever I had the chance. I’d never known, till I was 12, what you could call a regular school. There was no such thing in the area where we lived. The nearest school to the village was so far away that a kid my age couldn’t possibly make it there, and back, twice a day – on foot. And till that age, I’d never seen a car, or heard a radio, or knew what electricity was. And of course, never saw a city. At this age also, I began to discover my own body, when I had my first lesson in how a male and female get together. It happened at night, in a small valley outside the village, where she took me. After that, I used to press my body to the earth, and roll in the grass as if I was fondling a woman’s body. ...
[I remember] the mud oven: I can’t forget the flames, the bread that emerged from it with its fresh heavenly smell. But where is this village now? When I went back, after fifty years, I felt as if I was returning to something dead. As though I was climbing a mountain of wind. Perhaps I went back to visit my father who’d died, to whose funeral I was unable to go. Or maybe to examine, like many others, reality’s share in life, and memory’s, and imagination’s. Maybe to measure, in my mind, time as it flows and separates me from my birthplace – but then why do I feel that the place where I was born is not merely geographical? Why do I feel that I can create my birthplace as I do my poem? And a poem is never complete. Nor the place where one is born. Yes, one is born more than once, in more places than one. ...
I don’t know how it occurred to me – in a waking dream, I suppose – to find a way that would allow me to attend a real school. The first president of Syria, after its independence from the French Mandate, was supposed to visit the Ladhkia region soon. I thought I’d write a poem of welcome which I’d recite in front of him. Maybe he would like it, and want to see me. He might ask me what I want. And I’ll answer him: “I want to learn.” He might grant me my wish. And this is literally what happened. It was a rainy day and I was shivering like a sparrow which had lost its nest. The chief of our tribe was against my father and he was also responsible for the welcoming of the president. I told my father I was going to read a poem to the president but he didn’t reply; he just refused to come. When I arrived there, thousands of people were crowding round the president, and when the chieftain found out what I wanted to do, his men came and took me away. I started to cry, telling myself: ‘I am not going back to the village without reading my poem.” I quickly walked to Jibla, the next stop on the President’s visit and there, when I explained to the Mayor, Yasin Ali Adeeb, he promised to help me, saying to the President: “Mr President! There is a child who has walked a long way to read a poem to you!” and so I was allowed to read my poem. It was my first dream come true. I was thirteen years old. And since then, I love number 13.
Poet paints Arab world, laments fall of poetry in West Stephan Delbos, June 17, 2009 Exile is a key creative force in Adonis' poems, a force that has allowed him to see his homeland from both sides of the border. But he is quick to point out that his situation is not unique. "Political exile is very superficial; it's only a change of place. The real exile is interior," he said while in town for the Prague Writers' Festival. "A poet who doesn't feel exiled is only part of the superficial world. In this sense, exile is hell because it means anxiety, the perpetual searching for new things. But it's also paradise because it opens new possibilities."
Many of his poems - written in Arabic - make reference to Arab culture and politics, but his poetry is not written for any singular audience, Adonis says. " 'Audience' is a concept that only exists in politics and ideology," he says. "A reader of poetry is always a creator, so poets have creative readers, but no audience." The multifaceted nature of Adonis' biography is mirrored by his involvement in both poetry and politics. His writing, teaching and involvement with organizations such as UNESCO allow him to fulfill what he calls human responsibilities. "We are all responsible to work for a better society, and there are two ways [to do this]: theoretically and practically. Poetry cannot work in practical ways, but it can give new images to the world and new relationships between words and things. This is its responsibility," he said. The relatively limited readership of poetry is a thorn in every poet's side. Adonis is critical of the West's indifference to poetry, and resignedly mourns the ongoing divorce between poetry and society. At the same time, he is less than optimistic about poetry's ability to establish itself in the national consciousness. "We tried in the Western world. We invented political and ideologically engaged poetry, but this engagement killed both the concepts and the poetry," he said. "There will always be great poets, but we can say that poetry doesn't have a real presence in the West."
Whatever the size of poetry's readership, it remains crucial to Adonis' life and worldview. "'''Poetry is a way of seeing the world, so human beings are by definition poets. The poet's vision is the same as everyone's. It's not a difference of nature, but of practice.'''" No matter how diverse and numerous Adonis' projects, poetry remains central as a way of communing with the past and present. "Poets are all living in the same forest: Homer, Dante, Hölderlin and Celan, each a different world, but all living together, where contradictions dissolve. This is the secret of poetry," he said.