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| Back to the village
where I learnt how to cry for the first time,
back to the mountain
where the landscape and nature are one
and there is no room for pictures,
back to my house made of stone
that my ancestors carved from the rock,
back to myself-
which was the intention
Back to the village.
Because I dreamt of a difficult birth
for that savory herb, zaatar, lost to my poetical lexicon,
and of a still more difficult birth
for wheat in this rough, untended land,
because I dreamt of the birth of love.
Back to the village
where I was in my previous life,
one root among a thousand vines,
in this good soil,
until the wind came
and carried me far and returned me,
reborn as a penitent.
Oh, my dream, the thirty-second of that number,
here are the paths that are no more,
and houses that are soared, like the tower of Babel.
Oh, heavy dream of mine,
that which springs from your roots shall not bear fruit!
Where are the children of poverty,
leaves ragged in the fall?
And my village that was,
where names were given to paths
that became black-top roads?
Oh, my village that became
a modern town,
back to the village
where the barking of dogs has died away.
and the dovecote has become a beacon.
All the farmers with whom I wanted to sing
a song of the hay, tuneful as the song of nightingales,
have become workers with smoke in their throats.
Where are all those that were and are no more?
Oh, this heavy dream of mine,
back to the village
as if running away from “civilization.”
I came to the village
as one who goes from one exile to another.
If only
On our way if only we went
and spoke our language
and rode on a camel
and were hungry and thirsty
and made love
and that’s it. |
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| I returned to the village
where I first learned to weep
I returned to the hill
where distances are green
and no one has use for a picture.
I returned to my house of stones
hewn by my grandfathers out of bedrock
I returned to myself
and that is what I wanted.
I returned to the village
having dreamed of a difficult birth
of the word za’atar[1] erased from my poems
and of a birth more difficult still
of cornstalks in the deep abandoned earth –
for I had dreamt of the birth of love.
I returned to the village
where I had lived in my last incarnation.
Out of my roots sprang ten thousand vineyards
upon the good earth
until the wind arose
and blew me far away and returned me
reincarnate and penitent.
Oh my thirty –second dream:
here were the paths that are no more
and houses grown up like the Tower of Babel
out of this heavy dream of mine-
nothing can sprout from your roots!
Where are the children of poverty
ragged as fallen leaves?
Where is my village that was,
the old paths’ names
taken by tarmac roads?
Oh my little village that was once,
swollen now into civilization –
I returned to the village
where the barking of dogs has died away
and the dovecote has become an electric tower.
all the peasants I would sing with,
sing haying songs in a nightingale’s voice,
are workers now with smoke in their throats.
Where are all those who were, who are no longer?
Oh this heavy dream of mine –
I returned to the village
running from civilization;
came to the village
as one who goes from exile into exile. |
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| 1
This is your face, my road map.
Past: transparent veils
Present: brief pause
in future I shall be kohl in your eyes
and who knows
I may remain blind.
2
The night is open to all your four sides.
Here is the hill with an eternal face,
embracing abundantly, without memory.
What are we in this night?
I am like shading in the picture’s tints
like the artist’s brush
that never painted you
and lives on with regret.
3
You are loved by a thing in my memory,
and it seems to the Carmel that I belong to its secrets.
You are loved by a thing in my memory:
why should the Carmel forget me in this night
and the sea reveal my nakedness?
4
On the Carmel a scent of marine love
as after orgasm,
my desire ebbs, your eyes
find it difficult to believe what my eyes
conceal.
The sea has a scent, and menstruation, and a scent
after the wind has robbed me
of my desire.
5
And so
your face is wall is door
is window is bed.
And the birds of the Carmel have been freed
from the cage within me.
Freedom is
when we know how to use the grace of God
granted in wisdom |
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| 1
Once beyond these hills I
sang
and the days would roll my song
onwards.
On the Carmel I herded
calves of dew
and the horizon thinned at the edge.
My voice has grown like the rustle of your kisses
and an echo of the season coming
for good in our lives.
The wind is a veil for the face
of the Carmel
and the fog.
2
I still sing to survive
like a string which loved its own voice.
I still call out
and wait for a tear
like wind listening to its own voice.
Oh ill to me in my love, and ill to me in my night
proceeding into its nights
and heaving its sights before the light’s
coming.
3
For me you are marine love
in the corals,
love of the wind in the treetops,
love of the fear women have. Love,
like the Carmel
as in a cloud.
And I am only an artist
exiled in the hills of Galilee.
4
The za’atar of the Carmel was
my previous incarnation –
flowers for it, each one a narcissus,
that narcissus which never dreams
of its being, its healing power, love,
and no one knows
if we shall see the river
and live. |
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| And in spite of everything
all’s quiet in the village
on the crossroads between Upper
and Lower Galilee.
I myself and my five sons stare
at one another and at every
one…
My Carmelite wife
counts six and is not sure
whom she has forgotten
and in spite of everything-
I, my wife,
my five sons
and the quiet – sleep
does not steal over
me. |
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| Have you ever seen scattered stones
and my heart wasn’t among them
As you were coming
did you see hearts
Stones scatted like my heart
If only you had seen and felt
you wouldn’t have been like my heart
one stone among many. |
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| My love and I cover up
with the coming of autumn
with bare things.
Others are already thinking of winter.
To my closed window the secrets
from behind the lines arrive.
If only I could relax
from the precision of the smallest details
And discover the secret of joy
in the hours between seasons.
I wouldn’t make it through the year
if I were with my love
like winter is with autumn:
one covers
and un covers |
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| I keep hanging up my hopes
On the signs of the seashore preparing itself
For the oncoming summer
The ring of sand doesn’t care for the meaning of writing
Nor is the cycle of the wave visible to the naked eye.
I am a friend of the friend of the sea
And an enemy of the enemy of the land
Between these two there’s nothing but air
Some of it melting in the speeding wind
Some of it slows as a tortoise.
Between speed and slowness
I inhale the loneliness that’s left.
My watch has become useless for all
Except for the one who wears it
There’s a time lag between the other side
Of the sea
And the other.
A place is marked only by the one who loves it
So I’ll hang up my hopes
On the scaffold of the distant hope
Once here once there
And when the right time comes
My watch will be left with no hands. |
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| Maybe we should gather
all the boulders
in the hills of Jerusalem.
Maybe we should build
another Wall
another mosque
another church.
Maybe
We should bury all past wrongs,
maybe
we should build at last
another city, but not
in the hills of Jerusalem.
We shall call it Jerusalem. |
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| 1
She was in Jerusalem,
agreed to visit the Wailing Wall
boasting, I�m not religious.
In the note that she didn�t press
among the prayers that others press
between stones, into the cracks in the wall,
She wrote many things
about me, her, about Jerusalem.
2
I too was in Jerusalem,
went to the Wailing Wall.
I�m not religious.
In all the notes that became my poems
my only prayer
has been that I may hold onto
the dignity and the image
of being human
and hold the loves of my heart.
3
I have no Wall in Jerusalem.
I have no Mosque in Jerusalem.
I have no Church in Jerusalem.
My Jerusalem
is most beautiful among women.
She is the sad tune,
and the note and the poem
on which is written,
Jerusalem,
I�ll come back, soon. |
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| I wake from the fear of dreams,
tour my thin candles’ darkness –
my eyes are dream light!
Fear is against me
and friends are far away.
Great sadness in the song so desired
that can be barbed like my life
and can laugh in the open
in empty space and in silence
in time running like sap
of dry trees in avenue
where my soul will fall asleep and rest
between the distant city and the village.
Belief and truth
are hymns in the wisdom of sadness
instruments for melodies
melodies for an instrument of exile
a mirror for the dreams of all people
a dream in the mirror of freedom.
And the poem and the poet in them
will grow and be mature
and grow and be old.
and in its age the fruit will ripen
if he falls at all
between the distant city and the village.
Love that does not exist is an ancient matter
love that will come
if it comes it will be harmless
love of the mother and motherland
who devours her sons and her lovers
love of the stepmother and the Abrahamic
father for his son the deserter
Abraham so sad
unvaried saint and father
and Sarai the wife and the mother loving
her son for she is allowed to love
and what is allowed to her be allowed Hagar
for a kiss is made by two
like my hymn in two tongues
until it ripens
and shall not fall like the falling of a man
if he falls at all
between the distant city and the village.
And the motherland that is formed
like the shape a hymn.
Who is all sadness and part joy
such motherland
lovely and how lovely a mother
with no soul and no spirit
with no artists to make, to sing
because what was is what will come
and what will come – what will come?
If the body of a woman does not absorb
the world of sorrow, my sorrow
and inspire spring love raise a baby
to grow and ripen
and fall like the falling of a man
if he falls at all
between the distant city and the village.
Oh motherland, motherland
wild as bedrock
colorful as her sons
in rut, long awaited,
stretching to the Galilee and the Kinneret
a harp in her hands.
silent and bleeding
and fluting in the air
when shall I come to her breasts
press her nipples
and grow and be young
and be old and ripen and fall
like the falling of a man
if he falls at all
between the distant city and the village.
I wake from the fear of dreams
tour my thin candles’ darkness
my eyes are dream light!
Hope is against me, and profound love
and between me and her a long road
where I sleep until a song new and old
will enlighten , it is light, it is light. |
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My wife has much love
and little mercy with my children
This is the meaning of fear in my poems.
During Winter I burn trees
and thank God
for the rain we have this year.
I gladly welcome Spring
and warn my son from Summer’s face.
Who knows if Autumn
will not threaten
as usual.
I pray no wind will arise
and knock it all down at once.
it is well to go slowly
hurt slowly, suffer slowly,
cry slowly
and thank God when there is no
earthquake.
Through all the seasons
my only console
is in the true love my wife has.
and in the women
in my life
and in my children. |
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1
I must love much water and cold
lest the fire within me go cold
and my stream of poems all glide away
Everything be emptied, and God taken away.
2
And when against me and my beloved I sinned
by Beth-El, on the road to Jerusalem,
from the desert I lifted up love in my arms
to Abraham’s joy and Ishamael’s sorrow.
3
And the sin my beloved committed for me
before she knew me, before she could see:
like Solomon I sinned, like David reveled:
the Heavens would forgive me ever and forever.
4
On my sin against mother and father:
I was a child, I had never been old
I played with love, with works, with sincerity,
And I played the son and that was my iniquity.
5
and when I as poet sinned against my son
denying everything, denying unaware:
but I knew I was a parent like all parents –
parenthood and pregnancy are one,
6
And perhaps I must love like fire
despite all that exists and that doesn’t
and be a man who praises his being
nothing but a man and a prophet in making.
7
And if it is so too heavy I shall lay down
until ripe Autumn and the wind push me on
I shall fear earthquakes as ever
and have much stuff for poems then forever.
8
And winter when it comes will be a lament
of mine: mud in the village, dust in the tent,
because everything falls on me even the
inspiration “Shekhina”
No way out from escape , no certainty for the voyage.
9
I look as an eye does when it is looking
and I wait and waiting is a hard thing,
expect a flowering to come, not drop like the
Fall
He who loves Spring is beloved in all.
10
And through all seasons I know there is a long
Summer
and so I must love I must trust in the long
abyss between Galilee and Carmel to be
silent and clear like shadow like song. |
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What shall we say to whom?
about men, about people,
about ourselves?
Where shall we be –
where now,
and where were we?
What shall we say to whom –
you with what,
and I with whom?
Look closely at the language of images
look far off -
Behold
how the ancestors’ knife
fixes its sharp eyes
upon our eyes.
Look how they appear from afar –
old people, women, and children
in great anger
and in great delight
distancing the gods deers
from above us.
What shall our Father in Heaven say
and our father on earth
if there is no miracle
and if fire does not burn?
Will we suffice to see
with our own eyes
the number of stars in whose multitudes
will be our descendants?
Oh, how hard waiting in the night
and how hard in the day!
which is the language of artists, images of man?
Which is the poetry,
the art,
which is the best silence that,
like the cry of Abel from the blood,
will truly be able to explain
what I shall say to whom
in this perfect moment? |
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| Her dark eyes a color of olive
see me among the heroes,
Her bitter tears a color of olive oil
how beautiful are women’s tears.
Her figure is green, of noble blood
like Julius Caesar -
her appearance is glorious
My Galilean beloved
on Mount Carmel
gives me a lesson
in my love of the homeland. |
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| Now you may bring with you
all the pretty women
as you’ve responded’ and agreed to be
with me,
to lean my head upon your thighs
and to dream
of all the pretty women
who could have come with you.
Meanwhile I am dreaming
of a new birth of a man
desired
and hiding between the thighs of the women
desiring
for the sake of Narcissus at the edge of the pool,
who never was. |
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| A.
Small children stared eyes to eyes
and spoke to one another,
in the silent noisy language of death.
I could not understand a thing –
children of tender years
and more tender in their death.
So said the poet:
Neither Hebrew nor Arabic,
nor any other language –
slaughtered children have no lips
and it seems that they spoke
and I could not understand,
children of tender years
and more tender in their death.
So said the poet:
My God in Heaven
who doubly understands
all things you wisely made
Your wisdom is beyond my understanding
I do not accuse You.
B.
And for a moment the things
that must not be forgotten
are forgotten:
Man has mind
animal has brain,
but I am not sure
for whom it will be easier
when the poet exposes
the cruel secret of death.
Death here, death there –
a boy here, a boy there -
a girl here, a girl there -
torn in their lives and in their death
This is the cry that has not begun:
This is the crying that has not completed. |
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In times of war my voice grows husky
and the ink dries up in my pen
and regardless,
you are not with me.
when the war ends,
I will know the dirge I shall write;
meanwhile, planes are passing
over my house.
In times of war I do not know
what the soldiers
who will be martyrs
will say
and I am here
fighting with the reporter
who counts the dead.
We are hypocrites , I say –
And in times of war my voice grows husky
when all the images pass before me
you manage to strip me
though you are not so much with me.
Meanwhile I get used to your silence
until the war passes peacefully
I will not know the dirge
that I shall write.
Finally you undress
to reveal the scar
that I left you
and you left me,
and despite it all in times of war
my voice grows husky. |
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In a stone house and Galilean yard,
figs and pomegranates guard my window.
from the barking dogs
and vines are proud to give clusters of grapes
to diffuse fragrance of pleasant – scented leaves,
but nothing “gone with the wind”.
In one of the Summer nights
of the desert village,
now Sheherzade of Korsakov
came to end.
It is strange
to hear the real “Arabian Nights”
in Russian. |
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Each time a man falls in love,
he follows his love.
So long as the beautiful eyes of a married
woman are opened and locked like an elevator
he waits specifically for the elevator going up.
On the floor whose number he forgot, he
does not know what is waiting for him.
And so he decides to climb the stairs towards
new love that perhaps is waiting
in the following floor,
for the elevator going down,
A man who falls in love
follows his love.
And love goes up and down
in the elevator he doesn’t take. |
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1
People of the Galilee are strong as the sun
crude as the terebinth gentle as the oak
burning like the fires of Sodom
moist as the salt of the sea
so far from their bodies.
And from the distance of closeness
and from the distance of distance
I grasp the rope at both ends
one tied
to my neck,
one to their neck,
cry out to them,
People of the Galilee!
Leave me alone
so I won’t be lost!
Let me look backwards
and my soul die with Gomorrah.
2
A thin thread binds me to you
pull on it and I go slack
and let it go slack and I pull!
You feel the same way.
All the people of the Galilee
were born from my womb
to be against me
and I from their womb to be against them.
I am of another mind.
They are but men
and something between me and them
breaks the laws of their fathers and sons.
In spite of me in spite of
their anger
I and the people of the Galilee walk
on a tight gallows rope of mine
or perhaps of theirs.
3.
Breaches are mended in spite of the Galilee snows.
Olive trees bear fruit in winter
and the great stones grind everything together—
the oil to soothe our wounds
and the olive-dregs breathe attar in our nostrils
stopped up with the grippe of the Galilee.
I will go on ripping up my pages
and they will cut the rope between me and them
and blood shall flow.
I will be the victim to atone
for my sin
to my son.
Translated by Jay Shir |
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And in spite of everything
it is quiet in the village
on the crossroads between the upper Galilee
and the lower.
I and my five sons wonder
one about all and all
about one.
My Carmelite wife
counts six and is not certain
whom she forgot.
And in spite of everything
me and my wife
and my five sons
and silence. And slumber
does not fall
on me.
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut |
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If only we walked
in our own paths
and spoke our own tongue
and rode a camel
and hungered and thirsted
and made love
and that’s all
translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut |
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A.
Small children locked eyes to eyes
and spoke to one another, and another to one
in the silent, noisy language of death.
I couldn’t understand a thing—
children of tender years
and more tender deaths.
So said the poet:
neither Hebrew nor Arabic,
nor any other language—
slaughtered children have no tongues
as the heavens will bear witness.
And it seemed that they spoke
and I could not understand,
children of tender years
and more tender deaths.
So said the poet:
God in Heaven
who understands doubly
all things You made in Your wisdom—
Your wisdom is beyond me.
I do not accuse you.
B.
And for a moment the things
that must not be forgotten
are forgotten:
man has reason,
animal has a brain,
but I am not sure
for whom it would be easier
when the poet exposes
the cruel secret of death.
Death here, death there—
a boy here, a girl there—
torn in their lives and in their deaths.
This is the crying that has not begun;
this is the crying that has no end. |
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I listened to your songs each stormy day
and understood that great sadness
though I was never with you
in Cairo.
And in my poems I caught your grief that emitted
slowly
from the veins of those chords that hungered and ached
at once
and when you were alone
on the road that goes from Egypt to Lebanon
and couldn’t stop by your lofty house
on the Druze mountain
or you’d be accused of treason.
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut |
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| To Anton Shammas
What shall we say to whom
about people, about peoples,
about ourselves?
Where shall we be—
where now,
and where were we?
What shall we say to whom—
you with what,
and I with whom?
Look closely at the language of mirrors:
look far off—
behold
how the ancestor’s knife
fixes its sharp eyes
upon our eyes.
Look how they appear from afar—
old people, women, and children
in great anger
and in great delight
distancing the gods
from above us.
What shall our Father in heaven say
and our father in the earth
if there is no miracle
and if fire does not burn?
Will we suffice to see
with our own eyes
the number of stars in whose multitudes
will be our descendants?
Oh, how hard waiting in the night
and how hard in the day!
Which is the language of loneliness
of artists, images of man?
Which is the poetry,
the art,
which is the best silence that,
like the cry of Abel from the blood,
will be able to explain in truth
what I shall say to whom
in this perfect moment? |
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| I sat down to rest
They said:
Poetry is behind
Science is ahead
And between the two
Your divided heart |
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| Is the pull of the butterfly
To the flower
It is the eternal fall
Into life’s abyss |
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| 1.
And many nations shall come there and speak
and I shall be among them,
a man who bears to men
a poem.
And they shall beat their swords
into plough shares
sometimes bearing spears
sometimes hymns
and I shall be among them,
a man who bears to men
a poem.
2.
Enemies are sometimes friends
and the vigor of the horses
raises the value of the rider –
soldiers dead in battle
are fallen forever
and the entire the life of peace
is due to those awful deaths –
but poets in their life and death
remain but poets
and I shall be among them
a man who carries to men
a poem.
3.
Violins are never warm
if they are never in human hands
and in summer, when the stones are warm
the spirit is within them, perhaps like blood.
Man sometimes errs, curses, rages, quarrels
but forgets at the passing of the storm
and will say it has never been
and will play other melodies
and I shall be among them
a man who carries to men
a poem. |
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I opened to my lovers a door into myself
and a window to peer through in the hours
of sleep.
But because I left myself behind
before freeing myself
I became the king of the sex slaves. |
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| How can I turn myself into a lover
now that my season has passed.
In this era they make greenhouses
whose fruits I detest.
Let me return to nature
to be met by the laws of the forests.
The desert thirst
is more merciful than this illusion.
Translated by Amir Or from the author's translation of the Arabic |
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| To find a hideout inside you
for an organ that lacks shelter
means becoming transparent
like drops trickling from the eaves
in the blessed rainy season,
so why are you so embarrassed?
In such a condition one has to flow
like a stream that, stripped naked,
clothes left on its banks,
goes a long way to be sheltered by the sea.
Arriving there it will find
the sea has disappeared. |
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| 1
Tonight Galilee was sleeping on my lover’s breast
dreaming of exiled childhood,
nesting in Harmon’s beard.
A knight came from the east for the hatching,
the eggs cracked slowly,
a city emerged, to be called Safad.
2
My lover awoke from her Galilee sleep,
childhood grew up
to become without number.
3
An ancestor came from Lebanon, a prince,
so the story goes, who kissed the earth of Galilee
till his lips were full of foam.
4
I asked, Where is the lake of Galilee?
Somebody said it walked upon the earth,
that’s because Mary Magdalene sinned
and claimed she never did.
5
I leant upon an oak tree
near the shore of the lake.
Suddenly a devil brought up a great chest
and a lovely mermaid came out of it
to turn the devil human
and the king into a slave.
6
I bowed down, calling on the name of God,
panicking, till my mouth became so dry
I don’t know whether the river of baptism
will water it
or whether by thunder and lightning
the sky will save me.
7
I drew two wings for myself and flew,
Galilee followed me to a place called Mghar,
I fell on my head to be born
crying from my heart
a great shriek that cut eternity.
8
In that place I grew up and loved
and married two wives by the law of God:
I didn’t want to have any more
just for my own sake.
9
Then a witness spoke about new rules
in addition to avoiding pork and alcohol:
now bigamy is forbidden in Galilee
and taking many lovers is forbidden in Mount Carmel.
10
But I did divorce:
I said to myself, Go away,
I separated from myself
Because I believe in love and poetry and dream. |
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I said I love you
you said you love me
I said I love you more
you said you love me more
I said I love you more and more
you said you love me more and more and more.
I said
you said
and then came silence
we played it
you on the flute
and I on the harmonica |
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