The City of Translation

1

Winter 2013

32

ArteEast is a leading international arts organization presenting work by contemporary artists from the Middle East, North Africa, and the diaspora. Founded in 2003 as a New York based not-for-profit organization, ArteEast supports and promotes artists by raising awareness of their most significant and groundbreaking work and by bringing this work to the widest possible audience. We do this through public events, art exhibitions, film screenings, international touring programs, a dynamic virtual gallery, and a resource-rich website. Partnering with some of the most prestigious cultural institutions around the world — such as The Museum of Modern Art, Tate Modern, and the Sharjah Art Foundation — ArteEast’s film, visual arts, and literary programs reach thousands of new audiences each year.

The organization is committed to bringing the highest quality and form of artistic content on multiple platforms. Our innovative use of technology and partnerships to present programs that are highly mobile, rather than bound to a particular physical space, make us one of the most nimble, cutting-edge art organizations today. ArteEast is also consistently providing relevant context so that audiences can fully appreciate the work that is being presented.

www.arteeast.org

Jan, 2013. New York.

Contemporary Literature in Translation Series

The City of Translation Guest Editor Sousan Hammad

Edited by Barrak Alzaid

http://www.arteeast.org

www.arteeast.org

54

Table of Contents

Introduction: The City of Translation 6

Ahmad YamaniAbstraction 8Pasha mama 10

Alaa Khaled9 Qirdahi Street 12A Map to the World 14

Najwan DarwishSayed Darwish 20For Haifa 22In Paradise 26Tantura 28Fabrications 30

Hala Alyan22 Houses (Diaspora) 38One Conversation in April 42

Table of Contents

Season for Flinching 46The Flower from Haifa 48

Vénus Khoury-GhataEight Poems 52

Suzanne AlaywanMontmartre 64Draft of a City 74Degree Zero of the Desert 78

Nouri al-JarrahDamascus 90The Fugitive 92On Reflection 94

76

For example, when a place is inherently underpinned by questions of geopolitics, should the poem not also be placed into a political context? (But I really don’t like footnotes). Or when a poem is written through the perspective of memories or longings, it is most often left in its ambiguity – for truth and memory are never constant. (But at what point does a poem become too abstract?) Finally, there’s the question of space and the conceptual approaches to space, like the things we think about when negotiating contradictions and uncertainties in particular social roles or imaginations. It is a tedious task, one that trains the translator to step out of one’s self and imagination. Perhaps this is also why I chose to work in close collaboration with the poets themselves. The notion of translation as collective engagement is something that resonates deeply with me, as a person committed to the ideals of community; and the results are almost always more interesting and true in essence, for translation is the ultimate form of reading. Like cities, it lets itself be represented in

fantastic variations. So whether they are the poems of Najwan Darwish, which are set in an imaginary Haifa, or a city that exists in its reveries, like Alaa Khaled’s Alexandria, the city of translation helps to create, or recreate, the places that are constantly pursuing us; which is also true for the non-city as well: like the work of Venus Khoury-Ghata, whose surreal tales, translated beautifully from French by Marilyn Hacker, take us through a dreamscape of northern Lebanon. Following David Harvey’s insistence that "the freedom to make and remake our cities and ourselves is one of the most precious yet most neglected of our human rights", I turn to this beautiful collection of poets from Syria, Egypt, Palestine, and Lebanon, whose streets and neighborhoods - those vacant spaces and anonymous reaches included – are extracted into meaning, a shared experience that I hope will move people the way it has me.

-Sousan Hammad

When I began selecting poets for this collection my instinct was to gather Arab writers who have had little contact with an Anglophone readership. I happened to be traveling through the Mediterranean at the time: from Paris I visited southern Italy and Greece then continued eastward. This constant hopscotch through geographies and histories inspired me to bring together poets whose work is, in so many different ways, pursued by the city. Cavafy would say that the city will always pursue you, that no matter how hard you try to find another country, another city, it will always turn out wrong. Perhaps some of the poets will disagree with me when I say that the poems in this collection are an attempt to become, in their poetic imaginary, places that exist in their displacement.

In translating the cities of the Levant (and I consider Egypt, here, as Levantine) I was struck by the tenacious challenge of mapping multiplicities: experiences and feelings in a particular space – be it Damascus, Cairo, or Haifa - that are totally unknown or ‘unreal’ to some readers, or actual and ideal to others. However, it is not a question of what is real and what is ideal. Longing – whether for a person or a country that does not exist, or which has been stolen, is much more than a problem to be solved; as the novelist Neil Gordon says, it is, in itself, a full, complete and entire identity. There is nothing else. Other questions contained some of the more obvious, and sometimes inescapable, frustrations of translation, such as the question of contextualization.

Introduction: The City of Translation

98

تجريد

أردت أن أصغر كل يشء، مدينة بكاملها تصري غرفة، بالدي كبسوالت أبلعها قبل النوم وبالد اآلخرين حبة طامطم آكلها عىل مرتني. والطائرة ستصري دراجة. كان هذا قبل أن تداهمني الذكريات وترتكني

مبالبس ممزقة ملقى عىل الرصيف. متاما كذلك اليوم الذي هب فيه أبناء حينا لطحن الغريب الذي تجرأ وألقى كلمة طيبة يف أذن جارتنا.

Abstraction

I wanted to make everything smaller, to transform the entire city into a room. My country is

a capsule swallowed before bedtime, and the countries of others are tomatoes eaten in halves.

The airplane will become a bicycle. This was before being struck with overwhelming memories

that left me in tattered clothes on the pavement. It was on the same day when the sons and

daughters of the neighborhood sprung to crush the stranger who dared deliver a pleasant word

in our neighbor’s ear.

By Ahmad YamaniTranslated by Sousan Hammad

1110

پاتشا مامامنذ سنوات بعيدة كنت أفرد أمامي خريطة العامل وأرسم بإصبعي خطا ميتد من بيتي إىل بيتك البعيد

عابرا بحورا وجباال وأنهارا ومزارع وصحراوات، عابرا بحريات وجزرا وثورا بقرنني مذهبني قابعا يف انتظار العابرين، مل أتوقف أبدا يف منتصف املسافة أللقي نظرة. كنت فقط أود الوصول إىل بيتك ألطرق الباب

وأجدك وراءه ويف يدك الخريطة نفسها مؤكدة أنني لو كنت قد تأخرت قليال لكنت فتحت النافذة وعربت بحورا وجباال وأنهارا...نزعت إصبعي من بيتك البعيد، وضعت الخريطة يف الدرج وبقيت نامئا يف

هواء الغرفة املقفلة.

Pasha mama

Many years ago, I spread a map of the world in front of me and drew, with my finger, a

line from my house to your distant house, passing the seas and mountains, rivers and

farms. I crossed deserts and lakes, islands and golden-horned bulls asleep and waiting in

transit. I never once stopped to look. I just wanted to reach your house and knock on the

door to find you in the back with the same map in your hands, saying that if I had showed

up any later you would open the window to cross the seas, the mountains, the rivers...

I lifted my finger from your distant house, placed the map in a drawer, and remained

asleep in the stale breeze of the locked room.

By Ahmad YamaniTranslated by Sousan Hammad

1312

شارع قرداحى 9كل عدة أعوام،

عندما تخفت يف خزانتها ملعة الذكرىتحزم حقائبها و تتكئ عىل العصا املعدنية

و تأىت لإلسكندرية ،للبيت الذى عاشت فيه مع والديها ؛ 9 شارع قرداحى.

مازالت الفيال قامئة حتى اآلن رمبا لىك ال يخذلها شئ واحد يف الحياة.

متسح مبشيتها البطيئةكل التفاصيل التى غابت عن عينيها

تجذب كل معادن الذكرى.

تقف أسفل البيتتشاهد النافذة االتى أطلت منها و هى طفلة

لرتى خيوط املؤامرة تتجمع يف الحديقةكان الشارى الجديد يقيس أرض طفولتها باألمتار.

بكت حينئذ،بكاء األبنة الوحيدة،

9 Qirdahi Street

Every few years

when the brightness of memories

dims from her closet

she packs her bags, limps on her metal cane,

and staggers to Alexandria

to see her childhood home on 9, Qirdahi Street.

The house still stands

perhaps so one thing in life wouldn’t fail.

Her slow walk smears

all the details she lost sight of

magnetizing every bit of memory

She stands downstairs

and looks at the window she towered over as a child

to see clues gathered in the garden plot:

the new buyer measures her childhood land in meters.

She cried tears of an only child

By Alaa Khaled Translated from the Arabic by Sousan Hammad

1514

كانت أصغر من أن تغلق النافذة عىل دموعهاأو تهيم فوق الذكرى و تكرب معها كأخ حميم.

يعرفها أهل الشارع جميعاو يفسحون مكانا لبكائها.كنت الغريب عن ذكراها،

عن نافذة الدموع التى مل تغلق أبدا يف خيالهامنذ غادرت اإلسكندرية إىل نافذة أخرى مرصعة بالثلج يف سويرسا.

مل يكن بيننا ما يسمح بكل هذه األرسارسوى أىن أصبحت جارا لنافذة الطفولة.

كان عالجها الناجع، أن تعودو تنظر إىل بيتها القديم.

تركتنى و صوت العصا املعدنيةيرسم حدود الذكرى

صوت رتاج يغلق لباب كبري.

she was too small then to shut the window on her tears

or to drift over a memory and grow with it

like you grow with a cherished brother.

All the neighbors knew her

and gave her space to cry.

I was the only stranger to her memory

and to the window of her endless tears

a window that never disappeared from her memory

since she departed from Alexandria to another window

in Switzerland inlaid with pieces of ice.

There were no ties between us to allow all these secrets

only that I became a neighbor of the window of her childhood

The only working treatment for her was to return

and look at her old house.

She left me and the sound of the metal cane

drawing the borders of the memory

a bolt of a massive door clatters and is shut.

1716

خريطة للعاملأثناء بنائه لحياتهنىس وبنى متاهة.

يقف أمام الخرائط ولهانا،أمام تلك الباقة اليانعة من املسارات املتشابكة.

يريد أن يرى جسده وأفكارهكبلد مستقل،

له حدود يتوقف عندها األمل،أن يضع سبابته عند نقطة مضيئة

عىل خريطة حياته ويقول:" هنا نهاية رحلتى".

بدون أن يركب طائرة،أو يقتفى أثرا ضائعا ىف الصحراء،صادفته ىف رحلته حدود شائكة،

ونبتت عىل جسده قطعان من الصبارات.

مسارات تتوالد من الفكر الشقىوتتمدد ىف صحراء أخوية

A Map to the World

While building for his life

absentmindedly he created a labyrinth.

He stands passionately in front of the maps

and the ripe bouquets of interlocking paths.

He wants to see his thoughts and body

as an independent country

that has borders which halts pain,

to place his index finger

on a bright spot

upon the map of his life, and say:

This is the end of my journey.

Without boarding a plane

or tracking down a lost trail in the desert,

on his journey

he encountered barbed-wire borders

where bits of cactus grew on his body.

By Alaa Khaled Translated from the Arabic by Sousan

1918

تتنقل معه من البيت، للشارع، للمقهىلحانوت الصور والخرائط القدمية،

حيث يقىض جل ليله يلمس بأنامل رصافهذا الضوء الخافت املنبعث من تلك الوجوه الناحلة

واملسارات املتعرجة.

من البيت، للشارع،لحانوت الصور والخرائط القدمية، لكرىس املقهى ىف الزاوية املعتمة؛

املسار الحزين لسنوات تطايرت بدون جلبة ككومة من هشيم.

أصبح جسده باقة من املسارات الحزينةالتى تسكن عينيه

فتختلط عليه الشوارععندها يصبح البيت بلدا بعيدا

يصعب الوصول إليه.

استبدل بخريطة العامل الحب والعائلة،العامل الذى مل يره إال عىل شاشات التليفزيون

Paths are birthed by melancholy thoughts

and sprawls in a brotherly desert

move with him from the house

to the street

to the café

and into the shops of old maps and photos.

He spends most of the night

with his fingertips like a fine cashier

touching the faint light

emitted by those slender faces and winding paths.

From the house, the street

to shop for old photos and maps

to the stool in the dark corner of the café

the melancholy paths, that for years flew unruffled

as a pile of chaff.

His body is transformed as a bouquet of melancholy paths

that settled in his eyes,

the streets get muddled

and the house becomes a faraway country

difficult to access.

Replaced with a map to the world of love and family

the world who did not see until it was televised.

2120

سيد درويشأغنيتك نفدت، يا عم، وال أعرف من هذه التي تصدح مكانك

ذكرين برحلتنا أواخر ذلك الصيفإىل جبل الرتهات

كانت مرص مرفوعة عىل الرماح مثل مصحف وأنا مشدوه بأغنيتك

أترى هاهي األغنيات تنفدوال فلوكة واحدة توقفت يل

وال صياد لوح!

وما عاد يهمني إن كان هذا شاطئ حيفا أم بحر اإلسكندرية إن كان صحيحا أن األغنيات نفدت

Sayed DarwishYour song is coming to an end, my friend

and I don’t know this woman who is singing in your place

You remind me of our journey

to Mount Folly that late summer

when I was swept by your song

and Egypt was pierced on spears

like a Quran

You see, the songs here are coming to an end

not one felucca stopped for me,

not one boatman waved!

I no longer care

whether it’s the shore of Haifa

or the sea of Alexandria

If it is true, that the songs

are coming to an end.

By Najwan Darwish Translated from the Arabic by Sousan Hammad

2322

إىل حيفاهيه يا حيوفة

أخريا يف قدمي شبشب ويف قدمك شبشبألبس شلحة وأتجول يف البيت منسيا.

رغم جبالك وأشجارك وهؤالء النامئني يف مغائرك منذ العرص الربونزي مثيل مل تبلغي الثالثة والثالثني

مثيل تحبني الصباح موصوال بالحلم.

إنظري هاهي سفن نابليون تبتلعها ذاكرة البحر

هاهي املستعمرة التي كانوا يدعونها "إرسائيل"معروضة للبيع

أمام دكاكني الخردة يف وادي الصليبوهاهم أبناؤك ميألون الطرقات وينشدون:

هيه يا حيوفة..

For Haifa

My darling, my Haifa,

Finally, with a slipper on my foot

and a slipper on your foot,

I wear an undershirt

and wander the house forgetfully.

Though your mountains and trees,

have been asleep in your caves since the Bronze Age,

like me, you are not yet thirty-three

like me, you cherish mornings coupled with dreams.

Look around:

here are Napolean’s ships,

swallowed

by the sea's memory.

here is the colony they called "Israel"

memories and objects

peddled by scrap dealers in Wadi Saleeb


2524

كيف أنجبتهم...كيف أنجبت كل هذه الحشودأيتها الصبية؟

ان يصعد درج البيت وهاهو هو غسمرتديا شلحة وقد اسرتد جسده املمزق

وال أكف عن تفحص يدهوال أعرف أينا الزائر وأينا املضيف

وما تقول رغوة أمواج بحرك اآلن ــــــ طاملا أحزنتني أيام الهزمية حني كنت أمر بني الغزاة املصطافني...

وهاهو بحرك يضحك اآلن من خردة أحزاين!

هيه يا حيوفة...

and here are your children, filling the streets,

singing: my darling, my Haifa…

How did you birth

these crowds(?)

And here is Ghassan,

climbing the stairs of my house,

wearing an undershirt

He retrieved his exploded body

I did not stop to look at his hand,

nor can I tell the guest

from the host.

And what does the foam of your waves say now?

-- they often sadden me on the days of defeat,

when I pass by crowds of tourists on the beach

Here

now

is your sea

laughing from the scraps of my grief!

My darling, my Haifa…

* Ghassan Kanafani, a renowned Palestinian writer and activist, was assassinated in Beirut at the age of 36 from a bomb planted in

his car by the Israeli Mossad. His severed hand was found on a nearby rooftop.

2726

يف الجنةاستيقظنا مرة يف الجنة...

وفاجأنا املالئكة باملكانس والقشاطات: ــــــ تفوح منكم رائحة كحول من األرض

يف جيوبكم قصائد وهرطقات...

مهلكم يا خدم الله، قلنا لهم؛ حلمنا بصباح واحد من صباحات حيفاقادنا إىل جنتكم بالخطأ.

In Paradise

One day, we awoke in Paradise

and the angels surprised us

with brooms and mops:

You smell of alcohol and your pockets are filled

with poems and heresies!

Calm down, o servants of God, we told them,

Our dream is to experience just one morning

from Haifa’s everyday life.

We landed in your home by mistake.


2928

الطنطورةالبحر أصغر من مستحم طفل يف الثانية

ه األزرق كان "يبطبط" منذ قليل يف مستحمــــــ صورة فوتوغرافية للسعادة الكاملة ــــــ

وشخاتري حمراء يف غسق يشقه نور ليلة القدر

إنها الطنطورة صباح يوم القيامةتلعب عند شواطئها شخاتري من الدم.

Tantura

The sea is smaller than a toddler’s wash basin

there he splashes

like rainfall in a hollow bowl

a photograph of sweet happiness

Red trawlers at dawn

splintered by lights

on The Night of Destiny

This is Tantura*

morning

on the Day of Resurrection

Near the shore

fishing boats are splashing

in blood

*Tantura is a Palestinian village on the Mediterranean coast, just north of Haifa. On May 23, 1948, occupation forces massacred 240

Palestinians. Bodies of people who resisted throughout the night were found the next morning on the shore.


3130

كة فبر

ط وأن القصة كلها مفربكة. أبدا مل أصدق لعبة أنك ذبحت وأن دمائك سالت حتى وصلت البحر املتوسبك. واثق أن القصة كلها مفربكة: مريام كريشنباوم وشلومو غانور البحر ش

الجزيرة والحرة والعربية. اشطب الواو: الجزيرة العربية الحرة

مريام كريشنباوم وشلومو غانور واثق أيضا أنها مفربكة

الفواتري التي ال أعرف من يضعها يف صناديقياسم العائلة يف ثالث لغات

كلها مفربكة هذه املرأة التي تحبني يف الربيد االلكرتوين

حيفا أيضا مفربكةولهذا ال أنزل إىل الشارع وأكتفي بالنظر إىل البحر بشكل جانبي من النافذة.

صداقتنا مل تكن يف حساب أحد، مل يتعب أحد يف فربكتها ولهذا بقيت حقيقية آه نسيت، الحقائق كلها ات وأشياء أخرى. مفربكة. ولهذا استمتعت أمس يف مشاطرتكم العرق والتفاح واملكرس

Fabrications

The whole thing is fabricated. Never have I believed the story that says you were

slaughtered, and that your blood poured all the way to the Mediterranean only to be

consumed by the sea. I’m sure the whole thing is fabricated. Merriam Kershenbaum and

Shlomo Ganor every night at 7:30.

Al-Hurra, "the free" [Satellite Channel], al-Arabiyya, "the Arab", and Al-Jazeera, "the

Peninsula". Taken together: the "Free Arab Peninsula". Merriam Kershenbaum and

Shlomo Ganor. I am sure they are also fabricated.

The bills are placed in my mailbox by a person I don’t know. The name of my family in

three different languages. They, also, are fabricated. This woman who loves me through

email.

Haifa, too, is fabricated. This is why I never go down the street, and I only look at the

sea from a perpendicular angle. Our friendship was in no one’s account. No one took the

time to fabricate it; this is why it remained true. Oh! I forgot, all truths are fabricated.

This is why I enjoyed sharing with you Araq, apples, nuts and other things.


3332

ال يشء يضغطني، وال أمتزق عند النظر إىل بالدنا التي رسقوها. فالرسقة أيضا مفربكة. الحواجز أيضا مفربكة والجنود أيضا أطفال يبولون عىل أنفسهم. وعجائز الروم األرثوذكس اللوايت يعربن "حاجز بيت

لحم" هذا الصباح مفربكات. "بسم الصليب" تقولها بشكل مفربك. الجمعة الحزينة مفربكة واأللحان البيزنطية يف كنيسة املوارنة يف النارصة مفربكة. أعدايئ مفربكون وأقاريب قمة يف الفربكة. الجحيم مفربكة

لكن الجنة مفربكة بلؤم ومهارة أكرب. )اللعنة، هل صوت فريوز هو اآلخر مفربك؟(.

ال كوابيس تطاردين، هذه كوابيس مفربكة. ال أعاين من خلل يف ساعتي البيولوجية، ليس يل خصومة قدمية مع الشمس، ال أعاين من طباعي املوروثة.. كل هذه مسميات مفربكة.

أنا مفربك. ليس ألين أنا- ألن جميع الضامئر مفربكة.

أنا ال أكره الجواسيس. انظروا كيف أسمع سامجات مذيعيهم دون أن أتقيأ.

أنا ال أخاف من ساعة املنبه وال من اإليدز والسالح النووي. ليس لدي رهاب جرس الباب ورنة التلفون. لن ينتهي العامل غدا.. هذه كلها أخبار مفربكة.

تعبت من رومنطقية القرن الواحد والعرشين، رومنطيقية ممزوجة بخراء مستهلكني من جميع الطبقات. إن أردت أن تعيش البد أن تتلطخ. هذه أيضا نظرية مفربكة.

هللوا وافرحوا، صناديق الهزمية- املكدسة تحت أرسة أجدادكم- مفربكة. وأنتم تنتحبون طوال هذه السنوات عىل ضياع بالدكم. ولكم)وتعني ويلكم بالعربية الفصحى( الضياع مفربك. كذبة كبرية ألفها

رساق وجودكم.

Nothing pressures me. This is why I am not torn when I see our land that has been stolen.

The robbery was fabricated, checkpoints are fabricated and the soldiers: a bunch of kids

who still wet themselves. The elderly Greek Orthodox women crossing the Bethlehem

checkpoint this morning are, also, fabricated. "In the name of the cross!" is said in

a fabricated way. Good Friday is fabricated. The Byzantine melodies at the Maronite

church in Nazareth are fabricated. My enemies are fabricated, and my relatives are the

epitome of fabrication. Hell is fabricated, and Paradise is fabricated with even greater

skill and spite. (Damn! Is Fairouz’s voice also fabricated?)

No nightmares haunt me, nightmares are fabricated. I suffer of no disorders of my

biological clock. I have no old enmity towards the sun, I do not suffer because of my

inherited nature. All of these labels are fabrications.

I, too, a fabrication. Not who I am, but all pronouns are fabrications.

I do not hate collaborators; see how I listen to their news commentators without vomiting?

I am not afraid of the alarm clock, or even AIDS or atomic weapons. I do not suffer the

phobia of the doorbell or ringing phone. The world will not end tomorrow. All of this

news is a fabrication.

I am tired of 21st century romanticism: romance mixed with the shit of consumers

from all classes. If you want to live, you too must be tarnished. This theory, yet another

fabrication.

So rejoice and be merry! The boxes filled with defeat stacked up under your grandparents’

beds— fabrications. And you have been wailing all those years about losing your homeland.

Dude! (Wow! as said in a Classical way) Loss is a fabrication. A big lie formed by robbers

of your existence.

3534

مريم كريشنباوم شلومو غانور العربية الحرة الجزيرة

وذلك األبرص الذي ميسك بالرميوت كونرتول.

الرصاصري والجواسيس كائنات وديعة، انظروا لدماثة هذا ورقة بشاعة وجه ذاك. أفكارنا النمطية عن وضاعتهم مفربكة.

مثة رجال وقورون يجلسون يف الصالون ويستمعون لـ"صوت ارسائيل". مثة نساء محرتمات يصنعن التبولة ويفكرن باملستقبل بعد دفن كرامتنا العمومية. ال تقلقوا هؤالء جميعا مفربكون.

باك يف قيلولتنا. ال نستطيع أن نحرتم بضع شجرات أمام بيوتنا وأن نرتك الجبال ملن نصبوا الش

يف 1948/4/22 سقطت حيفا، هذا تاريخ مفربك. يف 1917/12/8 رفع بضع أفنديات راية بيضاء والتقطت لهم صورة وهم يسلمون القدس. هذا حدث فعال لكن الصورة مفربكة. فبإمكانك، يف أي وقت، أن تجمع بضع أفنديات وأن تطلب منهم أن يرفعوا راية بيضاء وأن ميشوا بها إىل باب الخليل اللتقاط

صورة.

الساعة 11:30 ظهرا يف األول من نيسان 2010. كل الناس ناموا واستيقظوا وأنا بعد مستيقظ. املخدات مفربكة. سأذهب بعد أسبوعني إىل بريوت، الفيزا عقبة كأداء مفربكة. يا سيدة لبنان صيل ألجلنا)نحن

نعرف أن صالتك مفربكة(.

Merriam Kershenbaum Shlomo Ganor, Al-Arabiyya, Al-Hurra Al-Jazeera and that leper

who holds the remote control.

Cockroaches and collaborators are nice creatures. Look at how gentle this one is, and how

sweet the ugliness of that one’s face is. Our conventional ideas about their cheapness —

fabrications.

A sedated group of men sit in the living room listening to the "Voice of Israel". A respectable

group of women make "Tabbouleh" and think about the future after burying our public

dignity. Don’t worry— these are all fabrications.

We cannot respect a few trees in front of our homes, leaving the mountains for those who

set up the nets in our naps.

On the 22nd of April, 1948, Haifa surrendered. The date is fabricated.

On the 8th of December, 1917, Effendis carried their white flag and a picture was taken

of them as they surrendered Jerusalem. The event truly took place, but the picture — a

fabrication.

You can, at any given time, gather a few Effendis and ask them to carry a white flag and

march with it to Jaffa Gate to take a picture.

The time is 11:30 just before noon on the first of April 2010. Everyone has gone to sleep

and awoken, and I am still up. Pillows are fabrications. In two weeks I will be going to

Beirut. The Visa is an enormously fabricated obstacle. Oh, Our Lady of Lebanon, pray

for us (though we know your prayer is another fabrication).

3736

بعد قليل أنام، فصديقتي الشعنونة سرتكب الباص وتجيء من النارصة. الكلامت العربية تتطاير من حولها كالذباب ألنها تفكر أن لغة األعداء جثة، فأقول لها: هذه إيديولوجيا مفربكة. لغة األعداء رجل آيل

بال ذكورة وال أنوثة. فتضحك ضحكة شعنونة مفربكة.نفقع من الضحك، لن منوت أيها الرب. نحن نركض يف األبدية وصنادلنا تطرطق. األبدية مفربكة. كل ما سبق كان فربكة وكل ما سيجيء أيضا فربكة. وكل كائن يرفع اآلن ذراعيه مثل شجرة يف هذه القصيدة

املفربكة.

In a while I am going to sleep as my wacky friend rides the bus from Nazareth. Words

in Hebrew are flying around her like flies because she thinks the language of the enemy

is a corpse, so I tell her: This is a fabricated ideology, the language of the enemy is a

sexless robot. She bursts into a wacky, fabricated, laughter. We burst into laughter. Oh

god, we won’t die. We run into eternity, our flip-flops tap along. Eternity is fabricated.

Everything that preceded was a fabrication. Everything to come is also a fabrication.

And each creature raises its arms like a tree in this fabricated poem.

3938

٢٢ بيت - املهجرمنت يف غرفة الغسيل مرة واحدة.

طوال شهر ديسمب، البحر يصفع تحت الشبابيك.

أيب واخواين يشتمون الدخان عىل شاشة التليفزيون.

أنا حولت املغسلة إىل حديقة.

الجريان ينادوين بإسم "هويل."

حصدت الثلج حتى ذقت طعم التكيال.

إصطيقظنة عىل إنفجار صفارات إنذار اإلعصار.

نزفت من محاولتي للتسلق إىل داخل الشباك.

كذبت عن رنة التلفون.

ترك أحد وردة تعبانة يل لونها زهري عىل مرشف الباب.

حال عليان الرتجمة من اللغة االنجليزية اىل العربية: أحمد حبيب

22 Houses (Diaspora)

I slept in the laundry room, once.

All December long, the sea slapped below the windows.

My father and his brothers cursed at the smoke on the television.

I turned the sink into a garden.

The neighbors called me Holly.

I scooped out ice cubes until I tasted tequila.

We woke to the bleat of tornado sirens.

I bled trying to climb into the window.

I lied about the telephone ringing.

Someone left me a straggly pink flower on the doormat.

By Hala Alyan

4140

مللمت حبات املطر مبلعقة من عىل البلكونة.

العاصفة الثلجية دفنت الشبابيك كل إذن.

قلت نعم، ثم قلت ال.

تركنا هدايا العيد امليالد عند ما وصل الجيش.

كنت أحلم دامئا بالجريث والثلج.

صديقتي سمعت صوت عضامي ترضب القرميدة.

إنقلب لون النافذة إىل السواد من هياكل السجائر.

مزقت رسالة الحب ورشيت املاء لتشويش الحب.

كانت هناك زخرفة عىل شكل سلحفاء يف حوض االستحامم.

رأيت إنعكايس عىل األبواب الزجاجية ورصخت.

االغنية عادت نفسها مرة بعد مرة عند ما كنت أستحام.

سمحت للعنكبوت بأن يعيش.

I caught rain with a spoon on the balcony.

The blizzard buried the windows like ears.

I said yes, and then no.

We left behind birthday gifts when the army landed.

I kept dreaming about an eel, and snow.

My friend heard my bone against the tile.

The windowsill blackened with cigarette skeletons.

I tore the love letter, and sprinkled water to smudge the ink.

There was a single turquoise sequin in the bathtub.

I saw my reflection in the French doors and screamed.

The song played on a loop while he showered.

I let the spider live.

4342

محادثة يف شهر ابريلشاي، يف فناء

يف منطقة الحمرا. صف طويل

من األشجار يرفعونأكتافهم إىل السامء و

تقول يل أن يجب عيل أن أذوق النعناع يف فلسطني. األمس كانت هناك عاصفة

والطرق مبعرثة بأغصن األشجار و

وصور من شهداء حزب اللهلديها لسان

يسمونهوا الفيكتوريون مأساوي مكرش وحزين.

تتحجم. ومذا عن الله؟أيريد هذا اليشء؟ تقصد


One Conversation in April

Tea, courtyard

in Hamra. A long row

of trees quirk their

shoulders to the sky and

she tells me I must taste mint

in Palestine. Yesterday, a storm,

and the roads are still littered

with branches and the

papered faces of Hezbollah

martyrs. She has a mouth

the Victorians would call

tragic, downturned and full.

She flinches. And God?

Does He want this? She means the

By Hala Alyan

4544

املضاهرات. تقصد الرجال وصدورهم الحمراء وهم

يبارزون البحر.اه أن يسكن الشخص عىل شاطئ البحار

ويكون منبهر وهو ينتف نجم البحر من قرصها الرميل.

سألت عن امللح قبلأن أذوع الرز. من أجل الحب

املؤذن يشعلاملدينة بأكملها بصدى صوته.

أتريد أن تكون له مصدر وحي أم زوجته؟ هي تسأل

املطر من جديد، والغيوم تفقد ألوانها شعرة بيضاء واحدة

المعة - قطة جديت تتمسك

بثيايب. اعطيها صفعة خفيفة. أفضل أن أكون مصدر وحي،ولكنني أكذب.

protests. She means the men

with chests of red as they

lance the sea.

O to be a beachcomber,

plucking dazed the starfish

from her gritty palace.

I ask for salt before I

taste the rice. For love,

the muezzin flames

the entire city with echoes.

Would you rather be his muse

or his wife? she asks.

Rain again, clouds blanching.

A single white hair,

glossy—my grandmother’s

cat—clings to my

sweater. I flick at it. Muse,

but I am lying.

4746

موسم الجفل مهداة ملن إتصل

قد يكون مصباح فاشل أم خطوات خاطئة صباحا ما، نرضة حذرة منك وسوف تراه

دبور حقدك امليت،أز تلك الضج حليب تلك الضج يزين منقار الدبور و

الغبار يغطي اعيونه. سرتاه، رياضيات أملا بعد،عفن، الجرح الذي أهديته. ملحن

صغري، كانت كعكة عرس، ذلك الشتاء،ضعيف من الزلزال وخشخة أبواب مفتوحة.

أنا أطلقك لنفسك. كوخ ما مبني من الطني مزين بالصبار،أو ناطحة سحاب يف لوس انجيليس. و يف كل مكان تذكري كاألسنان اللبنية: تفتت الحرشة. أضلع صغرية

عىل سجادتك. حناج مجعد، مشع يف لحمك.

حال عليان ترجمة من اإلنجليزية من احمد حبيب

Season for FlinchingFor the one who made the phone calls

It may be a sputtered lightbulb or lost footing

one morning, a wary squinting and you will see it—

the dead wasp of your malice,

that buzz hum buzz milk still beading the stinger and

dust filming each eye. You will see it, arithmetic of after,

septic, the wound you gifted. Little

composer, it was a wedding cake, that winter,

limp with earthquake and the rattle of lobbed doors.

I release you to yourself. Some adobe hut trimmed with cacti,

or a skyscraper in Los Angeles. And, everywhere,

reminders like milk teeth: the insect detritus. Tiny limbs

on your carpet. A crinkled wing, radiant in your meat.

By Hala Alyan

4948

وردة حيفاإحدى أوراق الوردة ضائعة والجذع مرقش، حرشة

أو مرض يخرتق النباتة كالبرة. بالرغم من ذلك أشد عىل األخرض بلطف

من الشجرية. الحديقة ليست أبدا مليك:أسمي الرشوق شبكة شعرية. األنف، إصبع القدم، رمش مجرور

وجد، يف وقت الحق، عىل صفحة جريدة. والقرار لإلجالل، أو للضامد أو للرأفة. ايجب عيل أن اقذف هذا اليشء

مثل حبيبة من حضارة املايا، إىل أعامق البحر، واجعل أوراق الشجر يسبحون بهوس وجنون، حتى األمواج تندفع وتبلع،

وتنسق كهف أخرض؟ أو ألقي الطمع، أنتف إىل القلب وأطالب برؤية الهيكل العضمي لحبيبي؟

عالمة نارية، عاطفية. أنا إبنة التقارير اإلخبارية طاولة املطبخ امللطخة بالجص الذي يرسم

إسم عايدة، وجيد، مصطفى، سلمى املصنوعة من الرماد.ذلك الطني الذي يعيش عىل طريق الدخان، إحرتاق اإلحرتاق.


The Flower from Haifa

A petal is missing and the stem is mottled, some aphid

or virus needling the skin. Still, I yank the green gently

from the shrub. The garden is never mine:

I name the sunup lattice. Nose, toe, eyelash tugged

and found, later, on a newspaper page. And the decision

for homage, the gauze or the clemency. Do I fling it,

like some Mayan sweetheart, into the sea, let the leaves

swim frantically, until the waves hurtle and swallow,

orchestrate a green grave? Or recite some coveting, pluck it to

the heart demanding to see the skeleton of my love?

Fire sign, sentimental. I am the daughter of news

reports, the spackled kitchen counter in whose pattern

skulk the names—Aida, Wajid, Mustafa, Salma—of the ashed.

That loam alive with smoke trail, the burning a burning.

By Hala Alyan

5150

أوال، يف شعري: أثر قديم يعرج. وسمحت له أن يكون نجمة يف قنينة ماء فارغة، غري مرتب يف حظرية حيوانات ناشفة مؤقتة.

والكن يف الحرارة. البالستيك ميوع. أفك الجثة املبلولة ورقة شجرة مطويية، عضو الذكر الجنيس للنبتة منحني وأضغطه

بدقة يف كتاب، ما بني قنديل البحر مدوسة وحى مغلق.وعند ما أجدهو، يف بروكلني، متكلسة بأوراق الورد

مجمدة: البتقايل، والبنفسجي، وأتذكر انني قرصنته.

First, in my hair: limp relic. Then I let it star an empty

water bottle, tousled in the makeshift vivarium.

But the heat. The plastic melts. I untangle the wet corpse—

one leaf dog-eared, stamen drooping—and press it

meticulously in a book, between a Medusa and a ghetto.

When I find it, in Brooklyn, it is calcified with petals

stiffed: the orange, the fuchsia, this remember I pirated.

5352

Eight Poems

Odeur mâle d’arbres sans nom et de sueur d’écorce

La femme verte abrite une ruche sous son aisselle

Le fleuve dévié pour arroser ses genoux enjambera son seuil

Les hommes venus de l’embouchure traquent son miel

Les fumées de leurs cigarettes font suffoquer les morts épinglés sur son mur

Autant de trépassés que de neiges épaissies

Le premier avait un caillou dans sa poche

Le deuxième avait un livre mais ne savait pas lire

Le troisième céda son manteau à un loup

Celle qui lave loups et livres dans la même eau ne fait pas la différence entre un mot

et un caillou

Eight Poems

Male odor of nameless trees and sweat of their bark

The green woman shelters a hive in her armpit

The river unbedded to water her knees will step across her threshold

Men come from the river’s mouth seek her honey

The smoke of their cigarettes chokes the dead who are hung on her wall

as many dead as there were deep snowfalls

The first one had a pebble in his pocket

The second had a book but couldn’t read

The third gave away his coat to a wolf

The woman who washes wolves and books in the same water treats words and

pebbles alike

Vénus Khoury-GhataTranslated from French by Marilyn Hacker

5554

Maison habitée déshabitée soumise aux structures de l’air

Nous écartions les cloisons pour améliorer un quotidien fait de hachures

Admettions l’extension de la pluie dans nos tiroirs entre linge menstruel et draps

Pluie de village qui va nu-pieds suivie de hordes d’eau criardes

Repoussait les clôtures

Enjambait les jardins

Pluie sans revendications balayée par la mère avec les épluchures

Bruine dévalant sans émotion le mur du cimetière

S’arrêtant avec respect face au premier caillou

C’est du moins ce qu’elle transcrivait sur nos vitres

Notre tâche consistait à l’écouter

À la guider lorsqu’elle perdait ses repaires

S’absentait une saison sur deux accrochée à la falaise alors que nous discutions avec

des cailloux de basse extraction

Et que nous l’appelions

Pas de pitié pour une sourde clamait le père et il abattait le toit du plat de la main

Inhabited uninhabited house subject to the air’s structure

We opened up the partitions to improve a daily life made of crosshatching

accepted the rain’s stretching itself into our drawers between menstrual cloths and

sheets

A village rain that went barefoot followed by gangs of squalling waters

pushed gates open

climbed over gardens

Rain that made no claims swept away by the mother with the vegetable peelings

Drizzle gushing down the cemetery wall with no emotion

stopping respectfully in front of the first pebble

At least that’s what she wrote on our windowpanes

Our task was to listen to her

and guide her when she lost her way

and was gone one season out of two hanging on to the cliff while we conversed with

common-born pebbles

and called to her

I have no pity for a deaf woman exclaimed the father and he knocked down the roof

with the palm of his hand

5756

La terre à l’époque cumulait les terres

On enterrait à tour de bras les océans

Le soleil devenait précaire

La nuit arrivait à tout moment

La mère nous confiait à l’obscurité qui éfface les fautes d’orthographe et les cahiers

La mère nous éffacait avant de rejoindre l’orme qui l’attendait nu dans son écorce

L’aimait à genoux

Sueur verte et résine maculant son corsage en dentelle

The earth in those days gathered up other earths

Oceans were buried by the dozens

The sun became precarious

Night came at any moment

The mother gave us over to darkness that erased spelling mistakes and notebooks

The mother erased us before going to meet the elm awaiting her naked in its bark

Made love to it on her knees

green sweat and resin staining her lace bodice

The mother milked the tree under the forest’s nose

5958

Elle allait aux étreintes comme on va à l’herbe

Accrochait au passage un orme blanc

Un platane aux bras raccourcis

Faisait des petits avec toute ombres qu’elle croisait

Nos frères en désarroi les oiseaux ramenés dans ses cheveux

La mère une saisonnière d’amour comme la grive aux yeux roux

La mère trayait l’arbre à la barbe de la forêt

She went toward embraces the way one goes to pasture

grabbed onto a white elm in passing

a plane-tree with shortened arms

made babies with every shadow that brushed against her

the birds she brought back in her hair were our brothers in disorder

The mother was love’s day-worker like the rusty-eyed thrush

6160

Le pain rassis sur le muret nourissait les fourmis et l’ange de la maison

Ses plumes sur la vitre pluvieuse nous protégeaient de la hargne du tilleul le vrai

propriétaire des lieux

Nos doigts le dessinaient à la droite du dieu du repentir et de la frugalité

Épaules chancelantes telle balance de fin de marché

Dieu de l’abondance et de sauterelles amicales

Qui casse les noix du revers de la main

Fais reluire les casseroles de la mère avec ton soleil de poche

Remplis-les du bruissement de tes abeilles

Mets une bague à chaque doigt de nos pigeons

The stale bread on the windowsill fed the ants and the angel of the house

his feathers on the rainy pane protected us from the spite

of the linden tree, true owner of the grounds

Our fingers drew him standing to the right of the god of repentance and frugality

shoulders unsteady as a scale at the end of market day

God of abundance and of friendly locusts

who cracks walnuts with the back of your hand

polish the mother’s pots with the sun you keep in your pocket

fill them with your bees’ buzzing

put a ring on every one of our pigeons’ fingers.

6362

Les armées de poussière soulevées par son balai mangeaient la porte nos cahiers et

son collier

Rotaient des échardes de perles

C’était la guerre

Les batailles sanglantes entre ceux qui machaient nos sourires de premiers

communiants et ceux qui lapaient le sel de l’évier se déroulaient sous la jupe de la

mère

Dans son puits obscur au centre de sa margelle

The armies of dust raised by her broom ate the door our notebooks and her necklace

belched up bits of pearl

It was war

The bloody battles between those who chewed on our first-communion smiles and

those who lapped up the salt from the kitchen sink went on

beneath the mother’s

skirt

in the dark at the bottom of her well

6564

Accrochés au manche de son balai

On la suppliait de signer l’armistice avec les généraux chamarrés du soleil

Avec les artilleurs nourris au grain

De mettre à terre le porte-drapeau qui brandissait son linge souillé

Nous la supplions de sauver les casseroles la branche de buis de nos baptêmes les

lunettes du grand-père

De frayer avec toutes les armées

Celles qui deroulent les routes devant les cortèges

Celles qui balaient les morts étrangers

Que d’applaudissements sous les jupes de la mère qui coloriait Dieu en jaune avec

une pointe de rouge aux joues

Clinging to her broomstick

we begged her to sign a truce with the sun-bedecked generals

with the grain-fed artillery

to dismiss the flag-bearer waving her soiled laundry

We begged her to save the pots the boxwood branch from our baptism grandfather’s

glasses

to mix with all the armies

the ones who rolled out the roads in front of the funeral processions

the ones who swept away the foreign dead

Such applause beneath the mother’s skirts as she colored God yellow with a touch of

red on the cheeks

6766

Les doigts de la mère nous retiraient de l’âtre où nous crépitions avec les châtaignes

Déposait nos cendres sur les meubles

Sur les toits où les chats s’étirent

Nous étions des enfants inflammables

Noms d’une syllabe bondissant entre âtre et évier

Les oreilles pointues du père l’assimilaient à un loup

La mère qui nous regardait rougeoyer nous soulevait par le cou

Nous époussetait

Suturait notre âme

La mère criait dans les cendriers

The mother’s fingers drew us out of the hearth where we crackled with the

chestnuts

placed our ashes on the furniture

on the rooftops where the cats stretched themselves

we were flammable children

one-syllable names leapt between the hearth and the sink

the father’s pointed ears linked him to wolves

the mother who watched us glowing red lifted us by the scruff of the neck

dusted us off

stitched up our souls

the mother cried out in the ash-pan

6968

Montmartre

عىل التل املطلكطائر أسطوري

عىل مدينتناغيم وشجر صنوبر

وصغار باألبيض واألسودفوق ظلينا يركضون

خطوة عىل جفنك

أختها عىل خدي

أودية خفيفةيف ابتسامتنا

مظلة يف يد عازفصحو حقيبة كامن

لوحات حول ساحةيجنحها الحامم

ومطر الصيف رسام يرصعىل األلوان املائية

Montmartre

On the hill overlooking

our city

like a mythical bird

cloud and pine trees

and little ones in black and white

running over both our shadows

A step on your eyelid

Its sister on my cheek

Light valleys

in our smile

An umbrella in the hand of a player

the fineness of a violin case

paintings around a courtyard

winged by doves

and summer rain a painter insisting

on watercolors

Suzanne AlaywanTranslated from the Arabic by Ghada Mourad

7170

لوفرة الدموع

بغريزة الغرقىتتشابك يدانابرغبة األزرق

يف أن يبقى سامء

القطار أحمرقبلة عىل قضبان

نسمة عىل سالمل

دوري ودفقة عطر

طاحونة حول مالمحناليل ألتدثر بعينيك

مليون درجةمن الجرح

فينا

ياسمني يابسمنا يتساقط

هي الضفة الضحكة من الحكاية

العامل أعىل قليالمن كعبه يف وحل

for the abundance of tears

With the instinct of shipwrecked

our hands intertwine

with the blue's desire

to remain a sky

The train is red

a kiss on bars

A breeze on ladders

a sparrow and a splash of a perfume

A mill around our lineaments

a night to wrap myself in your eyes

A million phases

of the wound

in us

Dried jasmine

falling from us

It's the tale's laughing bank

the world a little higher

than its heel in mud

7372

كنيسة عتيقةفضة طافئة

ووجهك نجمة من أضاع يف النهر وجهه

An old church

a tarnished silver

and your face is the star of the one who in the river lost his face

7574

مسودة مدينةقش

عريشة أقامر يف قارورة

أبيات بحر عىل محرمةمطرقة عىل حطب عناق

مشط يضحك

فراشات ودبابيس

مهرج صغري من البالستك قطنة سكرى وسط رسة

خيط حكاية أحمرحبال طويلة من مطر

فلينة لغرق بني األصابع

لقطة يتيمةلوهلة وجهني

Draft of a City

Two straw lovers

a canopy of moons in a bottle

Lines of verse on a handkerchief

A hammer on the wood of an embrace

A comb laughing

butterflies and pins

A small plastic clown

a drunken cotton ball in the navel's center

A tale's red thread

long ropes of rain

A cork for sinking between fingers

an orphan snapshot

of the brevity of two faces


7776

تلويحة وداعبحس وردة

قصة مصورة

يف قلب فنجان

عربة روببكياهذا العامل

لوال دمعة تدلني

A farewell wave

with Warda's voice

A story illustrated

in the heart of a cup

A cart of rubbish

this world

were it not for a tear leading me

7978

الدرجة صفر من الصحراء1

صهيل صحارىألحصنة بحر

كواكب وحص

قطيع من املراكب الوادعة

كيف لوتد يصدأأن يصبح جذرا؟ومن أين ألبيات

من يباس وبرتبكل هذه الواحات يف وجدان؟

هكذا القصة

من غبار وغرق

ظبيبنظرة سائلة

Degree Zero of the Desert

1

Neigh of deserts

for sea horses

Planets and gravel

A herd of peaceful boats

How can a corroding peg

become a root?

And where do verses

of dryness and severance have

all these oases in emotion from?

Thus the story

from dust and drowning

A deer

with a questioning glance


8180

وابل من سيارات

نوارس ملطخةبحروب ونفط

أسامك بكاء عميق

مسك مواعيد

عىل ساعة معصمي

أكياس كثريةفارغة

مدينة من ركام سورها

وحل عىل مالمحمفاتيح يف أرواح

ومن النخل أمريات

من ساللة ملك ضليليكنسن ظالل السعف

بسعف من ظالل

وبنات نعشعىل الدرب مؤنسات

لوشاح شاحب من عصافري الصوفمن أقص األجنحة

إىل أحرف ذات صلة

A downpour of cars

Gulls stained

by wars and oil

Fish, deeply crying

Musk of rendezvous

on my wrist watch

Many bags

empty

A city of rubble wall

Mud on lineaments

keys in souls

And from the palms princesses

descended from a deceptive king

sweeping the fronds' shadows

with shadows' fronds

And the Ursa Major stars

on the road affable

to a pale scarf of wool sparrows

from the farthest wings

to letters linked

to a Christ's-thorn tree inhabiting me

8382

بسدرة تسكننيكعمود بفقرات مكسورة

بعينني عراقيتني

تعرفهام النواهلكام األنهار

مغمضةنحو أطفالها تسيل

بهالل صغريلهول الجرح

الصق عىل جبني

٢

من املفردإىل الالنهاية

ضد كل مرادفومرآة

ضد األرجوحةمجازا

ومزاجاوما ميثله

كام لو عىل خشبة مرسحزوج حامم

as a column with broken vertebrae

To two Iraqi eyes

whom springs know

as well as rivers

with eyes shut

flowing towards their children

to a small crescent

for the wound's gravity

adhering to a front

2

From the singular

to infinity

against each synonym

and every mirror

Against the swing

metaphorically

and in disposition

and what symbolizes

as if on stage

a pair of doves

8584

منمبشنقة مضاعفة

يتعلق؟

مع الخطوةألنها طائر

ضد الصورةوالرسوة

وألن القميص الذي أهديتنيتلويحة كفن

يف رشاعبحطامي أرفرف

سفينة عىل رمال ماحية

عىل يقنيبأن برئا من ضوءمن أزرق قصيدة

يف بقعة مامن هذه العاصفة الصفراء

تختبئ

3

الصاحب األولمصابيح السادسة صباحا

جمر غضا يف جوف جدارغيمة غامضة عىل مسيل

Who

with a double gallows

dangles?

With the step

because it's a bird

against the image

and the cypress tree

and because the shirt you gifted me

is a shroud's plank

in a sail

in my wreckage I flutter

a ship on erasing sands

Certain

that a well of light

from a poem's blue

in some spot

of this yellow storm

hides

3

The old companion

the six-in-the-morning lights

Lush embers in a wall cavity

a nebulous cloud on a riverbed

8786

كم تأخرت

عن شمعتي وتابويت

كم من املطريف ندايئ لحبيبي

ومن خشب الكعوب املتسلقةعىل سالمل ابتسامتنا

يا إسمي 4

سبعة كالب ضامرةسدو شموس

عىل حدبات جسورأصابع إثل آثم

صغار لؤلؤ يف سديم

وتلك الجالسة األجمل من نفسهابفنجانني مرتجفني يف برد باكرعىل حافة شاهقة من نحيبنا

أيها الحب

ال تعرنا أكرث

أيتها اللحظةأمهليني معطف عظامي

How late I am

to my candle and coffin

How much rain there is

in my call to my beloved

and how much wood of the heels climbing

on our smile's ladders

Oh my name

4

Seven skinny dogs

the Sadu of suns

on the bridges' humps

fingers of a sinful tamarisk

small pearls in a nebula

And that one seated and more beautiful than herself

with two cups shaking in an early cold

on a towering edge of our wailing

Love,

Denude us no more

O moment,

Respite me my skeleton's coat

8988

خشية أن يكون املشوارأقرص من أغنيةأن تنهك أكتافنا

رياح دومنا أزهاريستحيل قمر املنازل الحزينة

أسطوانة سوداءوالشارع الذي يف أفق رصيفه

محطة فراقشجرة ال يؤرقها

سوى ما يورق فينا

Lest the journey

be shorter than a song

a wind without flowers

fatigue our shoulders

the sad homes' moon turns into

a black disc

and the street in whose sidewalk's horizon

a parting station

a tree kept awake only

by what leafs in us

9190

دمشقنزلت من قاسيون

وطويرت الجبلحقيبتي صغرية وسؤايل كبري

شباك دمشق مقفل،وقلبها الخائف يف دوالبها.

يف موضعهوف. برية املنتحرون كرة الص ترك الص

لتوصد الباب ورايئوتغزل الكنزات للموىت

وتنتظر.

Damascus

In this little bag that bumps at my shoulder,

I carry down a question bigger than Mount Qasioun.

The entrance to Damascus is locked and checked;

out of reach, the city’s stashed its heart away.

Boys who killed themselves left balls of wool;

I tie my door, knit jumpers for the dead, wait.

Nouri al-JarrahTranslated from Arabic by Tom Warner

9392

الهاربحني تجيئنيأتركك واقفة

وأستلقيوجهي لحرام* الصوفعيناي الختفاء عميق

حني تجيئنيأفلت من أصابعك كسمكة

وأسبح عىل السلمإىل شارع

إىل قفرإىل غابة

تحت سامء ال تظل سوى الهاربني.

ربيع بريوت 1983

The Fugitive

When you unfold the map of your words,

smooth the creases from your questions,

I roll over, turn my face to the sheets

and find I’m really a fish slipping through

the sludgy waterways beneath the streets,

escaping to a sky that hides the likes of me.

Beirut, spring, 1983


9594

بعد تأملإىل شاعر إغريقي

الغزاة الذين انتظرتهم خارج قصيدتككانوا وراءك يف املدينة

الطحان اللص، وسارق العجلة من املعبد،التاجر الالعب بالنقود، القايض املرتيش، املحامي املصاب بالكلب

العسكري صاحب النياشني، والجندي الزاغب يف رسير املتعة،

ويف حضيض السلم كاتب التقرير مبداد العلم..

On Reflection

To a Greek poet

The invaders you wait for outside the poem

are behind you in the city:

the miller pilfering weights of grain,

the one who stole the wheel from the temple,

the merchant with his stack of deeds,

the judge with greasy hands,

the rabid lawyer,

the officer of polished medals,

the soldier with a shadow on his lip

thin and naked in a stranger’s bed,

the informer, the lowest, the lowest,

who submits reports in the ink of the flag.


9796

الغزاة الذين انتظرتهم يف ظاهر املدينة باألناشيد، وبالصور الشاهقة،

بالزبدصارخا

يف فم الخطيب،فة... وباملوازين مطف

ومن وراء الفتات املعركة بكتائب العسكر وعجالت الحرب غائصة يف وحل،

وبالرشف املنزيل الرفيع...

وراءك وراءك، يف السوق ويف القلعة،كان الغزاة.

ماذا سيقول "سوق الحميدية"، هذه السنة، لهالل رمضان؟

الغزاة الذين انتظرترهم األمهات يف الحقول ومعهن أباريق الحليب، واآلباء باملناسف، والجدات بالتطريز...

الغزاة الذين أثاروا مخيلة الصبايا.. وتسببوا للرجال بأمل يف الحالب.. .

مروا يف يقظتك، ومروا يف منامك

You wait for them in the upper city,

with your anthems,

with lofty expectations,

with foam in the mouth ofspokesmen,

with scales of beguiling balance,

with banners of the battle,

with military brigades,

with wheels of war sunk in the mud,

and with your homemade honour.

The invaders are behind you

in the bazaar, in the castle.

Al-Hamidiya, how will you speak

to the crescent of Ramadan this year?

The invaders, mothers wait for them

in the fields with jugs of milk

and fathers carry plates of food

and grandmothers bring embroidery.

The invaders, who stir the thoughts of women

and turn water to a burning trickle,

pass through your waking hours

and pass through your sleep.

9998

هكذا انترصت املخيلة عىل املدينة، وسحب الدخان عىل الجبال، انترص النامئون يف عسل الفكرة عىل الضاربني أيديهم يف امللح والعابرين يف دم الليل

انترص الجندي النائم عىل الجندي املستيقظ،والهارب من السيف عىل املدافع تحت السور...

الخطيب املفوه، والسيايس املرن، والقنصل املفضوح أنشدوا للراقصة يف تلك الليلة:

عاش الوطنعاش الوطن

مل يسأل أحد عن صور الضحايا، وال عن أسامء املجروحني واملفقودين، العربات طمرتر القتىل بالغار، والجرحى بأكياس الشعري...

الغزاةالغزاة

Thus imagination triumphs over the city,

clouds of smoke over the mountains,

the sleepers in the honey of ideas triumph

over those who punch the salt

and over transients in the blood of night;

how the sleeping soldier triumphs

over he who sits awake,

how the coward who runs triumphs

over the stalwart who stays to hold the wall.

The vehement orator, the flexible politician,

the scandalous consul, all sing together

to the belly dancer tonight,

Long live the homeland!

Long live the homeland!

No one asks for photos of the victims,

nor the names of the wounded and the missing.

They throw the dead and injured on carriages

and dump on them piles of laurels and barley bags.

The invaders you wait for inside the poem,

in the shadow, are with you in the marrow of the city.

101100

About the Contributors

WRITERS

Suzanne Alaywan was born in 1974 in Beirut to a Lebanese father and an Iraqi mother. Because of the war she spent her childhood and adolescence between Andalusia, Paris, and Cairo. In 1997, she graduated from the school of Journalism and Media, at the University of Cairo. Now living in Beirut, "the homeland’s fairytale", she writes, paints, and dreams sometimes.

Hala Alyan is a Palestinian-American poet and doctoral student whose work has appeared in journals such as Eclectica, The Dirty Napkin, and The Journal. Hala has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and was a winner of the 2012 Nazim Hikmet Poetry Festival Competition. Her full-length collection of poetry, Atrium, was published by Three Rooms Press in New York City last year.

TRANSLATORS

Ahmed Habib is an Iraqi writer, living on the rooftop of love, with no view of Baghdad.

Marilyn Hacker's twelve books of poems include Names and Essays on Departure. Among her translations from the French are Rachida Madani’s Tales of a Severed Head and Vénus Khoury-Ghata’s Alphabets of Sand and Nettles. She is a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.

Sousan Hammad is a Palestinian writer and translator from Texas. She currently lives in Paris and is working on a piece of fiction.

Ghada Mourad is a PhD student in Comparative Literature at University of California, Irvine and a Schaeffer fellow in literary translation in the International Center of Writing and Translation at UC Irvine as well. Her research interests include politics and aesthetics in late twentieth-century Arabic and Francophone literature in the MENA.

Sulafa Hijjawi was born in Nablus in 1934. In Iraq, Hijjawi worked as both a teacher and, from 1974 to 1980, was the editor of the Review of the Center for Palestinian Studies at Baghdad University. She later moved to Tunis, where she worked in translation, particularly of Palestinian poetry into English. Her work includes an edited volume of poetry in Poetry of Resistance in Occupied Palestine and a translation of David Sinclair’s Edgar Allan Poe. Hijjawi also writes political articles published in Arabic newspapers and has a collection of her prose poems in the book, Palestinian Songs.

Najwan Darwish is a poet, critic and literary editor. He lives in Jerusalem, Palestine. Darwish is the literary advisor of the Palestine Festival of Literature (PalFest) and a co-founder of Palestine Writing Workshop. Darwish has published five books, the latest of which is Je me lèverai un jour; a selection of his poetry in French. He was selected in 2009 by the Beirut 39 Festival as one of the best Arabic-language writers under the age of 39.

Nouri al-Jarrah was born in Damascus in 1956. As a leading Syrian poet and editor, al-Jarrah has had more than ten books of poetry published. He established the literary magazine Al-Katiba, a quarterly journal for poetry, and as a practitioner has co-established a number of cultural initiatives in the past three decades. Al-Jarrah has lived in London since 1986, where he is currently the director of The Arab Centre for Geographical Literature.

Alaa Khaled, a poet and essayist, was born in Alexandria in 1960. He is the editor of Amkenah, a magazine interested in the ‘culture of the place’, which he publishes with artist and

photographer Salwa Rashad. Khaled has six books of poetry, his most recent being Taht Alshems Zakirat Okhra (Under the Sun of Another Memory). His latest book is the novel, Wajouh Eskenderiyya (Faces of Alexandria), also published in 2012.

Vénus Khoury-Ghata, Lebanese poet and novelist, and long-time Paris resident, is the author of seventeen novels, including Une Maison aux bord des larmes, La Maestra, and Le Facteur des Arbruzzes, and sixteen collections of poems, most recently Où vont les arbrex. Four collections of her poems and one novel are available in English in Marilyn Hacker’s translation. Recipient of the Académie Française prize in poetry in 2009, she was named an Officer of the Légion d’honneur the following year. She received the Prix Goncourt de poésie in 2011.

Ahmad Yamani is an Egyptian poet and translator who lives in Madrid. He has published four books of poetry in Arabic, which include Amaken Khati'a (Wrong Places) and Wardat fi' I-RAAS (Roses in the Head). Yamani also translates dozens of Spanish and Latin American authors and young poets. His fifth book of poetry is forthcoming.

103102

ABOUT SHAHADATShahadat is a quarterly online series designed to provide a platform for short-form writing and experimentation in writing by young and underexposed writers from the MENA region (Middle East and North Africa). The series features stories, vignettes, reflections, and chronicles in translation and the original language of Arabic, Farsi, Turkish, or Kurdish. It makes up one quarter of ArteEast’s online programming, the AE Quarterly. For past issues of Shahadat click here.

ABOUT THIS SERIES Shahadat is proud to run two alternating series, and releases four issues a year. The issue you’ve just perused is part of the "Contemporary Literature in Translation" series which presents contemporary authors in Works are presented in their original language and in translation.. Our other series, "Exploring Popular Literature" challenges traditional understandings of "literature" emerging from the Middle East and North Africa by presenting genres of creative production that rely on words and language but which have not typically been studied as literature.

In each issue, we gather texts from a spectrum of writers to challenge the singular status of the artist/author and to encourage a more complex presentation of the Middle Eastern and North African "street" for English-speaking audiences.

Acknowledgements:

For their encouragement and critique, I am grateful to my professors at The American University of Paris: Geoff Gilbert, director of the Masters in Cultural Translation program, and Anna-Louise Milne and Ziad Majed. I am grateful also to Najwan Darwish, and a big cheer to all the translators and poets who were patient with my persistent emails. May we all find our cities again.

Shahadat logo design by Rima Farouki

http://issuu.com/arteeast

104

Documents

The City of Translation