Translated by Yahya Haider
Edited by Mark Pirie
My mother is
Verses of Henna defeated by love.
She became widowed,
Her lovers’ longing leaning towards the end of the night.
Now, agony empties its wailing upon her bosom,
Her memories run over by wars.
What can the palm trees say to the minaret
As the crucified Al-Hussainiyah River passes
Through the wind of the North’s people?
A pomegranate branch breaks from untold grief.
Each night she wipes away the blood and dust
From the forehead of the Euphratesian
And cries out:
“A murder in Al-Tufuf stretched out my weeping
And abandoned me to eternal grief!”
She carries books made from saffron
And hides others made from priceless gems.
She nears the Prison of Al-Sindi where my father lies -
My father who fought a hundred wars
From original sin’s day of birth
To the rebellion of nuclear tribes against authority.
She holds for him the sun and the moon
And eleven wishes to keep his resolution.
And when my father was killed and his head severed
The Al-‘Alqamy River wiped its tears and absconded
With two hands glowing with fertility and regret.
Now, my mother ascends the hill
To be a witness to the howl of the fox
That echoes in the city
The work of the final murderers.
And after when they paraded my father’s head in the cities
My mother, with her spit, ornamented the Calipha’s face
And drowned the flame of his depraved candles.
The shattered sea bowed down
And winds paid their condolences;
She threw the skeletons of palm trees
And the marble of domes to the heavens;
So the planets and stars became.
The dawn was my father’s blood.
There were seventy trails in his body
Each leading to seventy oranges and shrines.
People were soon his allies
Once their minds burned
From the shock of his fate.
They sent books gilded with adjuration,
Embellished with prayer
And bejewelled with wishes
To crown a messenger devoid of revelations.
But they knew the taste of their mourning
And went to the women whose lives were broken.
They offered them all to the God of waiting
Burning the candles of their femininity at night
Supplicating
Weeping
Wailing
Hopeful that the Al-‘Alqamy River
Would again sing to the Al-Hussainiyah River and return
Supplicating to Al-Hurr
To give them my father’s handkerchief
That still clasped his arm
To stop the bleeding from the Ommawi sword.
Now, my mother wipes the crystals from her cheeks
And cries out to me:
“What do you hold in your right hand? Oh, you poet!
Release your poems!
Mesmerise all poets!
But never bow, except before this Oriental marble!
Pray only
To the minarets and pigeons,
Read
The chants of the angels of peace inscribed on golden domes,
And for heavenly speech not to rot on your tongue
Step off the glory of language!”
Edited by Mark Pirie
My mother is
Verses of Henna defeated by love.
She became widowed,
Her lovers’ longing leaning towards the end of the night.
Now, agony empties its wailing upon her bosom,
Her memories run over by wars.
What can the palm trees say to the minaret
As the crucified Al-Hussainiyah River passes
Through the wind of the North’s people?
A pomegranate branch breaks from untold grief.
Each night she wipes away the blood and dust
From the forehead of the Euphratesian
And cries out:
“A murder in Al-Tufuf stretched out my weeping
And abandoned me to eternal grief!”
She carries books made from saffron
And hides others made from priceless gems.
She nears the Prison of Al-Sindi where my father lies -
My father who fought a hundred wars
From original sin’s day of birth
To the rebellion of nuclear tribes against authority.
She holds for him the sun and the moon
And eleven wishes to keep his resolution.
And when my father was killed and his head severed
The Al-‘Alqamy River wiped its tears and absconded
With two hands glowing with fertility and regret.
Now, my mother ascends the hill
To be a witness to the howl of the fox
That echoes in the city
The work of the final murderers.
And after when they paraded my father’s head in the cities
My mother, with her spit, ornamented the Calipha’s face
And drowned the flame of his depraved candles.
The shattered sea bowed down
And winds paid their condolences;
She threw the skeletons of palm trees
And the marble of domes to the heavens;
So the planets and stars became.
The dawn was my father’s blood.
There were seventy trails in his body
Each leading to seventy oranges and shrines.
People were soon his allies
Once their minds burned
From the shock of his fate.
They sent books gilded with adjuration,
Embellished with prayer
And bejewelled with wishes
To crown a messenger devoid of revelations.
But they knew the taste of their mourning
And went to the women whose lives were broken.
They offered them all to the God of waiting
Burning the candles of their femininity at night
Supplicating
Weeping
Wailing
Hopeful that the Al-‘Alqamy River
Would again sing to the Al-Hussainiyah River and return
Supplicating to Al-Hurr
To give them my father’s handkerchief
That still clasped his arm
To stop the bleeding from the Ommawi sword.
Now, my mother wipes the crystals from her cheeks
And cries out to me:
“What do you hold in your right hand? Oh, you poet!
Release your poems!
Mesmerise all poets!
But never bow, except before this Oriental marble!
Pray only
To the minarets and pigeons,
Read
The chants of the angels of peace inscribed on golden domes,
And for heavenly speech not to rot on your tongue
Step off the glory of language!”
