What will come… what will come after the ashes?
I look scared at myself, from a distance…
Like the balcony of a house, I look at what I will
*
After two days I look at my language. A brief
Absence is enough for Aeschylus to open the door to Peace,
A short speech is enough to incite Anthony for war
A woman’s hand in mine
And I embrace my freedom
And the ebb and flow in my body begins anew
Like the balcony of a house, I look at what I will
I look at my ghost
Coming
From
Afar…
I.
Icons of Local
Crystal
A Cloud in My Hand
They have saddled the horses,
They know not why,
But they have saddled the horses in the field
*
…The place was ready for his birth: a hill
Which looked east and west from the scented bushes of his ancestors
And an olive tree
Near an olive tree in the holy books which elevate the plains of language…
And azure smoke which prepares the day for a question
Which concerns only God. March is the spoiled child
of all months. March’s snow falls like cotton on almond trees.
March makes mallow for the court of the church
March is a land for the night of the swallow, and for a woman
Who prepares to cry out in the wilderness… and reaches out to the holm oaks.
*
Now a child is born,
And his cry,
Is in the crevices of the place
*
We parted on the steps of the house. They were saying:
In my cry is caution which sorts ill with the frivolousness of the plants,
In my cry is rain, did I wrong my brothers
When I said that I had seen angels playing with the wolf
In the courtyard of the house? I do not remember
Their names. And also I do not remember their way
Of talking… and of the agility of their flying
My friends flare up by night and leave
No trace behind them. Shall I tell my mother the truth:
I have other brothers
Brothers who leave a moon on my balcony
Brothers who weave with their needle the coat of daisy
*
They have saddled the horses,
They know not why,
But they have saddled the horses at the end of the night
*
…Seven ripened ears suffice for Summer’s dining table.
Seven ripened ears in my hands and in every ripened ears.
The field germinates a field of wheat. My Father used to
Draw water from his well and say
To it, ‘Do not run dry’. And he would take me by the hand
To see how I grow like purslane
I walk on the brink of the well: I have two moons,
One on high
And another swimming in the water… I have two moons
*
Trusting, like their forebears, the righteousness
Of the laws… they beat the iron of their swords
Into ploughshares. ‘The sword will not mend what
Summer has ruined’, they said. And they prayed
Long, and sang praises to Nature…
But they have saddled the horses,
So as to dance the dance of horses,
In the silver of the night…
*
A cloud in my hand wounds me: I do not
Want of the Earth more than
This Earth: the scent of cardamom and straw
Between my father and the horse.
In my hand a cloud wounds me, but I
Want no more from the sun than an orange, and no more than
Gold flowed from the words of the Call to Prayer
*
They have saddled the horses,
They know not why,
But they have saddled the horses
At the end of the night,
And have waited
For a ghost to rise from the crevices of the place…
Villagers, Without Evil…
When the lorries came from the sea. But I had
Known the smell of tobacco from my grandfather’s cloak
And the eternal smell of coffee since I was born,
As a farm-animal was born here
One push!
*
We too have our cry as we fall to the brink
Of the Earth. But we do not treasure our voices
In ancient jars. We do not hang the mountain goat
On the wall, we do not claim sovereignty of dust,
And our dreams do not overlook the grapes of others,
Or break the rule!
*
My name is not yet fledged, that I would jump further
In the afternoon. The April heat was like
The harps of our transitory visitors which makes us fly like doves.
I have a first bell: the allure of a woman who tricks me
Into smelling the milk on her knees; I run away
From biting banquet at the table!
*
We too have our secret when the sun falls
From the poplar trees: we are seized by the urge to weep
For one who died for nothing, died,
And desire carries us off to Babylon or a mosque
In Damascus, and sheds us like a tear, amid the cooing
Of doves, for the eternal tale of pain!
*
Villagers, without evil, or regret
For words. Our names like our days are alike
Our names do not totally identify us. We lurk
In the talk of guests, we have things that we say
To the outside world about the land when it embroiders its kerchief with feather
After feather from the sky of our coming birds!
*
The place had no rivets stronger than the China trees
When the lorries came from the sea. We were
Preparing our cows’ feed in their stalls, we were arranging
Our days in coffers of our manual work
We were preaching love of the horse, and we were pointing
At the vagrant star.
*
We too boarded the lorries. For company we had
The emerald gleam in the night of our olive trees, and dogs barking
At a moon passing above the church tower.
Yet we were not afraid, for our childhood did not
Come with us. We made do with a song: we would soon return
Home, when the lorries discharged
Their extra load!
Night of the Owl
Here is a present untouched by yesterday…
When we arrived
At the last of the trees, we realised we had lost our will to be conscious. And
when we looked for the lorries, we saw absence
Piling up its selected objects, setting up
Its eternal tent around us…
Here is a present
Which is untouched by yesterday,
Slipping away from the mulberry tree is a thread of silk
shaping letters on the ledger of night. Nothing
But the moths illuminate our bold
Plunge into the pit of strange words:
Was this wretched man my father?
Perhaps I shall manage here. Perhaps
I, myself, am now giving birth to myself,
And am choosing for my name upright letters…
*
Here is a present
Which sits in the space among the vessels watching
How passers-by mar
k the reeds of the river,
Polishing their pipes with air… Perhaps speech
Is transparent and we look through windows that are open,
And perhaps time hurries with us
With our Tomorrow in its luggage…
*
Here is a present
Which has no time,
No one here has found any who remembers
How we came out of the gate, like the wind, or at
What time we tumbled out of yesterday, how
Yesterday was shattered on the pavement into pieces which the others
Fit together as looking glasses, after us…
*
Here is a present
Which has no place,
Perhaps I manage, and I cry out in
The night of the owl: Was that wretched man
My father, to make me bear the burden of his history?
Perhaps I change in my name, and I choose
My mother’s expressions and her ways, just as they ought
To be: as if she is able to amuse me whenever salt touches my blood
or cure me whenever I am bitten by a nightingale in the mouth!
*
Here is a present
Which is passing,
Here is where strangers hung their rifles on
The branches of olive trees, and prepared a hasty
Supper from metal cans, and went off
Hurriedly to the lorries…
The Eternity of the Prickly Pear
Where are you taking me, Father?
Towards the wind, my son…
As together they came from the plain where
Bonaparte’s troops had set up a mound to observe
Shadows on the old wall of Acre –
A father says to his son: Fear not, fear not the whistle of bullets! Lie flat
In the dust to be safe! We will be safe, we will climb
A hill to the North, and go back when
The troops return to their own people far away.
– And who will live in our house when we are away,
Father?
– It will remain just as it was,
My son!
He felt the key as he felt
His limbs, and was reassured. He said to him,
As they crossed over a thorn hedge,
My son, remember: here is where the British crucified
Your father on a hedge of prickly pear for two nights,
But never did he confess. You will grow up
My son, and will tell to those who inherit their rifles
The account of blood inscribed over iron…
– Why did you leave the horse alone?
– To be company for the house, my son,
For houses die when their inhabitants leave them…
Eternity opens its gates, far off,
To the stalkers of night.
In the fallows are wolves howling at a fearful Moon. A father
Says to his son: Be strong like your grandfather!
Climb with me the last hill of holm oak,
My son, remember: here is where the janissary fell
Off the mule of war, keep with me,
So we shall go back.
– When, Father?
– Tomorrow. Perhaps in two days’ time, son.
The next day was frivolous, wind murmuring
Behind them through the long winter nights.
The troops of Joshua Ben Nūn were building
A fortress from the stones of their house. They were both
Panting for breath on the track to ‘Qana’: here is where,
One day, Our Lord passed. Here is where
He turned water into wine. He spoke
Much of love. ‘My son, remember
Tomorrow. Remember the Crusader’s fortresses
That April’s grasses have nibbled away after
The troops have gone…’
How Many Times Shall Things Be Over?
He contemplates his days in cigarette smoke,
He looks at his pocket watch:
If I could I would slow down its ticking
To delay the ripening of the barley…
He steps out from himself, exhausted, disgruntled:
Harvest time has come,
The wheat heads are heavy, the sickles lie idle, the land
Is now far from its Prophet’s door.
Lebanon’s summer speaks to me of my grapes in the south
Lebanon’s summer speaks to me of what lies beyond nature
But my way to God starts
From a star in the South…
– Are you talking to me, Father?
– They have signed a truce on the island of Rhodes,
My son.
– How does that affect us, how does that affect us, Father?
– Things are over…
– How many times shall things be over, Father?
– It is finished. They did their duty:
They fought with broken rifles against the enemy’s aircraft.
We have done our duty, we kept clear of the China tree
So as not to disturb the Commanding Officer’s cap.
We sold our wives’ rings so that they might hunt sparrows,
My child!
– So are we going to stay here, Father,
Under the willow tree of the wind
Between the sky and the sea?
– My child, everything here
Will be like something there
By night we shall be like ourselves
We shall be scorched by the eternal star of likeness,
My child!
– Father, say something to cheer me!
– I left the window open
To the cooing of the doves
I left my face at the brink of the well
I left speech
Hanging over the cabinet rope
To tell its tale, I left darkness
In its night wrapped in the wool of my waiting
I left the clouds
On the fig tree spreading their trousers
I left the sleep
Renewing itself in itself
I left peace
Alone, there on the land…
– Were you dreaming while I was awake, Father?
– Get up. We will return, my child!
To My End And to Its End…
– Are you tired from walking
My child, are you tired?
– Yes, Father
Your night on the track was long,
And the heart flowed on the earth of your night.
– You are still as light as a cat,
Climb on my shoulder,
We will soon be crossing
The last wood of terebinth and holm oak.
This is Northern Galilee
Lebanon is behind us,
The whole sky is ours from Damascus
To the lovely walls of Acre.
– Then what?
– We shall go home
Do you know the way my child?
– Yes, Father:
East of the carob tree on the main street
Is a small path, hemmed in with prickly pear
At first, then, ever wider and wider, it leads to the well,
Then it looks out over the vineyard
That belongs to Uncle Jamil, who sells tobacco and sweets,
Then it loses itself in a threshing floor before
Straightening out and settling at the house,
in the form of a parrot.
– Do you know the house, my child?
– I know it as I know the path:
Jasmine around a gate of iron,
And bars of sunlight on the stone steps
Sunflowers gazing into the beyond
Tame bees preparing breakfast for grandfather
On the rattan tray,
And in the courtyard of the house, a well and a willow tree and a horse
And
behind the hedge, a tomorrow, leafing through our pages…
– Father, are you tired?
I see sweat in your eyes.
– My son, I am tired… Will you carry me?
– Just as you carried me, Father,
So shall I carry this longing
For
My beginnings and its beginnings,
And I shall walk this road to
My end… and its end!
II.
Abel’s Space
The Oud of Isma’il
A horse dancing on two strings – thus
Do his fingers listen to his blood, and the villages are spread out
Like red windflowers in the rhythm. No
Night there, no day. We are touched
By a heavenly joy, and directions rush into
Matter
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
All things will begin anew
*
He is the owner of the old oud, and our neighbour
In the oak wood. He bears his time disguised
In the garb of a madman who sings.
The war had ended,
And the ashes of our village, hidden by a black cloud, had not
Witnessed the birth of the Phoenix yet, as
We had expected. The night’s blood was not dry on
The shirts of our dead. Crops had not sprouted, as
Forgetfulness expects, in the helmets of the soldiers
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
All things will begin anew
*