Showing posts with label Arabic poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arabic poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Poets Theater @ Oracle Theater in Chicago

I have not written a play since high school; I have not acted in a play (the last one being Charles Fuller's A Soldier's Story) since right after college. In the main, I think of the theater (and performance) world with admiration, but apart; it fascinates me, but it is a distant and walled off garden. So it was very exciting to be invited to one of six writers to participate in a theater-based poetic experiment by poet Patrick Durgin, the publisher of Kenning Editions, which earlier this year released the wonderful The Kenning Anthology of Poets Theater: 1945-1985, edited by Kevin Killian and David Brazil.

Daniel, Tim and Leila Wilson
Daniel, Tim and Leila on stage, before the performance

The anthology includes most (I want to say nearly all) of the heavy hitters of the past 60 years' American avant-garde who wrote works that could be described as Poets theater, which Killian and Brazil define in their introduction, and which Patrick redefined for us. Among the anthology's leading lights: New York School figures like John Ashbery, Frank O'Hara, Kenneth Koch, James Schuyler, Barbara Guest; San Francisco Renaissance poets like Jack Spicer and Robert Duncan; 60s and 70s innovators like Jackson MacLow, Michael McClure, Diane DiPrima, and Anne Waldman; Black Arts figures like Amiri Baraka and Sonia Sanchez; conceptualist par excellence Theresa Ha Kyung Cha;  Language poetry paragons Charles Bernstein, Bob Perelman, Bruce Andrews, and Leslie Scalapino; and numerous others, among them favorites of mine Russell Atkins, Lorenzo Thomas, Ntozake Shange, Johanna Drucker, Keith and Rosmarie Waldrop, and Kathy Acker. The book, which is 590 pages long, feels like the lightest library you have ever picked up, a long short-course in this vital strain of American artistic production, and I was delighted to have a reason to divert my attention to it, in preparation for the event.

The poets: Leila, Duriel, Jacob, Tim & Daniel
The poets (l-r): Leila, Duriel, Jacob, Tim, Daniel

One way of thinking about Poets Theater is as theater that follows poetic logic, and in which poetry, as the material and as the focus, is foregrounded. Another is anti-commercial, and, as participant Tim Yu and Patrick both pointed out, often created by and for close friends, staged in living rooms or other intimate settings, without any pretense of professionalism. To put that another way, as poet, curator and critic John Beer suggested in his panel comments that preceded our event, one might think of it as "embarrassed" and "inept," which is to say, artfully artless. Another member of that panel, playwright Ruth Marggraf, linked it to "language playwriting."  As it turned out, what we six writers (Daniel Borzutzky, Duriel Harris, Jacob Saenz, Leila Wilson, and Tim Yu), with the support of Patrick, Valerie Johnson, Managing Editor of Poetry Magazine, and Ben Fuchsen and the technical team at Oracle Theater, devised, was certainly a form of Poets Theater that managed to straddle all these definitions, without being, I'm proud to say, either "embarrassed" or "inept."

Patrick Durgin, our sage rainmaker
Patrick, as we were rehearsing
Jacob Saenz & Duriel Harris
Jacob and Duriel in the green/prop room, before the performance

Our process was 48 hours long. We convened at Oracle on Saturday (December 4) morning, anthologies in hand, no preexisting scripts thought out. Patrick opened the morning with an introduction, as did Valerie, they had us sit together and hash out things, and after we did struggle a bit to figure out what we were going to do, Patrick suggested we take what we'd discussed, primarily the handful of texts in the anthology that served as touchstones or inspirations, and then individually draft pieces that we would talk about and try to integrate in an hour.  This we all did. For me, several of the plays--Bruce Andrews' Song #3, Amiri Baraka's Dutchman, Ntozake Shange's Spell #7 (which I'd acted in but not read since college), Theresa Cha's From Vampyr and Reveille Dans la Brume, and Kathy Acker's The Birth of the Poet--assumed a central importance. I also had been inspired by a conversation with Patrick and Daniel when I arrived that morning, and, as I was reading Acker's and Baraka's work, thinking about the ongoing situation involving Julian Assange and the Wikileaks site revelations. So I came up with a playlet entitled Assange Goes to the Mosque, drawing its title and heart directly from Scene 3 of Acker's play, and which included snippets of what I assume (though with Acker you can't be too sure) to be Arabic. It turned out that all of us ended up echoing one another in fascinating ways, so that the piece--and I say this not as bragadoccio but in amazement--was quite polyphonic, multilayered, and resonant in ways I don't think any of us expected.

Jacob and Leila working on their pieces
Writing: Jacob, Daniel, Leila
Duriel Harris, Leila Wilson, and Daniel Borzutzky
In the green/prop room (l-r), Duriel, Tim and Daniel

We reconvened after lunch, and then walked each other through our different sections, working out with each other, and then with Ben and Valerie, and later the technical crew, how to put it all together. This was utterly enlightening for me, because the more that we configured the piece, the more I found myself wanting to simplify, to pare down, to clarify, not just my text, but its staging.  Hearing the other poets' ideas, words, inventions, I found myself inspired anew.  This lasted until 7 pm, and I must admit, I was completely wiped. I haven't felt that tired in a while.  We met the next day (Sunday, December 5), at 12 pm, and it was then that we worked out all the remaining technical elements, from the lighting to video projections to props to audio recordings (which we did on my iPhone and transferred directly to my Mac, with a bit of Duriel's Sound Machine legerdemain).  Then we had a run-through, pinned down our various ensemble roles and cues and readied and steadied ourselves for the performance, at 7:30 pm!  Usually I am a like a shaken bottle of Dr. Pepper before any reading or performance, but I felt strangely calm. Part of it was knowing that I was in an ensemble, part of it was the amateur (in the best way) pitch of the production, and part of it was a real sense of confidence in what we had together devised. I'd had my battle with sleep (and a new zit) the night before. Now, I took a sips of water and was ready to break a leg.

Tim Yu
Tim during down time, as Duriel studies her clipboard
Tim Yu, blocking
Tim blocking his section

At 6 pm, John Beer, Ruth Margraff, Don Share, and Jennifer Karmin (both of whom added more definitions of Poets Theater, Jennifer even citing a conversation she had with Baraka himself about the anthology, his work, and more) participated in a roundtable discussion that Patrick and Valerie moderated. It brimmed with insight about the history of American Poets Theater, how the audience might think of it, and how it related to other forms of theater and performance, and, as all of uspoet-performers gladly noted, set (or reset) expectations low enough that we really could have a good time. At 7:30 pm, we were on before a packed audience that included some of Chicago's finest poets, and the hour's worth of theater went by so quickly it was over almost as soon as we began.  I even managed not to trip over anything, smash my glasses, which repeatedly almost fell off my face, or forget my cues, which included directing a red-gelled light during a scene involving Leila and Jacob, and moving a table out of and back into its little alcove. I was especially proud that I didn't drop and accidentally scatter my papers (for we each carried our scripts with us throughout) all over the stage, having done that at at least a few past poetry readings I've participated in. Bracketed by Lorenzo Thomas's two humorous, ironic and deeply conceptual and avant-garde playlets from the anthology, "Intolerance" and "The French Revolution," which Patrick intoned on a recording, all of our scenes flowed, with some serendipitous moments arising as a result. One involved sand that Daniel had included in one of the scenes he wrote. It left a small pile of sand and a cloud that was perfect when the one I drafted began, with a large image of a mosque projected on the back wall. Perhaps we had unconsciously thought of this, but to see it as it unfolded struck me as a perfect confluence.

My playlet, handwritten
My playlet section, in written draft form
Ben Fuchsen, who guided us through the technical elements
Ben and Duriel discussing cues

After the performance, we participated in a talk-back, one of the elements of Chicago-area events that I have found very useful, and the exchange was great. I was, I think, still on a bit of a high, though. We celebrated with remnants of the audience, and then it was all over.  Like my fellow participants, I really appreciated the vision and generosity of Patrick and Valerie, and of the other poets, and I am now inspired to write more works falling in this vein, though interestingly enough I had thought about something dramatic in form--but not fiction or poetry--a few years ago, when Tisa B. invited me to contribute a piece to a journal she was working on. I fumbled around with several things in my head, but the straightjacket of even experimental drama--and I have seen some language drama, to be sure--was such that I dithered, and ended up having nothing to send her.  With this experience in my head and pocket, I know such things are possible, and have already gotten going....

Performance video screenshot of the "Chinese Restaurant" section
Performance video screenshot of the "Hostage Girls" section
Performance video screenshot of the "Mosque" section
Please do pick up the anthology or urge a library near you to order it (or a bookstore to sell if it), and consider staging one of the plays--including those, like Jackson MacLow's or Lorenzo Thomas's, that seem to defy the very possibility of staging! And if you do, please let J's Theater know!

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Printers' Ball Poster (Poem: Serenade)

I was unable to attend yesterday's Printers' Ball, the annual free Chicago literary extravaganza summer event that the Poetry Foundation sponsors, but I did participate in a way:  artist Jenny Beorkrem, the founder of Ork Inc., a poster design company, and I collaborated on one of the posters that was displayed at the event.  As part of this project, I selected one of my oldest and most straightforward poems, "Serenade," which I thought would be design-worthy, and this is what Jenny came up with.

The first image is the mock-up of the poster. Jenny wrote that she wanted to play with abstraction (though not because of Seismosis, which she looked at, she told me, after completing her design), and, I imagine, to convey some of the poem's rhetorical, lyric and narrative movement.  The refrain literally--as opposed to just figuratively--pops out:


And here is the final (my name was inadvertently left off the bottom, but the poem is copyrighted, so...):


If any readers attended the Printers' Ball, please do let me know how it turned out!

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Good News from the Green Mtn. State + Poem: Taha Muhammad Ali

Vermont joins Iowa, which last week joined Connecticut and the original pathblazer, Massachusetts, in approving same-sex marriage.Vermont, which was the first state to legislate civil unions, is also the first state to enact same-sex marriage legislatively, making its Senate's and today's House override of Republican governor Jim Douglas's veto a major historical triumph. This past week, the New York Times reported on a New England-wide push to legalize same-sex marriage, which I imagine will probably be in place within the next 5 years. Outside of New England, although Proposition 8 canceled out (at least so far) California's Supreme Court ruling permitting same-sex marriage, it remains to be seen whether the current attempts to overturn Prop 8 and maintain the existing marriages will succeed (I hope it will), though in a few years, perhaps less than half a decade, I foresee the state legislature, the new governor, and most California voters supporting new legislation permitting it. Where next? Illinois? New York State? New Jersey? For now, what great news for the Iowans, Vermonters, and now, let's push for the other 45 states to come on board and for full equal, civil rights for everyone.

***

Taha Muhammad AliToday's poetry selection is by Taha Muhammad Ali, a Palestinian poet I'm late in coming to, though he has garnered the acclaim of a wide array of the global literati. (Including Michael Palmer.) Today on WNYC, I heard Adina Hoffmann on the hapless Leonard Lopate's show discussing her brand new biography of Ali, entitled My Happiness Bears No Relation to Happiness (Yale, 2009), which she claims is the first biography of a major Palestinian writer, a claim that strikes me as incredible (Can this be true?)

Hoffman spoke about what distinguishes Ali's work for her, citing his combination of extraordinariness and his very ordinary background and life. Self-taught and a late starter, and still half his time maintaining a shop, Ali has managed to produce a body of work that can stand with the best, not only among his peers in the Middle East, but also globally. I admit that I've only read a handful of his poems, as I'm not that familiar with Palestinian poetry and have tended to read the work of the better known Adonis (whose poetry is more lyrical and experimental) and Mahmoud Darwish (who was work more overtly political), among others, but I found the few Ali poems I've read compelling. Back in 2007 he was featured on the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, and here's a snippet of what he said to interviewer Jeffrey Brown:

TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI: I think there is two kinds of language, one for the news, for the politicians, and this is broad, and one for poetry. And this is beautiful and descriptive. And they are different, very different languages.

JEFFREY BROWN: Muhammad Ali insists that his poetry does speak to the conflict around him, but indirectly.

TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI: In my poetry, there is no Palestine, no Israel. But, in my poetry, suffering, sadness, longing, fear, and this is, together, make the results: Palestine and Israel. The art is to take from life something real, then to build it anew with your imagination.

I'm posting the poem whose resonant, antitautological ending provided the title for Hoffman's book. (I found a copy of it on the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center's website.) A trio comprising award-winner Peter Cole, Yaya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin translated it. It's tight.

WARNING

Lovers of hunting,
and beginners seeking your prey:
Don’t aim your rifles
at my happiness,
which isn’t worth
the price of the bullet
(you’d waste on it).
What seems to you
so nimble and fine,
like a fawn,
and flees
every which way,
like a partridge,
isn’t happiness.
Trust me:
my happiness bears
no relation to happiness.

12.IX.88

Copyright © 2000, from Never Mind: Twenty Poems and a Story, translated by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin, Ibis Editions, all rights reserved.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Blogging Good For You + Houlihan, Harvey & Poetry as/or Conceptual Art

Blogging may be good for your health, or so say researchers. I suppose so, but I would place it under the larger rubric of (semi-)creative forms of self-expression, which are, I've read in many places, psychologically good for you. Blogging is an expressive media that also happens to be public. (Are there still blogs that can only be read by the blogger?) I do know that in past years, before my university duties and responsibilities began to increase to the point that my ability to type even perfunctory entries here decreased to silence, I found even toss-off blog posts quite therapeutic and very enjoyable. In many cases, it's the only place I can, well, download the crap that's in my head (other than dropping it on C or friends whom I unfortunately see only infrequently these days.) Adrian Piper floating across the surface of my consciousness? (She really is, I kid you not.) Blog it. A translation I attempted? Blog it. My visit to the Santo Domingo Book Fair, which was both thrilling and terrifying, because I did not have Señor Montgomery, who can rattle off Spanish adroitly enough to make a real estate agent take pause, by my side, so I had to get by on my own, twice--and was able to manage okay? Blog it. Every so often I will be Googling something...not usual, let's put it that way, and J's Theater will turn up. Not a pat on the back, but just to say that I do like that some of what happens here, or used to happen here, will be available to the wider world. Certainly the idea of conversation, one of my great dreams in life--not the dream of an "audience," in Theresa Cha's terms, or a "common language," in Adrienne Rich's, though both are quite important but quite unlikely, at least in the standard terms both are often posed--but of a conversation, which is what I envisioned the literary world to be like, university life to be like, life to be like, though all have turned out to be really something quite different, at least has the possibility of occurring here. There are no hierarchies, everybody, including the creepy ad-bots who occasionally figure out how to sign in, even have their turn. I haven't had any hardcore ranters, like the pro-Bush zombie who posted several years ago, though, in a long time.

+++

product imageI would love to meet Joan Houlihan over coffee. (Does she really exist, or is there a committee that writes in her name?) I imagine we wouldn't agree on much, but she does have a way with her reviews. I read this one on Matthea Harvey's recent book, Modern Life (Graywolf, 2007), and it got me to thinking about something I've been rolling around in my head for a while, so here are a few simplistic and not very coherent thoughts which I hope someone will respond to.

Houlihan critiques Harvey's book as a work of "poetry," and finds it wanting. While she notes that it does possess, in formal, modal, technical, rhetorical, figurative and discursive terms, key aspects of what we would define as poetry--though it is falls into none of the traditional poetic genres, which is to say, it is neither lyrical, narrative, epic, comic, etc.--the individual poems and the book as whole lack what I read Houlihan suggests as sufficient tonal variation and a concomitant trajectory, a movement towards something, a telos that, even if not reached, might somehow endow the poems with that poetic purposiveness (even if, in Kantian fashion, without purpose), that critics and readers of poetry, as well as poets themselves, expect of poems. Even in the wake of Language Poetry's several generations of poetic practice, where the expectations of trad poetry were called into question on political, ideological, and theoretical grounds, and in so many cases, for good reasons, those expectations have not dissipated, at least not fully, and certainly not for a critic like Houlihan--or for a great many poetry critics, teachers, poets, and students.

Nevertheless, she says that Harvey's book, even if it fails her test as a work of poetry, could be read as a work of "conceptual art." And it is this suggestion that particularly fascinates me, because, I noted to Chris Stackhouse some time ago, apropos of Kenneth Goldsmith's work, that while it may fail (or fail to qualify, under certain critics' views, including even Goldsmith himself) as poetry--Houlihan cites Goldsmith as an exemplar of what she's designating as the ne plus ultra of this type of contemporary "poetry"--it struck me then as now that, instead of defending his work as poetry, he should simply call it conceptual art, or place it within that broader rubric, and be done with it. Cover all bases at once, and proudly stand beside, say, Vito Acconci or Lawrence Weiner. Are they not also poets, or rather, what happens if we think of them in this way? (I feel the same way about the poetic production of, say, Cecil Taylor and Sun Ra, but I'll leave that to Aldon Nielsen, Nahum Chandler, and Fred Moten, among others, to argue.) There are all sorts of issues and questions that arise, of course, if one decides to do this, and Goldsmith was blogging on the Poetry Foundation's website for a while, perhaps getting paid to do so or not, but ultimately, as Goldsmith described his work himself, it appeared to be more a conceptual project--which does not cancel it out as poetry, since all poetry, and all art, can at some level be classified as proceeding from a concept or concepts, even if a posteriori--than poetry, though under broad definitions (institutionally legimated ones, since Goldsmith writes and teaches at various prestigious institutions, I'm told) it certainly qualifies.

This got me thinking about my class discussion several weeks ago of Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's remarkable Dictée, and my appeal to the class to consider it not only as a work that crossed and eluded genres, as a text of American literature (as well as many others), but also as a conceptual project. A successful one that could also, I feel, be read as a work of poetry, or even fiction or (auto)biography, if such terms are necessary. Cha (1951-1982) was a practicing conceptual artist who came of age and studied with a number of major figures at Berkeley and in Paris in the early 1970s. Sculpture, film studies, conceptual art practice, and the range of structuralist and post-structuralist theoretical interventions all factor into her rich but brief artistic career, out of which Dictée appears. This particular work, I feel, arises out of conceptual play, out of concepts that Cha was puzzling over, trying to understand and resolve, playing with, throughout her career, and in this particular text, they cohere in a marvelous way such that the reader cannot but be struck by the way that conceptual exploration unfolds, blossoms, into narrative that isn't developmental, but associative, that, in post-modernist fashion, results in an artifact whose very form and content resist closure, and press endlessly towards process, towards ideas whose formulation, whose understanding, whose coherence requires the active participation of the reader/viewer. The concepts behind Dictée, however, are quite evident. Yet it works as both a conceptual art project, and as a work of, among other things, poetry.

This line of thought calls forth a wide array of works that, especially in the history of modernism and modernist literature (and thus post-modernism and post-modernist literature), both tidily fall into place as acclaimed (or ignored, say) works of poetry, but also could be reread as conceptual art projects. So for example, what if we consider Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons, a work that I first encountered as a student in Joel Porte's class back in 1983 or 1984, with utter bewilderment and fascination, a work that recall reading and rereading over and over until I was in a spell, which made me want to understand not only what the texts meant and the intent and motivations (those bad words in English studies) behind it, but its governing concept or concepts (which Harryette Mullen rethinks and transforms so powerfully in Trimmings), and which, when I taught it this year, had a similar effect (including terror) in (many of) my students? Isn't Tender Buttons, in addition to being a landmark work of poetic production, also a conceptual art project, and overtly so? And what happens if we read the work in this way? Are we really going against Stein's grain? Because since her conceptual framework entails a writing of the object that entails and requires engagement along the lines of Cubism--simultaneity, fragment, juxtaposition, rupture of field and ground, abstraction, etc.--and derives meaning from this conceptualization, and from the conceptualization of poetry as a modernist, anti-patriarchal practice, among others, in fact, really takes on meaning in light of this conceptual understanding, isn't it almost necessary to start from the standpoint of Tender Buttons as poetry and conceptual art, especially if none of the biographical and historical underpinnings of the work are immediately known to us, and if we do not have other theoretical prisms, such as feminist theory, queer theory, psychoanalytic theory, deconstruction, etc., all of which are important to understanding the work, at hand? William Pope.LThe concepts in Tender Buttons are immediately in play. Certainly one can use all the tools of poetry to read and grasp a great deal of this work, and yet in some key ways, they fail the reader. This is what Houlihan, I think, is arguing about Harvey's work. But when we also view Tender Buttons as a conceptual artwork--or perhaps if the limitations of conceptual art are too great, something along these lines--then we have yet another way of reading and understanding what might to some critics fall outside the boundaries of what is understood, at least in common parlance, to be poetry.

I take it that Houlihan does not find this additional category useful within the context of poetry criticism or the constitutive body of poetic practice today. It is literally something else. And should be recognized as such. But to me it seems to be a very useful way of thinking about certain works, certain poets and poetries, certain geneologies, that fall outside the official confines that the poetry hierarchies consecrate and canonize. Stein is in the canon; but what about a writer like Russell Atkins, whose entire poetic project, especially his daring work of the 1950s and 1960s, is deeply conceptual? Nielsen has written about Atkins, so he is not really outside the lines, but he, like Norman Pritchard, for example, can also be understood productively, I think, if the notion of the concept and the conceptual is brought to bear. I guess I should not understate the questions such a categorical shift or reassignment, or trans-status, represents and presses. What are they? What happens when one thinks in terms of both/and as opposed to either/or, especially with regard to distinct genres and art forms? How does it help the artist? Or does it? Does she end up between the cracks, in the interstices, in an overlooked, if productive, third space. Who is empowered to read, to criticize, to legitimate?

One issue that Houlihan does not broach per se is that in some contemporary poetic works, the "concept" or conceptualizations are so effective hidden, interwoven, buried, nested, the source texts so carefully veiled or hooded, the various intertexts so subtly put into play, that unlike most art world conceptual art--think of the artists I mention above, or, say, Daniel Buren, for example, or William Pope.L (above right, U. Michigan School of Art and Design), or Marina Abramovic, or even writers whose works (or at least some of them) could be reclassified as also being overtly conceptual, such as Wilson Harris, Diamela Eltit, John Ashbery, Werewere Liking, Alexander Kluge--the concept or concepts in play are hard to grasp, except without considerable effort. Houlihan, it appears, may be interested in that effort, but it appears that she wished Harvey had made taken more of a step towards some of the conventions of "poetry" that might afford critics and readers like her greater means of understanding, exploring, enjoying the work. Or perhaps the concept or concepts could have been more overtly foregrounded. What do you think?

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Poem: Abdel-ilah Salhi

I'm procrastinating about writing/finishing a talk I have to deliver later this week, so in my tours through the web, I came across this poem, by the Moroccan poet Abdel-ilah Salhi (1968-), amid Poetry International's online mini-anthology of Moroccan poetry, translated by Norddine Zouitni. The translator says this about Saleh:

Since 1987, Salhi has been published widely in several magazines. Two collections of his poems, one in French and the other in Arabic will be published shortly.

Although the poetry of Abdel-ilah Salhi has varied extensively over the past years, it has kept some of its main characteristics, such as the celebration of everyday experience, the tone of humor which turns desperate situations into brilliant poetic moments, and the narrative tendency which dominates most of his poems. Indeed, Salhi is a brilliant storyteller whose friendship and hospitality are highly recommended. He is considered by many as the mouthpiece of the Moroccan “new poetry” in France, and Europe as a whole.

Salhi earns his living as a journalist and radio correspondent in France.

Here's one that stood out. (You can go to this page, where the long lines aren't cut off.)

***
THANKS GILLES DELEUZE

They were quoting you
Murmuring your name like a prophet coming from afar
From whose mouth a unique music issues

My own French was not good enough even to purchase
bread decently
But the ring of your name
In the sidewise discussions had a special magic
Which for long put my extreme ignorance to shame

Migration is a sacred right, you said once
Nobody said that before you, and no one dared say it after
In this country which we married for love
I, Mohamed, Abdelkader, and Fatima
And other Arabs whose dusty names this poem is too narrow
to contain.
Until now I haven’t met anyone who could explain the mysteries
of your obscure expression
Laws say the opposite from one government to the other
And the caretaker is French of Portuguese origin
Yet he looks down on philosophers

I was in the subway stealing glances at a newspaper
someone was reading
When I saw your name printed in bold, and the headline
your death
It seems you threw yourself from the window
But why all those who love you to blindness
Love life more than anything else
I felt ashamed of my ignorance once again
And hated myself in plain Arabic
Despite the grumblings of the coloured owner of the newspaper

Migration is a sacred right
An expression which is enough it was once said
For me every morning to pursue my own sacred right
Seeking your protection O Gilles Deleuze

© Translation: 2004, Norddine Zouitni


The Arabic:

The image “http://www.poetryinternationalweb.org/cwolkmigratefiles/morocco.poetryinternational.org/poem_Salhi-4a.gif” cannot be displayed, because it contains errors.
http://www.poetryinternationalweb.org/cwolkmigratefiles/morocco.poetryinternational.org/poem_Salhi-4b.gif

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Poem: Zahra Yusri

A site I check out from time to time is Banipal, a British-based journal that features literature from across the Arab world in English translation. A few issues ago (Banipal 25, Spring 2006, the journal focused on New Writing from Egypt, and one of the poets featured was Zahra Yusri (1974-, at right). According to the journal bio, the Cairo native studied Arabic literature and language and has published four collections of poetry since 1997, the most recent being Hayat Iftiradhiya (Virtual life), published by Dar Sharqiyat of Cairo. Here is Yusri's poem from the issue, "It's Night." Its movement, imagery, and social commentary, on contemporary Egyptian society (the wars that are being fought but not being fought, etc.) drew me right in.

IT'S NIGHT

On one foot
like a humiliated beggar I limp
past all the swinging doors
and the flags that are taken down from their masts . . .
The sidewalk was never my friend
but it embraced me those times
when the crying was tough and bitter

In my country
soldiers go to a war
where they never fight
In every coffeehouse or square
under the feet of the sick, the sad and insane
you can glimpse the trace of a rose
thrown into the arms of nurses
in lonely rooms inhabited by wailing,
a rose drawn in blood.

I cannot believe the car has yet to stop
that I fell out of it
like a scream
I know the lift attendant
never jumps off the fences
and that rocks keep wounding me
even though I’ve roamed for too long.

On one foot
death will come
and raise its head
Facing it, I will embrace this man strongly
and strangle all the poems in his hands
I will crush my bones under his hot breaths
My lungs are becoming two tubes
my feet like a battlefield
my heart a noose.
Am I really dead?
Only a while ago
I was smelling that homeland.

* * *


In those empty streets
even dogs are afraid to cross
You will cross
empty-handed
with a shadow that doesn’t accompany you
and a backbreaking love
You will talk about your parents
the shock of sudden death
and the added light
which never lessens loneliness
When my eyes well up
and my pants are wet
as I stand before you
you will take a newspaper from your chest
and a mirror from your eyes
so that I may look into them
and know
that now I can go out.

* * *

Into one of those swamps
left by an old flood
the kind that drowns entire villages
I will jump like a bird
with broken wings –
a bird’s looking for a merciful killing

The bird which loved the behinds of every hen
can no longer fly
or spit
as is his wont every time he mounts
his eyes can neither close in sleep
nor let a tear fall
But all the birds agree
he does shut them every now and then
although no one knows for sure
if he does it out of pleasure or out of pain
for a sad bird like him
can only dream
of a long darkness

* * *

Every time I think of my own death
someone else dies
and the poem keeps
writing itself

* * *

I embrace no one
my steps pass without me
the hand of the house burns me
The one who sleeps in my history
never wakes
his steps crush me at night
In the morning
I wake up scared, on his chest
He tells me
what I was not

He smokes his cigarette
like a returnee from war
He knows the precise number of its victims
and I, between stolen looks
and the sounds of his breathing,
know there was a lost letter from him.

Translated by Sinan Antoon
from the author’s collection
Warda lil-Ayam al-Akhira (A Rose for the Last Days), Merit, 2003


Copyright © Zahra Yusri, Sinan Antoon, 2003, 2008, All rights reserved.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Poem: Saadi Youssef

YoussefIt feels like it's been eons since I last blogged, and an even longer interval since I've posted a poem, so here's one by a potential candidate for this year's Nobel Prize, the exiled Iraqi poet Saadi Youssef (Sa'di Yûsuf, 1934-, photo © Graywolf), translated by Libyan-American poet Khaled Mattawa. Mattawa translated and published a selection of Youssef's poems in 2002 called Without an Alphabet, Without a Face: Selected Poems (Graywolf), and though I know no Arabic, my impression of the collection is that simple lyricism of Youssef's poetry has not been lost.

My classes begin next week, all three of them in fiction writing, so I want to keep some lyric poetry in my ears (and eyes). (I've borrowed the poem below from the excellent resource site Words Without Borders.)


Silence

Winds that do not blow in the evening,
and winds that do not blow at dawn
have burdened me with a book of boughs.
I see my cry in the silence.

Night descends, blue, between staircases and stars. I see
blue trees, abandoned streets, and a country
of sand. I had a home and lost it. I had a home
and left it. How close the stars are!
They cling to my steps. O blue trees, blue
woods, night! we have ended up in a world
collapsing or beginning or dying.

Trees for severed hands. Trees for the eyes
that were gouged. Trees for the hearts turned to stone.
In the city, in the cemetery, trees sway in their blueness.
The severed hands do not wave, the gouged eyes
do not waver, the hearts turned to stone
do not move. Will they come,
the strange winds? The gardens are inhabited by silence.
The minarets have the color of old waters, people have the color
of old horses. And the Tartar books are branded
with the stamp of censorship.
Which country have you come to now? Here, you will open
a door to a torture chamber. And one day in a garden
you will see your arms, your eyes, or your speeding heart.
But you are strong today, say your word. Say it,
for after tomorrow you will begin to die.

The winds that do not blow in the evening,
the winds that do not blow at dawn.

I am beautified with the book of boughs;
and I see my cry in others' eyes.

November 3, 1974

Copyright © 2002, 2007, Saadi Youssef, translated by Khaled Mattawa.