Iraqi poems

The Jewel by Dunya Mikhail
Translated by Salaam Yousif and Liz Winslow

It no longer overlooks the river
No longer is in the city
No longer on the map
The bridge that was
The bridge that we used to cross every day
The bridge
The war tossed it into the river
Just as that lady aboard the Titanic
Tossed her blue diamond

The Prisoner by Dunya Mikhail
Translated by Salaam Yousif and Liz Winslow

She doesn't understand
what it means to be "guilty"
She waits at the prison's door
until she sees him
to tell him "Take care"
as she used to remind him
when he was going to school
when he was going to work
when he was coming on vacation
She doesn't understand
what they are uttering now
those who are behind the bar
with their uniform
as they decided that
he should be put there
with strangers of gloomy days
It never came to her mind
when she was saying lullabies
upon his bed
during those faraway nights
that he would be put
in this cold place
without moons or windows
She doesn't understand
The mother of the prisoner doesn't understand
why should she leave him
just because "the visit has finished"!

America by Dunya Mikhail
Translated by Liz Winslow

please don't ask me, America
I don't remember
on which street
with whom
or under which star
Don't ask me
I don't remember
the colours of the people
or their signatures
I don't remember if they had
our faces
and our dreams
if they were singing
or not
writing from the left or right
or not writing at all
sleeping in houses
on sidewalks
or in airports
making love or not making love
Please don't ask me, America
I don't remember their names
or their birthplaces
People are grass
They are born everywhere, America
Don't ask me . . .
I don't remember
what time it was
or what kind of weather
language
or flag
Don't ask me . . .
I don't remember
how long they walked under the sun
or how many died
I don't remember
the shapes of the boats
or the number of ports
. . . how many suitcases they carried
or left behind
if they came complaining
or without complaint
Stop your questioning, America
and offer your hand
to the tired
on the other shore
Offer it without questions
or waiting lists
What good is it to gain the whole world
if you lose the Soul, America?
Who said that the sky
would lose all of its stars
if night passed without answers?
America, leave your questionnaires to the river
and leave me to my lover
It has been a long time
we are two distant, rippling shores
and the river wriggles between us
"like a well-cooked fish"
It has been a long time, America
(longer than the stories of my grandmother in the evening)
and we are waiting for the signal
to throw our shell in the river
We know that the river is full
of shells; this last one
wouldn't matter
yet it matters to the shell
Why do you ask all these questions?
You want our fingerprints
in all languages
and I have become old
older than my father
He used to tell me in the evenings
when no trains ran:
One day, we will go to America,
One day, we will go
and sing a song
translated or not translated
at the Statue of Liberty
And now, America, now
I came to you, without my father
The dead ripen faster
than the Indian figs
but they never grow older, America
They come in shifts of shadow and light
in our dreams
and as shooting stars
or curve in rainbows
over the houses
we left
behind
They sometimes get angry
if we keep them waiting a while . . .
What time is it now?
I am afraid I will receive
your registered mail, America
in this hour
which has no usefulness
so I would toy with the freedom
like a domesticated cat
I wouldn't know what else
to do with it
in this hour
which has no usefulness . . .
and my sweetheart
there, on the opposite shore
of the river
carries a flower for me
And I - as you know -
dislike faded flowers
I do like my sweetheart's handwriting
shining each day in the mail
I salvage it from among ad fliers
and special offers
Buy one Get One Free
and an urgent promotional announcement:
You will win a million dollars
if you subscribe to this magazine!
bills to be paid
in monthly instalments
I like my sweetheart's handwriting
though it gets shakier every day
We have a single picture
just one picture, America
I want it
I want that moment
forever out of reach
in the picture which I know
from every angle:
the circular moment of sky
Imagine, America:
if one of us drops out of the picture
and leaves the album full
of loneliness
or if life becomes
a camera
without film
Imagine, America!
Without a frame
the night will take us
tomorrow
darling
tomorrow
the night
will take us
without a frame
we will shake the museums
forever from their sleep
fix our broken clocks
so we'll tick in the public squares
whenever the train
passes us by
tomorrow
darling
tomorrow
we will bloom:
two leaves of a tree
we will try not to be
graceful in the greenness
and in time
we will tumble down like dancers
taken by the wind
to the places whose names
we'll have forgotten
we will be glad for the sake of the turtles
because they persist along their way
Tomorrow
darling
tomorrow
I'll look at your eyes
to see in your new wrinkles
the lines of our future dreams
As you will braid my gray hair
under rain
or sun
or moon
every hair will know
that nothing happens
twice
every kiss a country
with a history
a geography
and a language
with joy and sadness
with war
and ruins
and holidays
and ticking clocks . . .
And when the pain in your neck returns, darling
You will not have time to complain
and won't be concerned
if it remains inside us
coy as snow
that won't melt
Tomorrow, darling
tomorrow
from the wooden box will come
the jingling sound of
two rings:
they have been shining for a long time
on two trembling hands,
entangled
by the absence.
Tomorrow
the whiteness will expose
all its colours
as we welcome back what was lost
or concealed
in the whiteness
How should I know, America
which of the colours
was the most joyful
tumultuous
alienated
or assimilated
of them all?
How would I know, America?

Dunya Mikhail was born in Baghdad in 1964. She now teaches Arabic in Detroit.

****

In a magic land by Fadhil al-Azzawi
Translated by Saadi A Simawe

We have tales full of tragic knights,
who descend upon burning horses
from distant skies
like meteors at night.
We have many sleeping dinosaurs, which we have tied to rocks
in green meadows full of singing birds.

Then the world was just born,
the gods were our neighbours,
and we believed in wonders.

One day, we went to help them in their work,
but they unleashed all the bloody beasts upon us,
slipped away down the valley
and headed towards another magic land.

What traitors!

The Last Iraq by Fadhil al-Azzawi
Translated by Salaam Yousif

Every night I place this creature on my table
And pull its ears,
Till tears of joy come to its eyes.
Another cold winter, penetrated by airplanes
And soldiers sitting on the edge of a hillock,
Waiting for history
To rise up from the darkness of the marshes
With a gun in its hand,
To shoot angels
Training for the revolution.
Every night I put my hand on this country,
It slips away from my fingers,
Like a soldier running from the front.

[1987]

Fadhi al-Azzawi was born in Iraq's northern city of Kirkuk. He was imprisoned in Baghdad. He lives now in Germany.

****

War Diaries by Sami Mahdi
Translated by Ferial J Ghazoul

I. (Feb 14, 1991)
From gazelles' eyes the pupils dropped
When the bridge was bombed
Lovers' rings shattered
And mothers were bewildered

II. (Feb. 16, 1991)
With fire we perform our ablutions every morning
Collecting our remnants
And the debris of our houses
We purge our souls with the blood of our wounds

III. (Feb 24, 1991)
Plenty we have received
What shall we offer you, O land of patient destitutes?
Plenty we have receieved
So receive us
And pave with us the paths of wayfarers

Sami Mahdi was born in 1940 and lives in Baghdad, where he works as editor-in-chief of the official Iraqi daily al-Thwara.

****

Fratricide by Abdula Peshew
Translated by Muhamad Tawfiq Ali

In this damned country, what haven't you apportioned like your own farms?
What used to make us proud was the memory of our martyrs you
have turned into bridges for yourselves.
I dare not carry a pen, I dare not wear a shirt
as you have apportioned even the colours, damn you!*
Is it student or pupil? Is it woman or lady?**
You have divided even the words in the dictionary, damn you!

You divided even the twin shores of the greats Khani and Haji Qadir.***
You divided even the natural elements of earth, water and fire.
What have you done? Whom have you spared?
You have apportioned even prostitutes, thieves and robbers.

You have divided one homeland into two.
Roaming town by town, village by village,
You have divided the hearth of each home into two.

Other people have one common history, we have two.
Other people are lumbered with one leadership, we are lumbered with two.

Is there anybody who has not heard of Ba'th?
Is there anybody who does not know Ba'th?
Until recently, he was a ruthless thug, a bloodthirsty murderer.
Now, thanks to you, he is back with a vengeance,
Incognito like a secret agent, invisible like death.
He has turned into TNT explosive.
He is disguised among the wads of our Dinar notes.
He has infiltrated our dining table,
Clinging to us by the feet, he follows us everywhere.

In the headlines of your newspapers, I see Ba'th.
In the cabinet posts of your leaders, I see Ba'th.
In the 50/50 power sharing, I see Ba'th.
In the killing of prisoners and extractions of confessions, I see Ba'th.
In the ringing of the bell and the knock on the door at midnight, I see Ba'th.

Thanks to you, one of my eyes is dancing with joy
because the other eye is unsightly.
Thanks to you, one of my arteries is hysterical with laughter
at the severance of its fraternal artery.

In my occupied hometown, I see the turban on the head of the partisans
which for years looked like a crown.
Now, thanks to you, it almost resembles the helmet of a soldier.

Two dead bodies lie there, brothers they were.
They shared the same dream, but they differed in colour.
The distance between them is bridged by
the burning sighs of a mother and father.
As for their leaders, they are enjoying themselves
in merriment and mirth.
The gap between them is bridged by
the enemy's dining tables with glasses of wine.

Abdula Peshew is a contemporary of the first generation of the followers of the modernist Kurdish poet, Goran.

Notes
* Yellow and green are the colour codes of the KDP and PUK, respectively.
** Both KDP and PUK have their own student and women's organisations with differing titles.
*** Ahmedi Khani (1651-1706) and Haji Qadiri Koyi (1817-1897) - poets and early apostles of Kurdish nationalism, in the northern Kurmanji and southern Kurmanji (Sorani) dialects, respectively.

· Poems taken from Iraqi Poetry Today (Modern Poetry in Translation no 19), edited by Saadi Simawe (Central Books, £9.95). To order a copy from Amazon see above, or email orders@centralbooks.com or call 0845 458 9911.

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