POEMS
Translated by Hussein Nassir Jabr al-Ibadi
(1)
Fit to Me
By
Wahab Sherrif
(A)
Fit to me to laugh at the early hours
To the morning wet by children
Whispering to one another.
That one is laughing like vacancy between teeth,
Like our cooked naivety, that is laughing,
This….
As if
The municipality felt sympathy for the sparrows of the village,
The lamp stared into the house yard.
(B) The Naughtiness of the Excited Boys
That one is laughing of horrible loses circling him,
Another of great tragedy.
Fit to me to feel angry among the lines of tears
With all oppression of snobs.
Haven't my eyelashes felt injustice?
Fit to me to consume my sadness's rivers one by one,
So that the night would be full of satisfied pleasing cats.
Fit to me to hunt my temptations from one country to another,
For my shirt to be just a part of me,
To be myself in the unknown,
To erect a spike for the lovers, stricken by white hair.
Fit to me to read in my sadness book
what to come of pain and various experiences.
Fit to me to be understood by someone
Who claps when I cut myself up,
Fit to me to throw my tires into the river,
For I know who would suck the sorrow of my age
And never lie down but at his sweetest follies.
(2)
By
Wahab Sherrif
(A)
Fit to me to laugh at the early hours
To the morning wet by children
Whispering to one another.
That one is laughing like vacancy between teeth,
Like our cooked naivety, that is laughing,
This….
As if
The municipality felt sympathy for the sparrows of the village,
The lamp stared into the house yard.
(B) The Naughtiness of the Excited Boys
That one is laughing of horrible loses circling him,
Another of great tragedy.
Fit to me to feel angry among the lines of tears
With all oppression of snobs.
Haven't my eyelashes felt injustice?
Fit to me to consume my sadness's rivers one by one,
So that the night would be full of satisfied pleasing cats.
Fit to me to hunt my temptations from one country to another,
For my shirt to be just a part of me,
To be myself in the unknown,
To erect a spike for the lovers, stricken by white hair.
Fit to me to read in my sadness book
what to come of pain and various experiences.
Fit to me to be understood by someone
Who claps when I cut myself up,
Fit to me to throw my tires into the river,
For I know who would suck the sorrow of my age
And never lie down but at his sweetest follies.
(2)
Encroaches
By Qassin al-Shimmary
(A) Peace
Peace, a word
That spreads itself
Over the walls,
Wanders in
Our streets like a dervish,
Struts over the lips
Of fog;
The letters are lame and exhausted
Like the dust of light.
Peace for everything
Even the air
And the sun
Though it might long sleep;
But…
Sipping embers, we unsafely sleep
On our underwear.
By Qassin al-Shimmary
(A) Peace
Peace, a word
That spreads itself
Over the walls,
Wanders in
Our streets like a dervish,
Struts over the lips
Of fog;
The letters are lame and exhausted
Like the dust of light.
Peace for everything
Even the air
And the sun
Though it might long sleep;
But…
Sipping embers, we unsafely sleep
On our underwear.
(B) Recession
Beyond the years we extend,
Carrying our escape
As if a monk's lantern,
So, it gets darker.
Our fingers will dare
To pierce the throne of water.
Here,
Dreams are still postponed
Flirting over the banks
Of the wound.
We cut our fingers
So as not to pierce anything else.
(C) The Fourth D
We deprecate,
Denounce,
Denunciate…,
Ds that satiated
The mouth of fog
Like dry waves.
Empty stomachs
Are never satded
But by the fourth D.
(3)
Light Tree
By
Hammoudi al-Salaami
All the time
The odor of speech is ink,
A key to every route
Towards a soft-intention heart;
And the daughter of the sound way
For building the lovers' fence
Shaded by beautiful coo.
Some old debate is there
Favored by inducers' hearts
And wolves' hands.
By
Hammoudi al-Salaami
All the time
The odor of speech is ink,
A key to every route
Towards a soft-intention heart;
And the daughter of the sound way
For building the lovers' fence
Shaded by beautiful coo.
Some old debate is there
Favored by inducers' hearts
And wolves' hands.
(4) The Painting
By
Ali al-Uboudi
Confused was he,
Wondering where to go,
His thoughts were turbulent:
Would something exceptional save him?
An oil painting in his hand,
Busy all night drawing itــ
ـــFurther nights have already passed,
Who would buy?
Nobody.
Tired of walking at largeـــ
ــ People are bewildered to earn their living.
He arrived home feeling cold,
Entered his room contemplating long,
Broke the painting to make fuel
So that he would be warm.
(5)
Three Scenes
By
Hussein Nassir Jabr al-Ibadi
(A) Under the Rain
In winter, we shall meet
At the Railway station,
In Baghdad.
Two strange sparrows,
Wet and shivering
Under the rain,
Migrated from the farthest south
At the corner of the Gulf.
Nestless, we've lost our home;
We've lost all the addresses
Of our friends.
Remained as such alone,
Known to no one but the rain.
(B) The Sun
Lest it should be celled,
The sun balled its face.
So, it became prisoner
Within its light.
But, when released,
Turned into bouncing positrons,
Burning its cores,
Devouring its light buds.
When will you be ,O , Sun!
As seen in the dreams
Of those who own no overcoats?
(C) Slow to Depart
Beyond my eyes, I crushed mirrors.
Yesterday was just an escaping moment,
Today is more severe than the scars
Decorating my hiding skin.
Pale was the surplus of my innards.
Glory to the successive moments
Parted from the past but by me;
We're all passing away,
Though slow to depart.
By
Hussein Nassir Jabr al-Ibadi
(A) Under the Rain
In winter, we shall meet
At the Railway station,
In Baghdad.
Two strange sparrows,
Wet and shivering
Under the rain,
Migrated from the farthest south
At the corner of the Gulf.
Nestless, we've lost our home;
We've lost all the addresses
Of our friends.
Remained as such alone,
Known to no one but the rain.
(B) The Sun
Lest it should be celled,
The sun balled its face.
So, it became prisoner
Within its light.
But, when released,
Turned into bouncing positrons,
Burning its cores,
Devouring its light buds.
When will you be ,O , Sun!
As seen in the dreams
Of those who own no overcoats?
(C) Slow to Depart
Beyond my eyes, I crushed mirrors.
Yesterday was just an escaping moment,
Today is more severe than the scars
Decorating my hiding skin.
Pale was the surplus of my innards.
Glory to the successive moments
Parted from the past but by me;
We're all passing away,
Though slow to depart.
(6)
Two Poems
By
Kadhim Nassir a-Ibadi
Moaning
Distances…
Were stricken by sins.
Stations…
For comers, are oasis
In which horizon time had vanished
And space had missed itself.
Dream
As children, we dreamt of the Eid's dress ــ
In which pocket a sum of coins ــ of the swing
And of the Girls' Hair*. (*sweet)
When youths, we dreamt that
We should the girls induce
So that would Layla long for a kiss,
Bushra, eager for a verse of love,
Thiqra, Lubna and so many there.
Dreams are open to every one.
Here again we are back
To indulge in wishes
And in dreaming that
We've found our way to live
The life we'd dreamt of
And that we would feed
On lands that are our own
Given not as a favour of which
Rulers, oppressors and tyrants
Would always reminisce,
And keep on reminding us:
(We've always been bare-footed,
Easily satisfied with crumbs of bread.)
Years have gone by,
We would only hope.
Nothing but wishes ــ
For our stomachs, eyes, and children:
(That good is on the way.)
Now, we've come of age.
We can only see
The tyrants' bellies are getting fatter,
Their throne is larger but
Children's dreams, adult dreams, old- age dreams
Have but been shattered.
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