Poem
Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi
Theatre
1All these wars
make the world unhomely
make homes rust apart
make you fall asleep, riddled with calamities
All this love
yet loneliness still cuts you to the bone
All this death
just so we can meet –
nothing more?
2
Write
to set the world ablaze
so poetry quickens in your hands
and inflames you with desire
Write, and wipe the slate
Infected by writing
you sweat in agony
from a bedsit
to the street and out into the wild
Write
in full knowledge
of everything that’s in your hands
both quill and string at your disposal
Write
certain of what electrifies the body
sure of how to rig the scene
3
This little world beneath you
made of boredom, balsawood and string
jerks between your fingers in a dream
Spirited away
you drink it in like scent
Are you scared of scorpions? Are you scared of blood?
Take refuge in the wings
But beware the spotlights, beware of being fingered
This little world beneath you
is here to give you all the answers
Is it worth the precious ink that wrote it –
the cost of these fresh tears?
4
Light stings the page of your face
And it strikes her
as she dusts the faded wardrobe near the bed
like a dagger, suddenly
it rends the dark
blazing with the whole world’s brilliance,
leaves her flushed,
spoored, wet
and flat out in astonishment
5
We latch on to bewilderment, to ink, and to departure
Living in our dreams, unfurling handkerchiefs,
we bring news to the bars of mirrors and nausea,
smoke-rings, gossip, tales
From the oneness of white we plumb our ink,
from the oneness of all directions
Tears merge
Surprise arrives
All around you tombstones rise
6
Waiting in front of a door that’s behind you,
I watch it open with a rabab
so you can go back to the past with your spotless future,
refilling your boats with light after they’d rotted through ashore,
restocking the wares of your mighty stories
like a bird refurbishing its nest
Those who went before you
live in a stupor,
their lanterns barging through your door
The flush of dawn
blackened
by the taint of dusk
Your face is familiar,
but what about the face in front of you
faced towards the door behind you?
. . . . . . . as you go back to the past with your blameless future
7
The price of war: perpetual loyalty;
eschewing tomfoolery;
feigning naivety
The price of love: ceaseless quarrels
with the fathers of procedures
and the mothers of proficiency
The price of death: eternal life
in the grave of love and the theatre of war
Life at the ends of obedience
Life at the end of the world
© Translation: 2008, Sarah Maguire and Sabry Hafez
From: Poems
Publisher: Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London, 2008
From: Poems
Publisher: Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London, 2008
THEATER
1Al deze oorlogen
om de wereld onherbergzaam te maken
een huis te laten roesten
om jou
gekweld door rampen
te laten slapen
al deze liefde
opdat botten met niemand spreken
al deze dood
om elkaar te ontmoeten
niet anders?!
2
Schrijf
laat de wereld in je werken
vlak voor je
laat de lichaamsgeest met wellust bezig zijn
in jou is wat wist en wordt gewist
inktvraat
zweet van werken en hijgen
van huis en zaal
voor straat en open ruimte
schrijf
met de wil van de kenner
met alle gouden draden
die voor je liggen
kundig als een ziener. Wat het lichaam beweegt
is nuttig voor het heelal
3
Deze kleine wereld vóór je
is gemaakt van stro, garen en verveling
dat door de vingers glijdt als dromen
weggeblazen door de geest
en jij snuift het op – als odeur
Ben je bang voor ongedierte – schuil je voor het licht
bang voor bloed – of ben je de onschuld van de meester beu
beducht voor vingers, lichtzinnigheid, kaarsen?!
De wereld ligt voor je open
je hoeft niet te vragen
kost de inkt waarmee je schrijft evenveel
als niet gedroogde tranen?!
4
Gebogen – tijd van licht – zij voelt hem prikken in de wang
zij voelt hem
terwijl ze de vergeelde kast afneemt
als een dolk
dringt hij het duister in
vaart in de schoonheid van de wereld
een gulzige omhelzing, een droeve kennismaking met vocht
laat het gezicht verbaasd achter
laat haar verstomd slapen
5
Wit is één
alle richtingen zijn dezelfde
we houden ons vast aan onzekerheid, inkt en dood
We leven in dromen, vouwen zakdoeken open
en vermaken kroegen met spiegels, kots
kringetjes rook en verhalen
van alle wit maken we inkt
tranen vloeien ineen
verwondering welt
aan alle kanten rijzen graven!
6
Ik zie dat je wacht tot een deur achter je
met een rebab wordt geopend
om met een onbezoedeld heden naar het verleden te gaan
terwijl jij van de ankers geslagen boten verlicht
en weidse einders vasthoudt
zoals iemand dichtbij
de toestand in een vlucht onderzoekt
Zij die je voorgingen, hadden het hoofd
gehuld in verstrooidheid
hun lantarens passeerden je deur
toen het blad van de dag donker werd
bij zonsondergang
Jouw gezicht was bekend
en de deur achter je
was vóór je
Hoe?!
… jij gaat met een onbezoedeld heden naar het verleden!
Dit is de prijs van de oorlog: jouw voortdurend vertrouwen
in de doeltreffendheid van zotternij
de techniek van de onschuld
dat is de prijs van de liefde; jouw eeuwige opstand tegen het vaderschap van de techniek
het moederschap van de doeltreffendheid
de prijs van de dood is dat je blijft leven
in het graf van de liefde, het slagveld
dat je steeds in de kuil van gehoorzaamheid blijft
waar de wereld rust!
© Vertaling: 2010, Kees Nijland en Asad Jaber
noot rebab: strijkinstrument dat al in de achtste eeuw in Marokko, het Midden Oosten, delen van Europa en het Verre Oosten was doorgedrongen. De rebab bestaat meestal uit een rond klankkast afgedekt met schapenvel en een lange hals. Het instrument wordt net als een cello verticaal gespeeld met een gebogen strijkstok.
© 2008, Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi
From: Poems
Publisher: Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London
From: Poems
Publisher: Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London
Poems
Poems of Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi
Close
Theatre
1All these wars
make the world unhomely
make homes rust apart
make you fall asleep, riddled with calamities
All this love
yet loneliness still cuts you to the bone
All this death
just so we can meet –
nothing more?
2
Write
to set the world ablaze
so poetry quickens in your hands
and inflames you with desire
Write, and wipe the slate
Infected by writing
you sweat in agony
from a bedsit
to the street and out into the wild
Write
in full knowledge
of everything that’s in your hands
both quill and string at your disposal
Write
certain of what electrifies the body
sure of how to rig the scene
3
This little world beneath you
made of boredom, balsawood and string
jerks between your fingers in a dream
Spirited away
you drink it in like scent
Are you scared of scorpions? Are you scared of blood?
Take refuge in the wings
But beware the spotlights, beware of being fingered
This little world beneath you
is here to give you all the answers
Is it worth the precious ink that wrote it –
the cost of these fresh tears?
4
Light stings the page of your face
And it strikes her
as she dusts the faded wardrobe near the bed
like a dagger, suddenly
it rends the dark
blazing with the whole world’s brilliance,
leaves her flushed,
spoored, wet
and flat out in astonishment
5
We latch on to bewilderment, to ink, and to departure
Living in our dreams, unfurling handkerchiefs,
we bring news to the bars of mirrors and nausea,
smoke-rings, gossip, tales
From the oneness of white we plumb our ink,
from the oneness of all directions
Tears merge
Surprise arrives
All around you tombstones rise
6
Waiting in front of a door that’s behind you,
I watch it open with a rabab
so you can go back to the past with your spotless future,
refilling your boats with light after they’d rotted through ashore,
restocking the wares of your mighty stories
like a bird refurbishing its nest
Those who went before you
live in a stupor,
their lanterns barging through your door
The flush of dawn
blackened
by the taint of dusk
Your face is familiar,
but what about the face in front of you
faced towards the door behind you?
. . . . . . . as you go back to the past with your blameless future
7
The price of war: perpetual loyalty;
eschewing tomfoolery;
feigning naivety
The price of love: ceaseless quarrels
with the fathers of procedures
and the mothers of proficiency
The price of death: eternal life
in the grave of love and the theatre of war
Life at the ends of obedience
Life at the end of the world
© 2008, Sarah Maguire and Sabry Hafez
From: Poems
Publisher: 2008, Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London
From: Poems
Publisher: 2008, Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London
Theatre
1All these wars
make the world unhomely
make homes rust apart
make you fall asleep, riddled with calamities
All this love
yet loneliness still cuts you to the bone
All this death
just so we can meet –
nothing more?
2
Write
to set the world ablaze
so poetry quickens in your hands
and inflames you with desire
Write, and wipe the slate
Infected by writing
you sweat in agony
from a bedsit
to the street and out into the wild
Write
in full knowledge
of everything that’s in your hands
both quill and string at your disposal
Write
certain of what electrifies the body
sure of how to rig the scene
3
This little world beneath you
made of boredom, balsawood and string
jerks between your fingers in a dream
Spirited away
you drink it in like scent
Are you scared of scorpions? Are you scared of blood?
Take refuge in the wings
But beware the spotlights, beware of being fingered
This little world beneath you
is here to give you all the answers
Is it worth the precious ink that wrote it –
the cost of these fresh tears?
4
Light stings the page of your face
And it strikes her
as she dusts the faded wardrobe near the bed
like a dagger, suddenly
it rends the dark
blazing with the whole world’s brilliance,
leaves her flushed,
spoored, wet
and flat out in astonishment
5
We latch on to bewilderment, to ink, and to departure
Living in our dreams, unfurling handkerchiefs,
we bring news to the bars of mirrors and nausea,
smoke-rings, gossip, tales
From the oneness of white we plumb our ink,
from the oneness of all directions
Tears merge
Surprise arrives
All around you tombstones rise
6
Waiting in front of a door that’s behind you,
I watch it open with a rabab
so you can go back to the past with your spotless future,
refilling your boats with light after they’d rotted through ashore,
restocking the wares of your mighty stories
like a bird refurbishing its nest
Those who went before you
live in a stupor,
their lanterns barging through your door
The flush of dawn
blackened
by the taint of dusk
Your face is familiar,
but what about the face in front of you
faced towards the door behind you?
. . . . . . . as you go back to the past with your blameless future
7
The price of war: perpetual loyalty;
eschewing tomfoolery;
feigning naivety
The price of love: ceaseless quarrels
with the fathers of procedures
and the mothers of proficiency
The price of death: eternal life
in the grave of love and the theatre of war
Life at the ends of obedience
Life at the end of the world
© 2008, Sarah Maguire and Sabry Hafez
From: Poems
Publisher: 2008, Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London
From: Poems
Publisher: 2008, Enitharmon Press in association with the Poetry Translation Centre, London
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère