Fadhil Assultani works as the literary editor of the Arabic daily al-Sharq al-Awsat. He began writing poetry in the 1960s and his publications include a book of poetry called Burning in Water. He was born in a small town near the city of Hilla, south of Bagdhad and, after studying at the University of Bagdhad, became a journalist. He has taught in Iraq, Morocco and Algeria, and now lives in London.
What will Iraq catch as she travels by sea for a thousand years?
Water in the veins? The peals of sons
sinking to the depths of the sea?
The world has returned, and Iraq has not.
No limits appear while she is travelling – what will she catch?
Will it be fish swimming in the sea?
Shoes thrown overboard by people?
Shoes and papers roaming the sea for a thousand years?
The veins of the dead are her nets
our bodies with their necks cut are her fish-hooks
What will Iraq catch?
An ounce of sand, a basket of Euphrates’ water.
On the other bank creatures are sleeping, and life is born
God is in the mosque and life is between the thighs,
while she travels the sea – what will she catch?
Basra misguided her land, and sold her Negroes.
A world collapses under a shout from the poet al-Mutanabbi,
A brick from Caliph al-Ma’moun’s ruined house could rebuild it again
Her sons are in the water and sky,
dead and alive who are dying
while she travels the sea.
What will she catch?
A sperm and a piece of clay drifting in the water
A sperm and a piece of clay longing for life?
From my distant chair I see the dead rising
shaking off their sleeves the dust of graves
as if it were the day of Resurrection
Have the dead risen
to draw something on the sand
and returned – to sleep?
Return, Iraq! You are not the master of the ship
nor prince of the sea.
There is no tower there,
no dam to keep back the tide.
You are naked like the waves.
There is no cloud to shade the caravan
and no tiny star to look down from your sky
no harbour calling you, and no houri to sing to you
Everyone has returned
but you have been in the middle of the sea for a thousand years
There is a dress of canes you spread out as a sail
and the wind rolls it up as tiredness envelopes you
Are these your hands? Or two wooden boards?
Where did you throw the tower of Babylon?
Which god bought it?
Where did you hang the cities of gold?
On which neck have they become – necklaces?
Where is your first engraving?
Where is your first obelisk?
Where is your beloved Ishtar?
In which bed is she sleeping now,
to give birth to the legendary terrifying beast?
Iraq has come
and Iraq has gone
in her peace and in her war.
The water gulps her down
and the wind plays with her robe – it imagines it is a sail
sometimes, and sometimes it takes a rest
in her heart.
all the times have passed you.
We knew you as a deity and wild beast
a house and a bier.
You were the obelisks high up, and the water-moss from Babylon.
A bed of Babylonian water-moss?
A bed of Sumerian stone so as to take rest?
A bed of love because the earth is narrow?
You have the sea, expansive like life
the columns of cities which have departed from you for the sea?
Pillows of books which have departed from you for the river?
Will your face return again?
Two steps to Astarte
two steps to the kingdom,
will you enter there?
You will reach it and die.
A bed of Babylonian stone?
A bed of obelisks high up?
A stair to go up?
Two steps to an apartment in heaven.
Will you enter it?
You will reach it, and return.
(translated by the author, with thanks to Richard McKane)
Like you, I too
hear in silence
barking in Babylon
and sometimes I see in the dark
vultures tear apart my corpse which was thrown on to a Baghdad street.
But like you, I too sometimes hear the fluttering of swans in an
and the breaking of the waves on a distant shore.
And I see fish breed and the sea drifts them to the coast
to enter the net of eternity.
Sometimes, like you, I hear
in the middle of the night tenebrous music
and a voice summoning me,
and I leave my home
hoping to see a voice I am familiar with:
No voice is there.
Who is, then, calling you or me all night?
Wandering voices in the wilderness?
Who was, then, behind the door,
Listening in on Death’s voice,
creeping on the walls of the room?
Was it you, or I?
(translated by Saadi A Simawe and Melissa L Brown)
*This poem was written one month before RS Thomas’s death in September, 2000.
I remember now, in my forties,
next to my home
beside a brook.
I remember now our secrets:
how she used to spread her shadows under me
bend her branches around me
and slip into my clothes
putting me on
as I put her on
together entering the brook.
I remember now, in my forties,
my stories to the tree about the gardenia
and about the girl
who left us
only shadows over the water.
And I moved away
how far did I move away?
But I still see her
stretch her branches towards me
in order to lift me – to heaven.
(translated by Saadi A Simawe)
Source: OpenDemocrary: Free thinking for the world: http://www.opendemocracy.net/conflict-Literature/article_1371.jsp
from The Runaway President
There was no thing beyond the reach of Saddam
Iraq to him is one huge stage
He is the only actor on it
His acting costumes vary
From one scene to another
Not unlike those of Hollywood actors
No music could possibly stir you
As hand clapping does
With your portraits
You have negated art exhibitions
Your military decorations
Are more colourful than gardens in spring
Even when you go fishing
The cameras are like sunflowers
Fixed upon you for hours on end
For this reason,
Televisions screens are suspended
News bulletins are postponed
Your propaganda machine
Is the biggest machine in Iraq
Bigger than any mountain
And longer than both
The Euphrates and the Tigris put together
Your name is engraved
On the ancient Babylonian walls
Amongst Biblical names
O runaway president
Listen just once in your life
If you have escaped the trap this time
I can assure you it will not be for long
Even this temporary safety is misleading
It is deadlier if you think about it
Fear will suck dry your red cells
And sooner rather than later
You will waste away
First you lose interest in your appearance
Then you will find no need to shave
And like exposed garbage you will start to stink
You’ve waded in blood for over 30 years
No consequence could stopped you
Do I dare to compare you to others?
God forbid, God forbid.
Macbeth’s conscience was alive from beginning to end
And but as dead as a hoof is your conscience
Even Lady Macbeth
Cannot be compared to Lady Saddam
Did she walk in her sleep?
Did she hold a candle or talk deliriously?
And no medicine could possibly cure her?
Salah Niazi, London, 24 April 2003