الساعة الناطقة The Speaking Hour

الساعة الناطقة

صورتكِ
هنا
ترفرفُ كقميصٍ مسروق
وأنا بين يديكِ
لوحةٌ لم تكتمل
مات الرسامُ في الطريق إليّ
 
وراء كل هذه السنوات
أنبتُ كما العشب بعد عاصفة
 
أنا عناقيدُ أخطاء
وأنتِ شجرةُ العنب
لم نعصُر لليالي كفايةً
نسيتْ جفونَـها الليالي
تدلّت المصابيح مشانق للظلام
والرِّبـاط بيننا شجرةٌ مُسـنّـة
نتدفـأ بخشبها الذي لا يكفي
جسدين
 
أنا عناقيد أخطاء
وأنتِ تملئـينـني كما يملأ الدمُ
الجرح الجديد
المرآةُ خلفكِ
وأنتِ تمشطين شعركِ
في بياض عينـيّ
فأرى على ظهركِ نَمَـش نداءاتي
والظلامُ حولنا نسرٌ أبيض
نسي بيضهُ على إفريز نافذتي
 
مثل ساعةٍ معلقةٍ في الأفق
حين نظرتُ إليكِ
عرفتُ كم تأخرت
وحين ابتلّ إصبعي أول مرةٍ
في سُـرَّتك
دارَ رأسـي دورةً كاملة
فلم ينفصل
كنتِ عُنـقي
 
شكّلـتُ أصابعي طائراتٍ ورقية
نفختُ في يدي
فهبت ريحٌ
أنا صائد الفلين
في بحر الليالي
شربتُ طويلاً
فلم يرجع أحدٌ بعدي
إلا طافياً
 
اختاري الشتاء
وعليّ المطر
صُـبّـي لي كـأساً
وضُمي شفتيكِ
كِـدنا نسكر
أمامنا ليلٌ
وكثيرون يرسمون الصباح
على ظهورنا.
 

The Speaking Hour

Your image
Here
Fluttering like a stolen shirt
And I am in your hands
A painting not yet completed
The artist died on his way to me
 
After all these years
I grow like grass following a storm
 
I am the grapes of fault
And you the vine
We haven't pressed enough to last the night
The night that forgot to close its eyes
The hanging lamps swing against the dark
And the knot that binds us is an ancient tree
We warm ourselves with its wood
I see the scars of my voice on your back
And darkness surrounds us like a white eagle
who left an egg on my windowsill
 
Like a clock hung on the horizon
When I looked at you
I understood how late it was
And when I wet my finger the first time
In your navel
My head turned a full circle
You were my neck
 
My fingers made kites
I blew on my hands
And the wind was blown
I hunt the Cork Oak
Through the sea of nights
I have been drinking a long time
No one came after me
Except afloat
 
Choose winter
And the rain is on me
Pour me a glass
And purse your lips
We almost got drunk
The night is before us
Many paint the morning
On our backs
Too meagre for two bodies
 
I am the grapes of fault
And you fill me as blood fills 
A fresh wound
The mirror is behind you
As you comb your hair
In the white of my eyes
 

We first translated poems by Abdullah al Ryami in 2005 and it was a real pleasure to return to his work. As you’ll see reading the poem, he works by moving from image to image; often the ‘connective tissue’ between these images is unclear, a lack of clarity that is enhanced by the absence of punctuation. In other words, sometimes it was difficult to tell whether a line ‘belonged’ to the one preceeding it or that which followed.
When I was typing up the poem after the workshop (me being Sarah Maguire), I was tempted to capitalise the first letter of lines which seemed to act as new sentences, or new thoughts. (This is something I often do in my own poems and translations: I won’t use full-stops as they feel too strong, so I’ll indicate the start of a new sentence with a capital letter.) However, on reflection I decided that to do this to this poem would be an intrusion as, clearly, al Ryami wanted this ‘drifting’ ambiguity in how the images fitted together. And so I decided to capitalise the beginning of every line, which of course is a traditional format in English poetry, but not necessarily in modern poetry in English. These are the kind of minute details that poets obsess about constantly.

We arrived at ‘the grapes of fault’ after a long discussion. It was clear from the Arabic that al Ryami was playing on that Biblical phrase (most famously appropriated by John Steinbeck for the title of his novel) ‘the grapes of wrath’, but that ‘wrath’ here was ‘mistake’, which was why we went with the one-syllable ‘fault’.

The Speaking Hour

Your image
Here
Fluttering like a stolen shirt
And I am between your hands
A painting that had not been completed yet
The painter died on his way to me
 
Behind all these years
I grow like the grass after a storm 
 
I am grapes of mistakes
And the grape tree
We have not squeezed enough for the nights
Evenings have forgotten their eyelashes
The lanterns have dangled their ropes for darkness
And the knot that tied us is an old tree
We warm ourselves up with wood, which is insufficient 
For two bodies
 
I am grapes of mistakes
And you fill me up as blood does
The new wound
The mirror is behind you
And you comb your hair
In the whiteness of my eyes
So I see the imprints of my calls on your back
And darkness around us is a white eagle
Had forgotten an egg on my windowsill
 
Like a clock hanged on the horizon
When I looked at you
I realised how much late I was
And when my finger were wet to the first time,
In your navel
My head had completed a full circle
It did not part 
You were my neck
 
My fingers had made kites
I have blown my own hands
A wind had been blown
I am the hunter of quercus suber 
In the sea of nights
I have drank for a long time
No one returned after me
Except floating
 
Choose the winter
And rain is on me
Pour a glass for me
And draw your lips
We almost got drunk 
We have a night in front of us
Many paint the morning
On our backs
 

Original Poem by

Abdullah al Ryami

Translated by

Atef Alshaer with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

Arabic

Country

Oman