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Life

Life 
Arabic Poem by: Riyadh Al-Ghareeb*
 Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 ================================
 
It was not his idea 
He did not wave to the sundown of his life
Quite simply, he let life go by 
He was the only one who did not care about the war 
Rather, he listened to music 
And wrote poems 
While 
Shells were falling all around him.. 
Not once, he thought about death 
Nor he paid attention to getting old in the mirror 
All that he cared about
Was a woman he imagined loving him
And waiting for someone who may come back 
Carrying a small snippet 
Emblazoned with the script 
From extreme madness “
 To... “
He lived in his illusion
Even as he became a poet. 
When his life was clotting
And nightfall of life was waving to him
He realized
All that was going on around him 
Was not his choice 
And the life he encountered 
Was not his life.. 
So, 
He tried to get rid of his blue beard
And bitter tears 
Near the nearest war 
of his country’s 
A country that has become 
Addicted to wars.
 
He let his hair grow long 
His dark skinned face
Was on the verge of revealing nightly starvation
At noontime, his children were panting 
After a lifeless Dinar..
His final poem
Was laden with the grief of the world 
But that world did not care about what was going on..
In his only room 
The smell of onions mixed
With the smell of the empty pots; 
Hanging onions 
Was the most beautiful memory in a country 
Without memory 
It's his life 
That he wanted to be 
A part of his ration card, 
His birth record
And the rest of his poems. 

“Woe to the ruin!” 
He said
Removing the dust from a painting of him
Made, in a stolen moment, 
By a painter who died two wars ago.
He was laughing 
And holding a drink with an innocent cheer
As, above his head, birds in the somber colors of the sky were flying
Suggesting the he was important 
And his life was of interest to others. 
He flicked his tears 
And on the tile of his room floor
He saw wars reproduce, 
He saw his children go to a new war 
He saw his wife coughing her years 
Painful looks
And said to himself 
That life 
Was not my idea 
It is a naive game.
However 
Let me keep on this road 
At the end, I may find paper 
For my friends to wrap me with
Like the oldest statue 
Standing on the way of passers-by 
And the country!!!!!! 
---------------
 Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 USA
 * Riadh Al-Ghareeb is a poet from Iraq

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014



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The Stranger and the Photographer

======================
The Stranger and the Photographer
By: Inaam Al-Hashimi  (Gold_N_Silk)
=======================

Sunshine in his eyes
A smile on his face
Dust on his hair
And on his eyebrows

Like a lone ranger 
From outer space
Who crossed the desert
Riding the wind,
Not a horse!
And after his journey,
To rest his head,
He found a place.

Everyone was talking
Laughing and joking
And with their laughter
Filling the space

But alone he was sitting,
Drinking and eating,
In utter silence,
Minding noone else.

Like lightning and thunder,
On a hot summer day;
 She suddenly  comes,
To shatter his silence,
And cross his way,

"I'd like to take a picture,"
She said with a smile,
"Of you, If I may!"

Waited for no answer,
Took a picture,
"Thank you!" She said,
And went away.

 Then turned around 
And said with a sway:
Mind you stranger!
If destiny wants,
She'll have her way,

Your path and my path,
Will cross again,
Somehow, somewhere, someday!

******
 Inaam 1993
USA

http://goldenpoems.wetpaint.com

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

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Homelands

====================
Homelands
Arabic poem by: Adel Said*
Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=====================

At the end of the line I stand
As should a professional homeless do
Exactly at the end of the line
Before the committee on homelands distribution 
Among those who fall in the overflow
Over the needs and capacity of time, place, 
Maps, 
Population records,
And cemeteries. 

At the end of the line I stand 
Hanging like a teardrop in a funeral 
Collecting what have fallen of my years,
My fables
And my extinct dreams,
In the bundle of my childhood that missed her doll
And my deferred share of my mother’s tenderness.

I have a flavor the midwife failed to sever
With the umbilical cord
In my heart, there is still a nursery rhyme
About a duck swimming in a river
And a songs about a fair maiden’s tear dripped down with  kohl
And my fingers are still trembling
In fear of the lesson and the swish of the teacher’s ruler.

I have in the piggy bank of my life
Volumes about hunger and wars of social classes
Burned by the fascists 
Who also snuffed out the tears of forbidden love.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Dates I saved of palm tree’s yearning for the land
And some palm pollen dust still traveling in my lungs. 

I have no signs of prophecy on my forehead 
And no halos of saints 
But my homeland that’s sitting there 
Amidst the committee on the homelands distribution
Will recognize me
And I'm in the queue 
I will not compete with the homeless comrades 
For their homelands 
And will not accept that illustrious one on the right 
And not that opulent one on the left
I’ll accept only that one,
That one whose head is a palm tree 
And whose arms are two rivers.
 
- You , O Mister!
 You who was at the end of the line,
 You haven’t been recognized
 By any of the homelands gathered in the committee,
 The exiles snuffed out your flavor
 And withered your songs;
 Despite the high level of adoration in you
 No homeland on earth
 Understands your language.

 - Even  that one? !

 - Even  that one ..
And out of pity 
We decided to grant you a berth,
A berth that will never come to an end
You will waste on it  
All that’s left in your lifetime’s piggy bank 
Of tears, 
Of dreams loitering outside the fence of life 
And of years flying, like neglected pieces of paper,
Out of the window of history! 

===========
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi
USA
*  Adel Said is a poet from Iraq who resides in Norway

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

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Concerto of the Enchanting Night

Concerto of the Enchanting Night
 Arabic Poem by: Fadhil Aziz Farman *
 Translated Into English by:
 Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 =========================

You suggest the songs
And leave me deep
In the splendor of the rhythm and melody. 
Drag my day out of the dream to wakefulness 
I have not known 
But the philosophy of dreams 
In all my days.

You suggest the songs
And leave me floating in a wave of fragrance 
Showered down By Lynol Ritchie 
With his love songs 
Or by Yanni with his tunes.
 
And dance
Do the tango 
Do the waltz 
Do the ballet or the jerk dance
Dance as you please 
Or spin around the Earth-pole,
O symbol of amazing taste, 
Rouser of lightning in the sky,
And crown of all beauties.
 
Here I am intoxicated
By the melody pulsating in your figure 
And by the bashful roses 
On your cheeks,
O sweet wine in my chalice and my vats.
 
You suggest the songs
And at the end of the round
Put your head on my chest, 
O child of my poems, 
And listen to my heart singing them 
With the virgin tears of joy 
Flowing down the violin’s cheek.
 
You suggest the songs
You suggest the melody 
And hint the sweet words
They’ll come to you 
Then hold me to your chest like a child.
I will need your ear 
To whisper to you 
All that baffles my heart 
And my tongue 

You suggest the songs
And strew them
Such as roses 
On the desert of my life.
What remains for us 
Of all our years, 
But joy
Strewn like roses
And like dew
On the seconds? 
********* 
Translated by Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 USA
 * Fadhil Aziz Farman is a poet from Iraq
 ---------------
 The original poem in Arabic https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10202962662165969&set=p.10202962662165969&type=1&theater
 

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014

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Ousted by None but the Night

===================
Ousted by None but the Night   
Arabic Poem by: Adnan Abu Andalus*
Translated by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)
===============

The dusty street is bare 
Darkness there and the horizon  
As if, the night was sprinkling fear
Nothing there
But a policeman followed like a ghost
A street cat  
A wailing ambulance 
All where time is open for running
 Endlessly

Who would stroll in the range of bullets?
To come back in the morrow like a spinning top
Without a head?
 
 Who would walk alone?
 And fly off with the meekness of the past
 In Baghdad’s night?

Who would believe that AlZawraa held her lungs 
And ousted the breath of her patrons?
And that “Abu Nawas” replaced  
His last glass of wine
With a cup of black coffee?

Shahriar uttered it 
To protest shampoo ads!
Scheherazade wore the veil 
Bad boys of the night 
Shunned flirting with girls
In the Girls Street.
______
Translated December, 2012
 By: Em. Prof. Inam Al-Hashimi
USA
* Adnan Abu Andalus is a poet from Iraq
from his poetry collection  “The Smell of Doomsday”

________________________________________
 1 Knowing some of the history of ancient Baghdad may be helpful in facilitating better understanding of the poem. Baghdad was famous as the center place of the “Arabian nights” or the "Thousand and One Nights Tales" where Scheherazade, night after night, told the king Shahryar a different tale of romance and adventure to keep him from killing her in the morning.. Ancient Baghdad, nicknamed "AlZawra’a", was known for receiving, with open arms. night-patrons in joy and without fear. The poem refers to the glamorous past of Baghdad in comparison with the grim and gloomy nights of modern Baghdad after the war. In doing so, the poem mentions some symbols of the past and historical figures from old Baghdad and the Golden Age of the caliph Haroun al-Rashid (died 809 AD), and presents them in images contrary to their characters. Such figures include the licentious poet “Abu Nuwas" who wouldn’t recite poetry without being drunk. And the afore mentioned Scheherazade and Shahryar.
 ___________________________________

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013



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The Martyr Girl

The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================

In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class, 
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,  
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting, 
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty 
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently, 
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door” 
Oh, grief! 
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother.. 
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white, 
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
 At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures 
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief, 
 Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..

O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
----------------------------------------
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect 

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014

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Final Wishes of a Poet

Final Wishes of a Poet 
Arabic poem By: Rukn-al-Din Yunus
Translated into English By: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
========================
(Part 1 of 3)

Lend me a handful of earth
So that I may make you a statue 
You have not seen the like before
In your dreams.
Lend me a breath of spring
I’ll paint you cities, seashores 
And passionate rendezvous.
Lend me some of your crazy letters 
And I will dispatch couriers
To deliver them to gardens
And send elegantly dressed devotees
With a touch of sadness 
To receive them from the gardens
And read them to the river.
Lend me some of the words
Escaping from under your hat, 
Which has no resemblance to Pablo Neruda’s,
To write you an epic 
Spelled out by tyrants
Every night 
To cry their own fates in the morning.
Lend me an evening you could spare
To romp through virtual streets 
Named after living poets 
From different generations
Wherein a river of music goes over the heads of passersby
Drowning all in ageless glamour. 
Lend me the rest of the golden letters
In your pocket
To disperse them over the outskirts of my words
And the lanterns of my dreams
To light up what’s left of the opaque sentences 
In the imagination of the painter
And the wisdom of the poet 
Who is crazed about the clay
On the banks of the Hilla River.



(Part 2 of 3)
--------------

I'll die tonight...
O my dear wife!
I’ve never liked farewell ceremonies
In my life
So let things be normal and quiet.
Forgive me! I will not kiss you tonight
Just lie down beside me on the bed
For now.
Don’t tell the boys about my no-return journey 
Don’t let the girls cry with you
Especially the married one
And the little one
The middle one as well.
Let everything be as ordained for me
By those I don’t know
All I know for sure
I will die tonight.
How? ..... I do not know!
How? ..... I do not know!
At what time? …. The mind of the poet is unable to tell.
I will die my dear wife
But....
Don’t forget to feed the dog “Yoyo” early in the morning.
Don’t neglect spraying the garden 
First in the morning
Even if it was time for the funeral.
And don’t forget the seven o'clock news
Listen to it for the sake of your love for me
They always mention news of the lost homeland.
Don’t forget ever....
The chicken feed
I’d like to hear 
The cock’s crow every morning in my grave.
And hide the empty wine bottles
Out of the sight of mourners...
I don’t want them to accuse poets of infidelity.
And if they ask you 
What was with him before he died?
Just tell them:
He forgot to live!


(Part 3 of 3)
--------------

Before I died
My wife made me a clay statue 
And cried at it
She and her five daughters did.
But my two sons took no notice
Of their mother crying
Nor of their sisters wearing black 
But, rather,  
They seized the opportunity
And went out to join their peers
In a football game!

Before I died
My friends vied 
And jostled in front of  
Mercenary and non-mercenary newspapers’ buildings
Led by “Riyadh Alghareeb”
To provide their elegies for my immortal soul
Which reminds them of their own
As they greet death.

And since that day
I am holding on to my soul
Lest it slips away 
In a moment 
Of inattention
From me
The poet
Rukn al-Din Yunus
***
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
USA
November 2013

* Rukn-al-Din Yunus is a poet from Iraq


Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

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Biography of A Dream

=============================
Biography of A Dream 
Arabic Poem by: Abdulsadah Al-Basri
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=============================
At... 
The end of the first decade 
Of the twentieth century 
The sun bathed in my father’s eyes 
He kept flirting with her 
And flirting..
to draw a dream on her silken rays   
A dream accompanied him all his life.
 
 In the fourth decade  
 He got married 
To build a nest in the heart of the countryside, 
Then begot a little bird 
Two  
And three   
Taught them how to fly with love 
Over the waves of the river 
And how to long for the bread
Baked in the outdoors tandoor 

But .. 
In the eighth decade of the same century 
He departed overwhelmed by grief
Over a dream
That would never come true
Never 
Never 
Never!!!
--------------
 Translated into English by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 * Abdulsadah Al-Basri is a poet from Iraq
 

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014

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Closed

Closed
Arabic Poem by: Hammoodi Al-Kinani*
Translated From Arabic
By: Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)
=======================
 
Closed, so said the first door
Dead End, so said the second door
Don't Worry,
Sayeth all the doors!
Destitution! Destitution! Destitution!
So shouts the beggar in my face.
Drought! Drought! Drought!
So speaks the river to me.
Me ....?
I am still dancing in ecstasy,
Searching for leftover from a loaf
My mother baked in the first year of the last century;
I carry my portfolio of official documents
Containing,
A fake birth certificate,
Certificate of citizenship bearing odd digits,
Green housing card
Disclosing that I am still a Bedouin
Searching for a lost camel!
Our ration card
Does not contain, yet,
Materials quota;
It bears my name, my third, grandfather's name, 
And the doubtful surname; 
What else is there in my papers portfolio?
My permanent address
And house number
One, slash, One 
District Number One
Not inhabited with people like me
Street, haunted by mud 
And side-walks walking barefoot 
Over pedestrians walkways. 
Still wearing my father's shabby cloths,
I touched my belly to learn
How to broil hunger patties on it; 
A policeman saw me, 
He waved his whip to my face, 
"Exposing your private parts and defects is prohibited!
Your belly is a defect, 
Your unusual appearance is 
A defect,
All these papers in your portfolio are defects;
We are charged with watching 
Those who expose their defects in public."

Standing in line to receive 
Laundry detergent is a defect, 
Even scratching one's back 
Falls within the Forbidden section; 
When I felt frightened,
I went to visit my father's grave;
My mother was lying in his flank.
I prayed for my mother
And asked God his forgiveness 
For my father
For repeatedly rubbing his belly
Because of bug bites.
------
 
Translated by; EM. prof. inaam Al-Hasjimi
USA

September 23, 2009

--------------------
* Hammoodi Al-Kinani is an Iraqi writer

 

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

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The She General

The She General
Arabic Poem By: Fayez Al-Haddad
Translation into English By:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===================
 
I beg your passion, O General of Love!
Grant me leave to say
Some of the divine revelation of love,
Though I don’t know but the opening verse,
Your endless opening,
To recite for your eyes the glory of what God loves;
As there is no peace,
When love is but messages
Akin to caged birds.
How could I conquer your heart
with my weary army,
When you break into my kingdom,
Heavily armed with the power of women?
Have mercy upon a captured Bedouin,
Who has nothing,
Save the clemency of your eyelashes
in the Holy Spear!

Glory!
O you! One with the solemn mouth
That's colored with music,
O you! Lung of water,
That's thirsty in me,
O you! One with the beauty mark
And anklet wings;
Prophetess of promised kisses!
Sing what you wish of fancy,
And recite what your generous mouth lets out
Of precious hymns;
Trench me with the downpour of your honey,
As beyond your mouth, there is no spring,
But the “Well of Joseph” and the drought;
And beyond your lips, earthquakes trellis
In the dribbles of tales.

I tremor like the heart of a cold homer,
While the warmth lies in your chest a caldron;
Is it fear? Or is it love? Or,
Is it hate in what you know?
Hate me as much as there is love in hate!
My heart thinks no more
of the taste of touches,
And adoration forgot to cheer in the pottery jars.
Name it as you wish,
but I am a heart fluttering under your wing..
Where no limb could vie for
its tenderness of yearning.

Draw closer to me,
But I fear for your clothes
From the flames of my narcissism;
And you know me:
I am aroused by your mere image,
How would meeting you, face to face, bear me?
Be the hot coffee,
For me to be shattered
On the rim of your cup,
As multiple mouths, 
Breath of cups, and smoke pipes;
As I am
Kisses,
Moans,
Songs,
And rendezvous;

And....
I do not wait!
------
 
Translated by:  Em. Prof Inaam Al-Hashimi
USA
01/02/2011

*  Fayez Al-Haddad is a poet from Iraq
Link of the poenm with introduction in Arabic: 
http://almothaqaf.com/index.php/tarjamat/49439.html

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

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