Recently, my mother gave me a book of Iraqi poetry. For those who know our family, this would come as little surprise. An erstwhile English major, I was raised on the written word by my librarian mother. In spite of my professional transition toward the political, I have kept my faith in the spirit of poetry – I continue to believe in its ability to capture the best aspects of human culture.
An Empty City
In one of my travels
I suddenly find myself
In a silent city –
Not a trace of life anywhere.
The doors of the houses are locked,
And the wind plays in the squares
But the city’s windows shine all night.
Who switched on the lights?
I saw in gardens all kinds of flowers
Bending their heads.
And I saw a ruined playground.
I knocked at many doors,,
I shouted:
Are they all dead?
Emigrated?
Turned with what magic into invisible creatures
Then, suddenly, I saw the shadow of a woman
Stirring on a marble pedestal,
Trying lazily to arise from her ancient hibernation,
And I said: “Do you know who I am? It’s me Adam.”
But she did not know language.
-Mahmod al Braikan (trans. Saadi A Simawe)
The editor of this particular book noted that his efforts to translate Iraqi poetry into English had matured from an academic pursuit to a desperate effort to preserve a nation’s humanity after decades of dictatorship and war. I share his concern, and his devotion to the conservation of Iraq’s unique national identity. In a modest tribute to the enduring spirit of the Iraqi people, I have decided to ring in the New Year with a brief study of their unique and compelling verse.
Supper
Every evening when I come home
My sadness comes out of his room
Wearing his winter overcoat
And walks behind me.
I walk, he walks with me,
I sit, he sits next to me
I cry, he cries for my cry,
Until midnight
When we get tired.
At that point
I see my sadness go into the kitchen
Open the refrigerator
Take a black piece of meat
And prepare my supper
-Yousif al-Sa’igh (trans. Saadi A Simawe)
Since the outbreak of the Iran-Iraq hostilities in 1980, Iraq has been largely defined by conflict. Over the years, eloquent advocates and political analysts have produced countless military, economic and geopolitical studies of the country. However, their assessments have only told part of the story. To date, little has been published on Iraq’s highly complex literary tradition that offers testament to a nation’s endurance in opposition to violent realities of oppression and challenges to modernism.
The Beggar
In the temple of my soul, demons pray
In the court of my conscience, evil doers quarrel
And from my cherished illusion, I beg to be released
My path is covered with thorns
My freedom is buried under gold
My pride is hidden by ignorance
My sky is a space of hope
My earth is a field of greed
My death is proof of myself
Who will grant me love to live on?
Who will uncover the treasures of Time?
And, before morning, who will make me rich so I need not beg?
-Murad Mikha’il (trans. Sadok Masliyah)
The Arabic word for poetry can be defined as “meaningful speech which has rhyme and rhythm.” Traditionally, this has meant that the absence of any of these three features – particularly the rhyme – renders the verse as prose. However, since the 1960s, Iraqi poets have enthusiastically rebelled against orthodoxy in favor of new stylistics. Their work has been characterized by existentialism, iconoclasm and solipsism. Inspired by Western modernists such as TS Eliot and Edith Sitwell, Iraqi poets developed a style known as al-sh’ir al-hur, or free-verse, that expanded traditional boundaries.
Picture
Four children
A Turk, a Persian
An Arab and a Kurd
Were collectively drawing the picture of a man.
The first drew his head
The second drew his hands and upper limbs
The third drew his legs and torso
The fourth drew the gun on his shoulder
– Sherko Faiq (trans. Muhammad Tawfiq Ali)
This poetic revolution, which began in Iraq and spread throughout the Arab world, introduced new imagery, new metrical patterns and a new sensibility. Modern themes of nationalism, feminism, homeland, exile and colonialism balanced humanistic sentiments on love, war, torture and exile. One might imagine that it was necessary to shed the mantle of artistic convention to effectively dispute political reality.
In Old Age Gray Hair May Look Black (from “How L’Akhdar Ben Youssef Wrote His Last Poem”)
An old man at fifty
Squats in his room, occupied with lies and cigarettes.
Who will return to the toothless his milk teeth
Who will return to the grayhead the hair of youth?
Who can fill this empty head?
But in old age, gray hair can look black
And a lie may hold the truth
And cigarette clouds can look like a sky raining
And in his toothless gums, milk teeth may grow.
But in old age too
A man very old at fifty can fall
Dead in his room
Dressed in lies and smoke
-S’adi Yusuf (trans. Khaled Mattaw)
Iraqi writers have given voice to the dispossessed and rescued beauty from tragedy. Their willingness to peacefully resist persecution is admirable. Armed only with perseverance, dedication, and a rare eloquence, these writers have established themselves as the quiet heroes of Iraq’s struggle for unity, and models for all those who fight for social justice.
