Poem of the day: Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi
di
Redazione Italia, 10 Aprile 2016
Redazione Italia, 10 Aprile 2016
A Monkey at the Window
I
The little boy, playing
in bed
while his wounded mother cooks,
is throwing little words
and circles
out of the window.
in bed
while his wounded mother cooks,
is throwing little words
and circles
out of the window.
She smiles
(the whole
world lights up)
he chatters excitedly – What can he see?
(the whole
world lights up)
he chatters excitedly – What can he see?
There’s a monkey at the
window –
behind the door!
But he is falling
into
darkness.
And though he never raises a cry
he holds up his
claws – this dark
stormy
boy.
window –
behind the door!
But he is falling
into
darkness.
And though he never raises a cry
he holds up his
claws – this dark
stormy
boy.
II
She never taught him how
to cry only how to sing.
Happy in herself – just as she wished to
be –
she taught him endless space and vastness
and she calls
him: Open-hearted.
to cry only how to sing.
Happy in herself – just as she wished to
be –
she taught him endless space and vastness
and she calls
him: Open-hearted.
Behind him a mountain of
metaphors
in front a river a mouthful of night
and a train of
caravans calling him away.
(Where is that thread
that fire
the
skill?)
metaphors
in front a river a mouthful of night
and a train of
caravans calling him away.
(Where is that thread
that fire
the
skill?)
III
Running – down an
alleyway
he splashes cooking oil all over his shorts this boy!
alleyway
he splashes cooking oil all over his shorts this boy!
He wets himself
with
laughter
running through Eternity –
through this alleyway
this
pack of dogs
the conspiracies of fate!
with
laughter
running through Eternity –
through this alleyway
this
pack of dogs
the conspiracies of fate!
IV
The solid front door
remembers the hand that made it –
You are the key –
and the
creak of the universe — it’s your sole secret
You lean your
dreams and future against it.
For its sake you endure the
woodworms
gnawing through your heart
the reek of damp
the
hammering of enemies and relatives.
(Long is the absence of
light
that paints things awake –
Long is the presence of
paint!)
remembers the hand that made it –
You are the key –
and the
creak of the universe — it’s your sole secret
You lean your
dreams and future against it.
For its sake you endure the
woodworms
gnawing through your heart
the reek of damp
the
hammering of enemies and relatives.
(Long is the absence of
light
that paints things awake –
Long is the presence of
paint!)
You come home exhausted —
from wherever you’ve been
the wind at your side — just as you
wished
toyed with by traumas.
from wherever you’ve been
the wind at your side — just as you
wished
toyed with by traumas.
Once he made necklaces
from seashells
colouring them with his own fairytales
once he
made friends with strange frogs
– and all the while she’s watching
him
from behind the door /from out the window
(when she runs to
pick him up
he will not raise
a cry!)
from seashells
colouring them with his own fairytales
once he
made friends with strange frogs
– and all the while she’s watching
him
from behind the door /from out the window
(when she runs to
pick him up
he will not raise
a cry!)
V
In the forest the lonely
one knows all the voices
beckoned by the eyes of loved ones
their
songs are luring her
with their tender fingers
and her own
translucent solitude.
She sits in silence
close to every
thing
brewing tea
stirring the porridge.
one knows all the voices
beckoned by the eyes of loved ones
their
songs are luring her
with their tender fingers
and her own
translucent solitude.
She sits in silence
close to every
thing
brewing tea
stirring the porridge.
In the garden
of a
strange home her home
she welcomes the pots and pans
to the
sounds of morning.
Scrubbing everything in its proper place
one
eye on the radio
that calls her to those distant sands
the
desert.
But her colour flow like a river
so she can sing….
And
that boy?
………. ………….
In a green forest
or a
red forest
or a desert
now who calls him to Eternity?
of a
strange home her home
she welcomes the pots and pans
to the
sounds of morning.
Scrubbing everything in its proper place
one
eye on the radio
that calls her to those distant sands
the
desert.
But her colour flow like a river
so she can sing….
And
that boy?
………. ………….
In a green forest
or a
red forest
or a desert
now who calls him to Eternity?
Poet: Al-Saddiq
Al-Raddi
Literal translators: Hafiz
Kheir
Final translator: Sarah
Maguire
