Trying Again to Stop Time

by Jalal Barzanji

had been taken over by trees;

  animals were too eager to welcome visitors.

  Vendors along the roadside

  sold strawberries;

  they were no different

  from those selling grapes and pomegranates

  between Hawler and Suleimaniya.

  At the campground,

  we pitched a tent,

  built a fire,

  grilled chicken.

  Fear of bears coming down from the mountains

  kept me awake all night.

  My mother had taught me

  to always be afraid of animals.

  I know a mouse is nothing,

  but the smallest creature makes me run.

  In the morning mist,

  we brought our fire back to life:

  coffee, fried eggs, and toast.

  It tasted so good.

  As we got on the road again,

  my wife said:

  “Twenty five years, and you still can’t drive.”

  “This time around it’s not my fault,” I protested,

  “it’s the view.”

  The next day,

  by early morning,

  we were in Vancouver.

  The rugged mountains looked intimidating,

  but the city seemed to have a soft heart:

  with freshness and colour,

  it welcomed all visitors.

  Smart Poems I

  1

  The freedoms I have tasted in dreams

  I haven’t tasted anywhere else—

  not even in writing.

  …

  3

  Writing

  has given me a pencil as tall as me,

  so that I can colour the world.

  4

  Please don’t shoot

  when I am dreaming.

  …

  13

  I know

  after my death

  time will enjoy turning my soul

  into a straw hat.

  14

  My first major crisis happened

  at home—

  exile was its cause.

  15

  My feeling is

  the grassland

  where my poetry grazes.

  16

  Knowledge,

  accompanied by thinking,

  paid ignorance a visit.

  17

  The mark left by your little smile

  is still there.

  18

  Slowly,

  I approach death’s beautiful waterfall.

  19

  The bowl

  of my life,

  full of sorrow,

  I leave behind.

  …

  22

  When you are here,

  life is different.

  …

  25

  Fear

  won’t allow me to be free.

  26

  I saw beauty

  running after the colours of a butterfly.

  27

  The moon

  above the battlefield

  is sad.

  28

  My imagination has lost its way—

  too late to do anything about it.

  …

  33

  Music became my horse.

  I went hunting for the soul.

  34

  The apple

  that has fallen from heaven

  has landed in a woman.

  Winter Is the Season of Grief

  Friend,

  let us return to the time before displacement,

  when the two of us,

  schoolbooks in hand,

  went to Kooran Park on Fridays

  to study for our exams.

  I wonder what became of this park:

  has it too been devoured?

  You became an agricultural engineer and a poet,

  got a job at Kalachi Yaseen Agha,

  taking care of trees

  the way you took care of your sisters.

  You said the pomegranates were your favourite.

  You also said there was nothing more magical

  than hearing prunes fall at night.

  For my part, I became a teacher and poet.

  My first job took me to the village of Sktan,

  where I wrote my first collection of poems,

  The Evening Snow Dance.

  It was there also where

  one autumn

  I became friends with trees.

  Friend,

  I still remember

  the two of us studying by street lights;

  one time I showed you my art work,

  the sun half hidden by a mountain.

  I wish the two of us could go back to the Hawler of the 1980s:

  Remember our walks during summer nights?

  Remember all the poems we recited?

  Remember how unafraid we were,

  even as the regime became more oppressive?

  What about our evenings at the Civil Servants’ Club?

  We always sat under an old eucalyptus tree.

  We liked to see the birds congregating on top.

  We also liked the water fountain—

  it taught us to appreciate silence.

  And the friends we hung out with?

  Some probably are dead;

  others probably have become enemies.

  You know how vicious politics can be.

  In those days you could see the city’s ancient citadel miles away.

  Now urbanization has ruined the view;

  it has also fragmented our childhood.

  Friend,

  There is no homecoming for me.

  The roads I don’t recognize;

  time is also running out.

  As you yourself said,

  “No return for you.”

  My backache reminds me of that daily.

  we are destined to die apart from one another.

  Friend,

  where I am now snow is constant—

  a vast emptiness

  stretching all the way to Alaska

  is all I can see.

  The cold turns everything blue.

  Once the Gold Rush brought people here.

  They came by train,

  on horseback,

  on foot.

  Now there is only ruin and cold.

  Friend,

  I like your suggestion:

  this time I am visiting.

  We must go for a drive on Koya Road.

  We must stop at one of the fields dotting the road

  for those tiny sweet and sour cantaloupes

  grown under the blazing sun,

  amazingly,

  without water.

  I also want to see the city’s old produce market—

  maybe that too,

  like the garden at the Civil Servants’ Club,

  is not there anymore.

  Friend,

  my mother used to bake her own bread

  over an open fire;

  she made yoghurt too.

  Yes, my friend,

  twelve years ago,

  political oppression sent me to exile;

  luck landed me in Canada.

  I feel like I am trapped in the heart of winter forever.

  I stare at the few crumpled papers from my prison days;

  I don’t know what to make of them.

  Here in this house,

  many great writers have come and gone,

  but it is only the snow that remains ever present.

  The other day,

  I saw four men approaching

  like shadows,

  each resembling a season:

  they all entered Jack London’s cabin,

  sat by the fireplace,

  and before long

  agreed on one thing:

  winter meant grief.

  Home in a Suitcase

  Thanks to the sea,

  the journey from Is
tanbul

  to Edmonton

  is a seventeen-hour flight.

  A day earlier,

  a thirteen-hour bus ride

  brought us to Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport.

  It felt good to say goodbye to Sivas—

  the city was too conservative for our taste.

  The airport was teeming with refugees like us:

  some sleeping,

  some reflecting,

  some stretching,

  some looking up words

  they thought they needed upon arrival in a foreign land,

  some busying themselves with their hats,

  some pondering the possibility of failure and disappointment,

  some missing home,

  some staring at their new lives in suitcases.

  Some six months before,

  we left Ankara for Sivas.

  Nine months earlier,

  in the midst of the Kurdish civil war,

  I fled to Ankara,

  where luck turned out to be on my side:

  I was accepted by the UN as a refugee.

  For six months

  in the Ols district,

  the hub of refugees from Southern Kurdistan,

  I was Teza’s tenant.

  Every morning,

  Sungul and I

  climbed down 122 concrete steps

  to go to the local bazaar:

  Sungul sold ice water,

  I reflected on what was to come.

  I am not a storyteller,

  though I do keep a lot in my heart.

  In 1961,

  at the start of the September Revolution,

  Iraqi warplanes bombed our village.

  For several weeks

  the nearby caves were our home.

  Mother missed her vegetable garden;

  she knew it wouldn’t survive under the rubble.

  Father lost the few sheep he cared so much about.

  And I lost a woollen ball I had made myself.

  My first time flying

  I was unafraid:

  I had complete faith in my kite’s wings.

  The second time,

  I flew from Ankara to Kiev

  on a fake visa,

  hoping to be smuggled to Sweden.

  The venture failed;

  I was caught

  and sent back to Istanbul

  on a half-empty flight.

  My children weren’t afraid of flying;

  the plane going up and down was like a seesaw for them.

  For my wife,

  flying above the rain, the crowds, the city

  was hard to believe.

  In Amsterdam,

  UN bags in hand,

  we stood for six hours near the gate.

  Getting lost was our biggest fear.

  But I did manage to call Hawler.

  I don’t remember much else from Amsterdam.

  Crossing the Atlantic

  made me realize we were still without an address.

  The Pocket

  Sometimes,

  it’s a knife people pull out of their pockets

  sometimes,

  it’s a flower

  sometimes,

  it’s a cigarette

  sometimes,

  it’s just a thread

  sometimes,

  it’s a colouring pencil

  sometimes,

  it’s a slingshot

  sometimes,

  it’s just a small ball,

  a watch,

  a compass,

  a flute,

  a handkerchief,

  a photo of a child,

  a photo of a martyred father,

  a mirror,

  a Viagra pill,

  a condom,

  a small bottle of arak,

  a pen (for signing a confession),

  a cheat sheet,

  bread and eggs,

  sunflower seeds,

  stolen fruit.

  And sometimes this:

  a malicious report against a friend.

  Other times,

  the pocket is used to protect the hand from the cold,

  or to avoid a handshake,

  or to avoid clapping,

  or to hide tainted money,

  or to cope with boredom,

  or to imprison a little bird,

  or to hide a wedding ring,

  or to hide evidence of an affair,

  or to hide a politician’s self-incriminating letter,

  or to hide stolen doves,

  or to keep a mercy bullet.

  Sometimes,

  it’s their second country’s passport that people pull out,

  some kissing it,

  others just looking at it.

  I Didn’t Want to Leave Alone

  The stream and I

  move together

  in the dark,

  in empty spaces,

  in forests,

  and in winter.

  Together,

  we bring nourishment to trees we don’t even know;

  then we move on.

  When I fall behind,

  the stream waits for me.

  When the stream gets behind,

  I wait for it.

  Sometimes the stream is good company,

  telling me great stories.

  When the mist comes,

  we change our clothes

  and forget about time.

  Amazingly,

  we still don’t know

  how long we have been in each other’s company.

  Also,

  I never thought it proper to ask

  why the stream makes room for both the hunter and the hunted—

  I know there may be some wisdom in this,

  but I’m not sure.

  The stream and I

  move on.

  Some mornings,

  I turn to mist,

  providing the stream with cover,

  while it becomes my muse

  as I stop,

  trying to mimic the little waves.

  We’re like two travellers,

  passing trains, old roads, and abandoned settlements.

  As we continued our journey,

  we learned that every village and town

  had a different name for us.

  At one point,

  we saw a sailor

  looking for wind.

  We saw the moon too,

  giving us,

  though unwillingly,

  its thick warm coat.

  That night,

  I had no need for rest;

  I had no trouble getting up in the morning.

  My poetry became inseparable from the waves and mountains.

  In the end,

  I didn’t care in which direction the stream was heading,

  but I was sure it was not heading to Koya.

  Returning to Autumn

  I’m not sure

  you too can return to autumn,

  but I must say

  it’s been a good return for me:

  these past six days

  I get good sleep,

  I rise early,

  I get to see the leaves fall,

  and now that my words have turned into an orchard,

  I don’t need much.

  I pick ripened fruit every morning

  and thank autumn for helping me reconcile with myself.

  To Go Back and Back

  1

  I want the stream

  that has been following me for years

  to become my imitator.

  2

  The seagull left the sea,

  flew far, far away,

  but, unlike us,

  it can return.

  …

  4

  When I was a kid,

  on my way to school,

  I used to look at the grass

  growing on both sides of the road.

  …

  6

/>   When you return,

  be sure to bring imagination along.

  …

  10

  It’s a good time

  to fly for free.

  11

  Stop sending me letters

  via the wind.

  …

  13

  I’m still trying

  to bridge the distance

  between

  my heart

  and my new place.

  14

  When I return to my childhood,

  I’ll come straight to you.

  …

  16

  Mine is the power of love;

  theirs is the power of hate.

  …

  18

  Under the soul,

  freedom is all alone.

  …

  20

  Next to a martyred son

  a mother’s footprint.

  …

  22

  The colours

  got lost between us.

  …

  25

  Autumn

  brings the world home.

  26

  The river

  always gives us softer bodies.

  27

  In autumn

  you were always a pleasant sunshine.

  …

  29

  Loneliness

  is driving the ocean

  crazy.

  30

  The shade

  we left behind by the river

  is now a boat!

  …

  32

  Even for burial,

  he refused to change.

  …

  34

  The road I took

  on my return home

  collapsed into the sea.

  …

  36

  Tonight,

  your story

  bored me.

  …

  38

  If you lose me,

  you’ll find me at a terminal.

  39

  The crowd

  that used to steal my time

  is still there.

  …

  41

  I’m looking for a place

  where I won’t drown.

  42

  The trap

  he laid

  in his front yard

  to catch a blackbird

  collapsed

  on his conscience.

  …

  44

  An owl,

  one autumn night,

  was too frightened

  of his own voice

  to fall asleep.

  …

  46

  I wouldn’t like to be a king:

  that would spoil my loneliness.

  47

  The fingers

  that used to pray in the cold,

  I see them no more.

  …

  49

  My exile’s roots

  grow deeper by the day.

  …

  51

  The children

  drew the map of their homeland

  on the dusty ground of their refugee camp.

  52

  The horizon

  is where the day’s peace and quiet ends.

  …

  55

  The two of us,

  in a poem,