a spring,
a valley,
a cliff.
Neither its music,
nor its poetry
cared for dreams.
Life Coming to an End
Life
took away
the lines
and the wings.
People returned from the flood,
only to fight again.
People returned from the desert at night,
the sword still at their side.
People returned from the mountains,
their memories of better times erased.
No one knew how to dance anymore.
Nature’s Playground
Desire
is fighting with the woods
over what happened the night before.
In a room,
a tree is fighting with desire
over growth;
grass is in short supply.
For me, too,
the game is over.
The Fallen Doves
The fallen doves
have been entangled in imagination
and imagination itself has been trapped by thorns.
Our history has fallen into a stream;
It is disappearing fast.
Only serenity can reignite desire.
The fallen doves
don’t want to have anything to do
with a history that doesn’t reside high up.
The Rain of Compassion
1
There was no shade anywhere;
the dream’s body was the earth’s pasture.
The earth,
by squeezing summer grass,
had managed to come up with a glass of water.
As for luck,
it had taken refuge among the reeds.
Desolation was becoming burdensome even for the clouds.
A poet was trying to follow an eagle,
the valley was in ruin,
the sea was in no hurry to fill up the jars.
Bad smells came from the bedrooms,
the wells,
the streams.
There were no walnuts on the trees,
no winds either.
It was the start of summer;
homes had their doors wide open;
grief was busy shortening lives.
Not too long ago,
there was plenty for the birds to eat;
women were good friends with the rain.
The fisherman,
the shepherd,
the woodsman,
the merchant had no reason to complain.
But now beauty was declaring,
“I have sealed my letter and have thrown it into a stream.”
The shaman, however, remained hopeful:
“Clapping your hands makes all your wishes come true;
sleep for seven years, and you’ll see the doves returning.”
2
One of my legs is stuck in the west;
the other is trapped in the thick mud of the east.
All the milk is spilled;
the wind refuses to meet its obligations.
I stay away from the mirror,
but I see some people trying to rub sunshine on their hair,
while combing their desire in front of the mirror.
On the way home the other day,
I was thinking of my stolen keys,
and of why in the past
there was enough water even for the dead.
3
Greetings to you, tall grasses of the valleys.
We take our clothes off,
and mingle with you like music.
The crown is fallen;
the earth is fallen.
But the egg
from the other side of the world
can be seen.
If you don’t already own a home, however,
you shouldn’t be thinking about buying one now.
After seven years,
I’m returning to where the doves come to drink,
but I still cannot find my keys
and words are all I have.
Untitled
1
Don’t be upset,
I’m still
a sapling
in your heart’s courtyard.
…
4
One of these evenings,
I ought to travel with myself.
…
9
The only way for me
to find my lost memories
is to be somewhere where I can fly.
10
The wings stolen
during the Anfal assault
stayed in the desert.
11
I am looking for legs made out of wind
so that
I can get home sooner.
12
I saw the sun
going down by a pond
wearing a T-shirt with a rainbow.
The Sun Ignores My Boat
1
This time,
from the other side of the ocean,
it’s me and my luck,
long forgotten and left behind,
that frequent the alleyways of my childhood.
The revolution,
buried under the rocks now,
stopped dreaming a long time ago.
It allowed itself to become a prisoner of fate.
I returned to the east
in order to sit by the fireplace of wisdom.
I knew I had no one left in the cities.
I knew it was too late to look for a home.
I knew there were no heavenly gardens anymore.
It was in a meadow
where birds cannot live
that I realized reciting poetry was now impossible.
Repairs were of no use:
the bridges connecting heaven and hell had to be rebuilt entirely.
I had this really funny brother,
who put the moon in my imagination,
who reminded me of my favourite garden,
and took me to the alleyways of our childhood.
I used to wake him up early
so that he could see sunrise.
I always shared my food with him,
took him out for evening walks,
told him about the city and its history.
I gave him every plot of land I owned.
But one day,
while we were watching the birds in our courtyard,
he said he wanted to learn how to make cages.
Ever since,
the two of us had been fighting;
and it was our fights that sent me to exile.
2
I crossed the high seas—
seas that, like me, had no country,
but, unlike me, they knew their purpose.
I waited to see if the seas would burn with me.
They didn’t.
At night,
the fishermen turned their lights off;
I wasn’t happy about that.
I joined those waiting for rain;
we lay down on our backs near the sea,
bored and empty-handed.
I used to be in love with the sky,
but this time the sky seemed to be lost.
Instead of rain came the warplanes.
My daughter Niga asked,
“Dad, does this mean we can’t go shopping?”
3
From now on,
we sit in the sun
and let our beards turn grey,
while we become strangers
to mother, death, and sea.
Here they say
God died a long time ago.
Over there,
before everyone else,
we grew wheat
and played music.
4
I am a stranger;
I come from far, far away;
I ran away from war.
I want the two of us to burn together.
Here,
I see no roads to take me home.
Sea: I know you are powerful;
I know also you have no time for hope.
Sea: I have been waiting for the sun to rise;
but I am just wasting my time:
the sun keeps ignoring my boat.
But then after all these years,
I am still looking forward to the day
when I can relax in the sun.
5
Sea: that evening,
when I arrived at the shore,
I saw no fishermen.
That night,
as I lay my head on a rock,
I felt disappointed
and frightened.
6
Sea: I must admit,
this time around the trip was different.
The roads were very scary;
I had no idea where I was heading.
But I could tell
you were not as burned with grief
as I was.
You also seemed to be a natural when it came to travelling.
At one point,
I travelled back in time to Sktan.
I waited for darkness to depart from the sea;
I was hoping,
but again in vain,
to get my stolen art back.
I needed to be in the sun very badly;
spring, once again, proved to be a disappointment.
And you pushed deeper and deeper into the west.
I got myself an apartment facing the east.
I had my keys,
but then by year’s end
war broke out again.
The wounded died of thirst;
sanity swore never to come back.
Once again,
a mirror broke in my hand.
I remembered what my mother had said,
“My son, stay where you are;
displacement will be hard on you.”
But, exile, I couldn’t resist your offer;
“Freedom,” you said, “was everything.”
7
During the war,
time and nature,
as well as ways of death,
changed.
Well, my brother,
I had to save myself from the war.
Was that wrong?
It wasn’t too long ago,
dear brother,
when poets owned the earth and the sky,
and gardens didn’t lie to them.
But now poets are in retreat.
Words don’t want to go near them;
they won’t survive without coffee.
Brother,
life has become too hard:
luck is in hiding
and I can’t stop the rain
from seeping through my roof.
Brother,
when I arrived in exile,
my luck refused to get out from its hiding place.
I spent my first night by the sea.
That night,
the wind returned wings to butterflies;
the orchards were full of kisses.
One again,
I had to rely on the kindness of words.
8
Dear brother,
isn’t it about time we put our guns away?
Isn’t it about time we stopped fighting under the moon?
Isn’t it about time we stopped hurting our land?
My brother,
I know full well what’s going on:
the peace that the morning brings
by evening is forgotten.
My brother,
I fled the war rather than fight against you.
9
Dear brother,
before I left for exile,
I was still in love with Hawler at night.
Remember my mother didn’t want to see me pack?
But I am here now,
and I am coming to you, Oh Sea, for help:
help me find my way in this new world.
My brother,
I remember the time you robbed me of my little rubber ball.
I let your anger win.
It’s easy to play a game;
it’s even easier to ruin it.
Keeping to Oneself
His tomb is in the west.
The storm has reduced visibility to zero;
the roads cannot be seen.
The snow is too much for people to bear.
Everywhere is dark;
a strong wind is needed to break up the gloom.
His tomb is in the west.
People can be seen here and there,
running away from loneliness,
frightened,
trying to withdraw into their burrows.
It will be a long time before they reappear.
Midlife
History has made you worry too much,
but when will history be thinking of you?
Your back is crooked;
no one wants to notice you.
Your heart is as generous as before,
but it doesn’t get excited anymore.
History has made you worry too much.
These days,
you and history walk elbow to elbow
in the same direction:
that of the known and the unknown.
The two of you reach a child playing with water—
it’s only then you begin to understand
that memory is the problem.
My Heart and Water
If my heart could be turned into a rock,
I would throw it into the water.
By getting used to water,
my heart would make the crossing a lot easier.
Shouting at the World
A hand came, secretly;
it tied me up in the cold;
then tied me up in the heat.
It made no difference:
my soul continued shouting at the world.
The End of Conflicts
The gull
was determined to keep its turf.
A crow came
and sat on a rock;
the two became a pair.
The gull raised its chicks;
the crow began crowing.
A pigeon flew out of its nest,
and sat on the same rock.
The place became known
as the triangle of birds,
or where conflicts end.
An Old Desire
No need to build a fire;
snow won’t be falling.
Put your hand inside the meadow,
and it will soon take root.
People like it that way;
the birds like it that way.
The two worlds were far apart:
one was fragmented,
the other in ruin,
but they can be made whole.
The Shade’s Wound
Even death cannot satisfy the storm.
Summer is over,
but its body has yet to be buried.
Empty village,
what are you waiting for?
Empty heart,
what are you waiting for?
No one will be using the roads anymore;
they’ve all turned yellow.
Only human connection
can save us from loneliness.
Water’s Limitation
At long last
I saw water at work:
Cleverly making its way,
letting everything bathe in it.
But water has its limitations too:
it cannot return to its source.
Before Leaving
Before leaving,
he put a flower on his lapel;
his legs, however, were shaking.
An eagle flew towards his head
and landed on top.
; There was nothing he could do to make the bird fly away.
The Most Depressing Time
It was the most depressing time:
The shadows were wrapping themselves around the earth;
fear was falling down with the rain.
Fear accompanied me to the door.
Farewell was like a dead hand:
too many questions,
too few answers.
The Wind of Exile
Before exile,
I was where all the winds gathered;
I didn’t have to hide from them.
On the contrary,
they were like good friends to me,
always trying not to let depression come near me.
But here,
no matter what I do,
the wind refuses to welcome me.
Winter’s Response
I made it through another autumn.
They said, “Winter uses the cold to hold onto earth.”
Winter protested:
“After all the rain and the wind,
I turned once again into a humble creek,
giving nourishment to earth.”
They said, “When summer comes,
you will be blown away like straw.”
But that didn’t happen.
Burial
We need to dig another grave;
the one we dug hit the rocks.
But we cannot dig in the dark;
besides, the cemetery is full.
Another cemetery is an option,
but his grave must be among other graves.
That’s what the moon said
before granting permission for his burial.
A Lonely Flower
A lonely flower
growing by a spring
wrapped itself in its petals year round.
I waited for a sweet-talker to arrive
to rescue her from loneliness.
The Shrine
It’s too cold for the birds to fly;
the place is shrouded in fog.
Don’t go down any further,
you’ll get lost.
But it’s a quiet place—
if you stay here long enough,
you’ll become a shrine.
To Be Naked Again
A flock of crows are waiting:
for what?
The blood of air and earth?
To receive my memoir?
It’s not mine anymore.
The rain has scattered my dreams;
they’re beyond recognition now.
I waited for fate.
Trying Again to Stop Time Page 4
