Trying Again to Stop Time

by Jalal Barzanji

  It came.

  We bonded,

  we danced,

  but soon it disappeared.

  I have no memoir to share.

  After the Storm

  The storm,

  having destroyed one street,

  is now turning its wrath against another.

  You, and your collection of bloody wounds,

  where do you want to go?

  The storm has tied your hands and legs.

  Since you cannot move,

  history and I will come to pay you a visit—

  maybe we can solve your problems.

  His Soul Returned to Us

  He went inside

  and turned all the lights on.

  He put on his best clothes.

  “Come and catch me,” he said.

  He had just gotten out of the hospital;

  memories had soured his mood;

  he had thrown away his medicine.

  He said,

  “I’ll buy a horse and a greyhound

  and return to the village—

  that’s where I want to spend the rest of my life.”

  It was eight o’clock in the evening;

  a severe pain invaded his bones;

  he got up,

  went outside,

  and fell to the ground:

  life left him like a liquid.

  We sat by his body all night,

  crying.

  By early morning,

  he was buried.

  Soon after, his soul returned to us as a butterfly.

  The Anthem of Departure

  A shadow eclipsed the moon.

  A pair of dogs,

  left behind,

  were playing joyfully.

  If you are not dead already,

  you soon will be,

  so what would you want as your shroud?

  The brightness of the moon?

  Or dry grass?

  Or snow high up the mountain peaks?

  You try to stay behind locked doors

  and move away from the colder regions.

  But no matter where you are,

  you’ll still hear the anthem of departure.

  The wolves come down in packs,

  singing goodbyes.

  The moon separates itself from nature;

  the snow tries to achieve immortality

  by keeping to itself.

  So one more time:

  What would you want as your shroud?

  A View

  When you turn into a gentle rain,

  I will follow you.

  When you turn into a brook,

  I will become the evergreen grass along your banks.

  An Accident

  You used to come at night

  and add more logs to the fire,

  start telling me stories from long ago,

  from faraway lands.

  They were great stories.

  I loved no one as I loved you.

  Since then,

  I see more wrinkles on my face,

  my hair is greyer.

  You stopped writing.

  And even though you exist only in a painting,

  I can never forget you.

  That Evening

  The forest avoided looking at the sky,

  for that evening

  it had seen too many dead bodies.

  I waited and waited

  but no stars appeared.

  The Immortal Lorca

  His dead body is where pollen comes to gather

  and wait for the wind.

  This is also where flowers from around the world come to sing,

  and where lovers come to cry.

  A Poet and a Suitcase

  1

  In the ice water of your eyes,

  summer is a dry tree.

  Flocks of night birds fly

  from town to town

  and village to village.

  Your heart is a cloud

  inside my heart;

  it doesn’t like where it is.

  Your depression won’t go away

  until you forget me and yourself,

  or until you turn my poetry into tobacco.

  If you die,

  die like a stream—

  let people see how you were.

  2

  A deserted road,

  a poet,

  a suitcase—

  nothing can describe sadness better.

  3

  Under a sunshine that comes and goes

  my days in exile

  turn into dry twigs.

  Let the village girls collect them

  for their evening fire.

  And you—

  every now and then,

  you appear from under the snow,

  or when the sun is out—

  but you never linger.

  The Lantern

  Take the lantern

  and put it by the tombstone of that grave.

  In the spring

  pollen

  and in the summer

  dry grass

  will come here to dance.

  The poor will be glad to see the lantern—

  it will make tears look like stars.

  No Return

  You died in the evening;

  the path to the water hole was blocked;

  the link between my heart and millions of sparrows snapped.

  My heart didn’t know what to do;

  it couldn’t turn into a mountain,

  for my heart and mountains stopped co-existing long ago.

  A Legend

  Year round the snowstorm is busy doing its work;

  even the wind cannot plough the snow off the mountain slopes;

  no tree is in sight;

  the land is bare.

  Legend says:

  “Once upon a time,

  a traveller,

  looking for honey,

  slipped down a mountain slope,

  head first.

  His body was never found.”

  Returning

  Late at night,

  when the dogs start barking,

  I say you’ll return

  but only to leave soon.

  Please come back

  before the rain sweeps away the only remaining bridge—

  I would lose my mind seeing you stranded.

  Until the dogs stop barking

  and the stream turns calm again,

  I’ll have no rest.

  A New Cloud

  I love you more than ever before.

  Take me for what I am.

  Where do you want to go?

  Please don’t go—

  you don’t know where this narrow path takes you.

  Let us give our love a chance;

  at least wait until autumn.

  Please don’t go—

  please don’t be tempted by the snow

  to trap the little black birds.

  But if you really have to go,

  then you will have to put an end to my agony.

  Always Anxious

  It’s a full moon,

  but one side of the mountain

  has yet to see proof of that.

  That’s how love is:

  It’s always anxious.

  Our Breakup

  We were two peaks in a dense fog,

  but we could always see the stars.

  The moon liked us;

  the sun flooded us with sunshine;

  darkness flattened the hills and valleys dividing us—

  that’s why the mountain peaks don’t understand

  why we broke up.

  The Shade

  I have to wait until tomorrow

  to enjoy the afternoon shade

  created by the ancient citadel.

  By early evening,

  the shade covers half of the city.

  It then gently disappears into darkness.

  The lantern is my sole companion,
/>   but I will let you have it.

  I know you’ll protect it from the rain.

  To Be Surrounded

  Behind the mountain,

  the dogs bark non-stop.

  There’s nothing the mountain can do,

  except keep a low profile.

  To Love

  1

  Before it gets dark,

  let me see you again—

  Seeing you is what keeps me alive.

  I don’t want to be inside;

  even when it’s cold,

  I prefer the streets.

  I know the wind will take away my winter coat;

  I know one night the cold will kill me.

  When you find out,

  you’ll sleep in peace.

  You don’t want

  to end up in the street like me,

  harassed by flies and the wind.

  To love is to go crazy.

  2

  I promise I’ll see you again.

  I promise I’ll hide you again.

  I promise I’ll take you again

  to all our favourite places.

  I know even the mountains cannot get in our way.

  When you say, “I’m on fire,”

  I promise not to call for help.

  3

  I know

  one day you’ll join the trees,

  helping birds and travellers.

  I know

  you will then turn into a pond—

  a meeting place for doves, ducks, and house martins.

  4

  Why do you want to go inside?

  The stars have yet to appear.

  Please don’t go inside:

  I feel weak,

  I resemble a hollow tree

  battered by the wind.

  A Visit

  Come and visit my grave,

  but come only at night

  and alone,

  bring some flowers

  and build a little fire.

  “What are you doing?

  Crying?

  What for?

  Look at me:

  Now neither the storms nor the waves can cause me harm.”

  Having No Need for Fire

  1

  You’re a vast desert

  with only the shadow of the clouds visiting you

  and only for a few hours a day—

  and only in winter.

  Your colour is grey;

  you haven’t seen any trees,

  nor snow;

  if it snows just once,

  all of your sins will be forgiven,

  and you’ll acquire a more lively colour,

  attracting all sorts of birds.

  2

  I remember,

  you’d come to my place

  sometimes in the snow,

  your body shivering

  as you dusted the snow off your clothes;

  you always made sure my place was warm enough.

  On the misty window pane,

  you’d write,

  “The world is nothing without love;

  loving you keeps me alive.”

  The snow would stop,

  the birds would come out again,

  but you’d still be there,

  standing,

  looking at me—

  we felt like two birds,

  with no need for fire or overcoats.

  The Evening Snow Dance

  That evening,

  I saw you off in heavy snow;

  we couldn’t tell spring was already upon us.

  When apart,

  we’re like night owls.

  Next time we embrace

  it will be among the dandelions.

  The drought comes

  the rain comes

  the snow comes:

  the rain and the earth thank one another

  after they become friends with our love.

  The Meadow

  An ancient woodland in a valley,

  where flocks of sparrows gather,

  where a shepherd can still be seen

  sitting on a rock playing his flute,

  and where daffodils greet every visitor:

  I greet them back;

  I greet the sparrows too.

  The Fish Eagle

  Before the evening is over,

  the fish eagle makes its last dive,

  ever careful to keep most of its body dry.

  As it tries to land on a tree,

  unintentionally,

  it scares many birds away.

  The Dance of the Waves

  I sleep near your heart.

  Please don’t say,

  “My heart is full of poisonous snakes.”

  Please don’t cry for me:

  Your tears will scare the earth away.

  When the wind stops blowing,

  we’ll be better off than flowers.

  That Tree

  I returned to that tree,

  the one on which you wrote,

  “I love you forever.”

  I embraced it,

  didn’t mind the cold,

  the wind,

  the darkness.

  When the storm became severe,

  the footpath you built above the stream

  helped me escape.

  Your Heart

  Your heart has been trapped in a fortress—

  your leadership is drunk by night;

  it’s in tears by day.

  Don’t expect any rescue mission.

  Any Time You Come

  1

  The storm destroyed his grave,

  washing away the bones and the stones.

  I still don’t want you to cry;

  calm will always return.

  2

  A bird is flying low

  right above the cemetery.

  Come inside my love;

  my soul will warm you up.

  Not being with you

  is like being stuck in a deep valley.

  Anytime you come,

  you’ll find the door of my heart wide open.

  The Death of a Poet

  This is the body of a poet

  being returned to his source:

  a tree that has kept spring in the shade for many years.

  But wait: is this really a body,

  or a cloud,

  or a forest?

  A lot of birds are in the procession;

  so is the snow.

  Who’s going to keep watch over the body tonight?

  It’s a beautiful night:

  all the stars are out

  and fear is gone.

  Tomorrow

  he’ll be buried

  among the other immortals.

  The Kindness of Trees

  In a rugged valley,

  the road said:

  “I have never seen any light above my head;

  my heart cannot feel what’s above—

  I miss being with the trees.”

  A stork said:

  “I won’t allow old age to stop me.

  I’ll continue coming early every spring.

  I’ll go back to the same nest,

  but each time I’ll add fresh straw.”

  The road said:

  “Could it be that light is even more fragile than me?

  Or could it be that I am not affectionate enough?

  I have no other wish,

  but for light to reach my heart,

  just once.”

  Separation

  If you leave me,

  we’ll be as far apart as the earth and the sun:

  you’ll be on one side of the mountain;

  I’ll be on the other.

  Worse, your memories will stop moving me.

  A Layer of Dust

  A tornado you were:

  You didn’t settle anywhere;

  you never left the evening sky alone;

  you were always tense and unpredictable.

  What you’
ve left behind

  is nothing but a layer of dust.

  Falling in Love

  Even if the world turns upside down,

  I won’t stop loving you.

  What are you doing in this desert?

  Moonlight won’t allow your words to reach me.

  That’s why I must stand atop the world’s ruin

  and sing your name

  in summer and autumn,

  in winter and spring,

  as the snow slowly gives way to new life

  and new flowers.

  No matter how things turn out between us,

  your fingerprints will continue to nourish my body.

  Where Am I?

  Fourteen years in this country,

  in the same neighbourhood,

  and I still don’t know where I belong.

  With my next door neighbour on the right,

  I have yet to exchange a word;

  with my other neighbour, I do talk,

  but no more than three times a year.

  If it’s summer and the sun is out,

  we say, “It’s a nice day.”

  If it’s winter,

  while shovelling the snow,

  we say: “It’s snow again.”

  And then just before the year is over,

  he leaving,

  I returning,

  we exchange a few more words.

  The Shadow of a Wall

  The Berlin Wall,

  long the face of the Cold War,

  fell in 1989,

  ending the city’s ideological divide:

  churchgoers,

  mail carriers,

  freed political prisoners,

  exiles—

  they all celebrated together.

  In East Germany,

  books on communism and its promised utopia

  were shoved aside;

  now books on capitalism and spirituality were in demand.

  The Berlin Wall came down:

  the markets became free

  and the secret police became a thing of the past.

  But what next?

  After seventy years of the Cold War,