Damascus, What Are You Doing to Me?
1
My voice rings
out, this time, from Damascus
It rings out
from the house of my mother and father
In Sham. The
geography of my body changes.
The cells of my
blood become green.
My alphabet is
green.
In Sham. A new
mouth emerges for my mouth
A new voice
emerges for my voice
And my fingers
Become a tribe
2
I return to
Damascus
Riding on the
backs of clouds
Riding the two
most beautiful horses in the world
The horse of
passion.
The horse of
poetry.
I return after
sixty years
To search for my
umbilical cord,
For the
Damascene barber who circumcised me,
For the midwife
who tossed me in the basin under the bed
And received a
gold lira from my father,
She left our
house
On that day in
March of 1923
Her hands
stained with the blood of the poem . . .
3
I return to the
womb in which I was formed . . .
To the first
book I read in it . . .
To the first
woman who taught me
The geography of
love . . .
And the
geography of women . . .
4
I return
After my limbs
have been strewn across all the continents
And my cough has
been scattered in all the hotels
After my
mother's sheets scented with laurel soap
I have found no
other bed to sleep on . . .
And after the
"bride" of oil and thyme
That she would
roll up for me
No longer does
any other "bride" in the world please me
And after the
quince jam she would make with her own hands
I am no longer
enthusiastic about breakfast in the morning
And after the
blackberry drink that she would make
No other wine
intoxicates me . . .
5
I enter the
courtyard of the Umayyad Mosque
And greet
everyone in it
Corner to . . .
corner
Tile to . . .
tile
Dove to . . .
dove
I wander in the
gardens of Kufi script
And pluck
beautiful flowers of God's words
And hear with my
eye the voice of the mosaics
And the music of
agate prayer beads
A state of
revelation and rapture overtakes me,
So I climb the
steps of the first minaret that encounters me
Calling:
"Come to
the jasmine"
"Come to
the jasmine"
6
Returning to you
Stained by the
rains of my longing
Returning to
fill my pockets
With nuts, green
plums, and green almonds
Returning to my
oyster shell
Returning to my
birth bed
For the
fountains of Versailles
Are no
compensation for the Fountain Café
And Les Halles
in Paris
Is no
compensation for the Friday market
And Buckingham
Palace in London
Is no
compensation for Azem Palace
And the pigeons
of San Marco in Venice
Are no more
blessed than the doves in the Umayyad Mosque
And Napoleon's
tomb in Les Invalides
Is no more
glorious than the tomb of Salah al-Din Al-Ayyubi . . .
7
I wander in the
narrow alleys of Damascus.
Behind the
windows, honeyed eyes awake
And greet me . .
.
The stars wear
their gold bracelets
And greet me
And the pigeons
alight from their towers
And greet me
And the clean
Shami cats come out
Who were born
with us . . .
Grew up with us
. . .
And married with
us . . .
To greet me . .
.
8
I immerse myself
in the Buzurriya Souq
Set a sail in a
cloud of spices
Clouds of cloves
And cinnamon . .
.
And camomile . .
.
I perform
ablutions in rose water once.
And in the water
of passion many times . . .
And I
forget-while in the Souq al-èAttarine-
All the
concoctions of Nina Ricci . . .
And Coco Chanel
. . .
What are you
doing to me Damascus?
How have you
changed my culture? My aesthetic taste?
For I have been
made to forget the ringing of cups of licorice
The piano
concerto of Rachmaninoff . . .
How do the
gardens of Sham transform me?
For I have
become the first conductor in the world
That leads an
orchestra from a willow tree!!
9
I have come to
you . . .
From the history
of the Damascene rose
That condenses
the history of perfume . . .
From the memory
of al-Mutanabbi
That condenses
the history of poetry . . .
I have come to
you . . .
From the
blossoms of bitter orange . . .
And the dahlia .
. .
And the
narcissus . . .
And the
"nice boy" . . .
That first
taught me drawing . . .
I have come to
you . . .
From the
laughter of Shami women
That first
taught me music . . .
And the
beginning of adolesence
From the spouts
of our alley
That first
taught me crying
And from my
mother's prayer rug
That first
taught me
The path to God
. . .
10
I open the
drawers of memory
One . . . then
another
I remember my
father . . .
Coming out of
his workshop on Mu'awiya Alley
I remember the
horse-drawn carts . . .
And the sellers
of prickly pears . . .
And the cafés of
al-Rubwa
That
nearly-after five flasks of èaraq-
Fall into the
river
I remember the
colored towels
As they dance on
the door of Hammam al-Khayyatin
As if they were
celebrating their national holiday.
I remember the
Damascene houses
With their
copper doorknobs
And their
ceilings decorated with glazed tiles
And their
interior courtyards
That remind you
of descriptions of heaven . . .
11
The Damascene
House
Is beyond the
architectural text
The design of
our homes . . .
Is based on an
emotional foundation
For every house
leans . . . on the hip of another
And every
balcony . . .
Extends its hand
to another facing it
Damascene houses
are loving houses . . .
They greet one
another in the morning . . .
And exchange
visits . . .
Secretly-at
night . . .
12
When I was a
diplomat in Britain
Thirty years ago
My mother would
send letters at the beginning of Spring
Inside each
letter . . .
A bundle of
tarragon . . .
And when the
English suspected my letters
They took them
to the laboratory
And turned them
over to Scotland Yard
And explosives
experts.
And when they
grew weary of me . . . and my tarragon
They would ask:
Tell us, by god . . .
What is the name
of this magical herb that has made us dizzy?
Is it a talisman?
Medicine?
A secret code?
What is it
called in English?
I said to them:
It's difficult for me to explain . . .
For tarragon is
a language that only the gardens of Sham speak
It is our sacred
herb . . .
Our perfumed
eloquence
And if your
great poet Shakespeare had known of tarragon
His plays would
have been better . . .
In brief . . .
My mother is a
wonderful woman . . . she loves me greatly . . .
And whenever she
missed me
She would send
me a bunch of tarragon . . .
Because for her,
tarragon is the emotional equivalent
To the words: my
darling . . .
And when the
English didn't understand one word of my poetic argument . . .
They gave me
back my tarragon and closed the investigation . . .
13
From Khan Asad
Basha
Abu Khalil
al-Qabbani emerges . . .
In his damask
robe . . .
And his brocaded
turban . . .
And his eyes
haunted with questions . . .
Like Hamlet's
He attempts to
present an avant-garde play
But they demand
Karagoz's tent . . .
He tries to
present a text from Shakespeare
They ask him
about the news of al-Zir . . .
He tries to find
a single female voice
To sing with him
. . .
"Oh That of
Sham"
They load up
their Ottoman rifles,
And fire into
every rose tree
That sings
professionally . . .
He tries to find
a single woman
To repeat after
him:
"Oh bird of
birds, oh dove"
They unsheathe
their knives
And slaughter
all the descendents of doves . . .
And all the
descendents of women . . .
After a hundred
years . . .
Damascus
apologized to Abu Khalil al-Qabbani
And they erected
a magnificent theater in his name.
14
I put on the
jubbah of Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-Arabi
I descend from
the peak of Mt. Qassiun
Carrying for the
children of the city . . .
Peaches
Pomegranates
And sesame
halawa . . .
And for its
women . . .
Necklaces of
turquoise . . .
And poems of
love . . .
I enter . . .
A long tunnel of
sparrows
Gillyflowers . .
.
Hibiscus . . .
Clustered
jasmine . . .
And I enter the
questions of perfume . . .
And my schoolbag
is lost from me
And the copper
lunch case . . .
In which I used
to carry my food . . .
And the blue
beads
That my mother
used to hang on my chest
So People of
Sham
He among you who
finds me . . .
let him return
me to Umm Mu'ataz
And God's reward
will be his
I am your green
sparrow . . . People of Sham
So he among you
who finds me . . .
let him feed me
a grain of wheat . . .
I am your
Damascene rose . . . People of Sham
So he among you
who finds me . . .
let him place me
in the first vase . . .
I am your mad
poet . . . People of Sham
So he among you
who sees me . . .
let him take a
souvenir photograph of me
Before I recover
from my enchanting insanity . . .
I am your
fugitive moon . . . People of Sham
So he among you
who sees me . . .
Let him donate
to me a bed . . . and a wool blanket . . .
Because I
haven't slept for centuries
Translated from Arabic by Shareah Taleghani
Shareah Taleghani is a Ph.D. student in the Department of Middle East Studies at New York University. Her research interests in contemporary Arabic literature include globalization and the politics of translation, literary tourism, and theories of narrative. She has recently completed a Master's thesis on nostalgic longing, satire, and allegory in Arabic literature.
Read more: http://wordswithoutborders.org/article/damascus-what-are-you-doing-to-me#ixzz2MW0AEIsa
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nizar_Qabbani
http://litterature.arabe.adab.over-blog.com/categorie-11514751.html