From Midnight

Translated by Radwa Ashour

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This new diwan by Palestinian poet Mourid Al-Barghouti -- his 15th poetry collection since Al-Toufan wa I'adat Al- Takwin (The deluge and recreation) in 1972 -- is composed of one long poem written between January 2002 and July 2004. Though the book is dated January 2005, it appeared last week during the Beirut Book Fair. It could not be more timely since it depicts a man alone on New Year's eve bombarded by science and memories of his whole life, whether personal, existentialist or historical. Below are excerpts from the poem.

Now, on this earth which is not the earth,
I remember --
one remembers what one has never forgotten --
white bells
touched with morning gold,
or were they the flowers
in the orange and lemon orchard
throbbing on their April branches?
You say: What's the difference?
I did hear a glittering resonance
which snatched me from my first primary school shirt
and invited me alone to the small orchard.
I went in playfully
when, all of a sudden,
the scent of flowers made me feel dizzy
and were it not for my grandfather's arm,
I would've fallen in a swoon
of pleasure and death.
(there's always an arm without whose help we die).
- Boy, would oranges kill you?
what a disgrace!
He said to me, as if he said to me:
- Boy, you will know how to love a woman,
and, like Abdel-Wahab, you'll write poetry
- Who's Abdel-Wahab, grandpa?
- He's the village madman,
he did nothing but poetry
and left nothing but poetry!
He said to me, as if he said to me:
- I'll always be worried about you!
The clouds were steps descending
from the centre of the sky,
the earth was of coffee beans and cardamom,
the wooden radio set
was the latest of inventions,
(it aired news we could not understand),
I rubbed the orange leaf in my hands,
I rubbed it in order to smell it
as I was told,
and before my hand could reach my nose
I had lost my home and became a refugee!

*****

Life is hidden somewhere,
I know!
Life is hidden not far from here,
I know!
Shall I search for it
like a pin?
like a broken button?
like a ring in the dust?
Shall I go back to sleep for one more hour
to see it in my dream?
Shall I go to mountebanks
and fortunetellers,
explain how it looks
hoping that a charm of their making,
hung round my neck,
might take me back to it
or bring it back to me?
Shall I put its picture up in police stations,
in emergency clinics
and on newspapers,
with a sentimental caption:
Life, we've forgiven you
We shall not punish you for running away
We're all waiting for you
Please life, come back!

*****

Eternal runner,
running to it,
how long is the distance!
Whenever you're close to the finish line
they push it back and move it away
from your tears of victory.
As if you've been made of weariness.
As if you've been made for weariness.
From the sun's doorstep to the moon's balcony,
you keep wide awake, when all go to sleep,
afraid that the stars will fall down
if your hands do not nail them
to the night's ceiling!
Calm down a bit,
rest a moment, my friend,
Even the gods
of ancient epics
leave their temples,
haunted by the curses of oracles
and the deaths of heroes,
and steal away
to have some fun.
Thunder
has its working shifts,
then it draws its dotted blanket
and goes to sleep.
And like country women
bathing in the frivolity of water springs,
the stream dries its body
with summer towels,
reclines on a pebble sheet
and basks in the sun.
To the plowman,
to the river,
to the train,
there is a time of arrival
and a celebration
of homecoming.
From far away battlefields,
boiling like a cauldron of bewilderment,
the soldiers
return to the boredom of homely love,
thanks to rotation and their mother's prayers.
The sun's weariness
settles into
sugar in grapes,
crimson in cherries,
honey in figs
and olive oil in jars.
War itself,
leaning on its cane,
walks a little in the corridors of peace.
Massacre keeps awake all through your own night
working on perfecting your absence,
then relaxes on her morning couch,
and affectionately plays
with her nice dog.
Clouds,
with seams of burnt files,
touched by the breeze of sleep,
turn into satin pillows
fringed with talkative lace
and playful butterflies.
But you, my friend,
were you created of marble we would have seen
the drops of sweat on your marble brow.