VARIETIES OF EXILE: Saadi Youssef (b.1934), one of the more innovative exemplars of the free verse movement, with Sargon Boulus (1944-2007), a pioneer of the prose poem. Iraq produced some of the best Arab poets through the ages, but it was characteristic of Iraqi poets to be living abroad. The Euphrates By Saadi Youssef So tender, The water penetrates the hidden layers of our flesh. We are the sons of these banks which grew reeds for spears, And songs. The Euphrates. Here, seagulls lose their way, Fish, clothed in silver, Pour from the mouths of the mountains To rest on the Euphrates' pastures. Horses cross, Wading, and go astray; Proud camels chew wormwood on scorching days; The water penetrates the sand, a child's forehead, The water lasts in your palm, Won't go away. The water Is God's word. Peace be upon two bodies joined in one, Peace be upon the glittering pebbles down At the bottom. How cool is your water. By the birds, I swear, Every dawn Wings I will wear. By the clay, I swear, Childishly I will dive to the clay. Oh river, The string of our names and histories, Our villages, The memories of our kingdoms, When I came to you shouldering my wrongs, You bore with me, You waited, till I jumped lightly from the bottom. With light, our bodies swamped, Is this the water of Paradise? Is this the ear of corn? Your wonderlands, Where wolves befriend fire; The Paradise of Aden, Where falcons befriend people; Your pastures, Where flowers grow with mushrooms, Where women immerse their clothes in your tide to cool, Was the voice of the singer like your dolls? The night falls, Kindly, gently. The nets made of children's clothes are empty, And then comes the smell. Is it time for your strong coffee? Or for a string torn apart? I touch your soft stones and listen to the noise, Is it the key to your treasure or just clattering? Leisurely, you flow, For centuries you have been running, Giving your people the bread of the banks, cucumber and songs. Leisurely, you flow, For centuries you have been running, And passers-by cross over, Armies, thieves with helmets, Those walking to their destinies in the dark, Brokers, summer clouds, Our scum of the earth, Greedy emperors. Still, for centuries leisurely you flow, As if mindless on you go. Translated from the Arabic by Salah Al-Nasrawi The refugee tells By Sargon Boulus The refugee absorbed in telling his tale feels no burning, when the cigarette stings his fingers. He's absorbed in the awe of being Here after all those Theres: the stations, and the ports, the search parties, the forged papers... He dangles from the chain of circumstance -- his destiny wound like fibre, in rings as narrow as those countries on whose chest the nightmares have piled up. The smugglers, the mafias, if you asked me, might not be as bad as that sky of hungry seagulls above a damaged ship in Nowhere. If you asked me I would say: Eternal waiting in immigration offices, and faces that do not smile back, no matter how much you smile; who said it was the dearest gift? If you asked me, I would say: People, everywhere. I would say: Everywhere, stones. He tells and he tells and he tells, because he has arrived but does not taste arrival, and he feels nothing when the cigarette burns his fingers. Translated from the Arabic by Youssef Rakha
