“كتابىِ–، ولولاَ أنَّ يأَسي قد نَهى اشت***ياقي لذاب الطرس من حر أنفاسي
وبعد فعندي وحشة لو تقسّــمت***على الخلق لم يستأنس الـناس بالنـاس”
– أسامة بن منقذ
أكتب لكَ والمنافض أهرام من الأعقاب.
الشيء الذي حذّرتَني من دَوَامِه توقّف.
وصداع النوم المُمَزَّق يجعل الدنيا خاوية. أنت فاهم.
في جيوب الحياة ننقّب عن عملة من عصور سحيقة،
عملة صدئة وربما قبيحة لكنها سارية في سوق الأبدية.
نصبح ملائكة حين نعثر عليها. نجترها حتى نتأكد
أنها لا تشتري البقاء.
ساعتها تبدو الأبدية نفسها رخيصة.
نتذكر عهود الأبالسة وأن كل مياه الأرض لا تكفي
لابتلاع حبة دواء. أكتب لك بعد أن حفرتُ فتحةً في بطني
وألقيتُ أمعائي في النيل. هل كنتَ تعلم
أنني سأفقد ما لم أحصل عليه؟
حقول الأسفلت التي ذرعناها معاً
نتراشق الاكتشافات والأسرار، ويوم احترقتْ العجلة
على أعلى نقطة في الكوبري
ونحن غائبان في الحشيش والموسيقى
فوق المدينة التي بدت مثل زاوية صلاة
أسفل عمارة الدنيا ما بعد 11 سبتمبر –
أنت صمّمتَ على إكمال المهمة
حالما استبدلنا الكاوتش المدخّن،
وكانت أقراص السعادة في تفاحة حمراء من البلاستك،
قسمناها نصفين لنبتلع الأقراص على قارعة الطريق:
هل تذكر وقت كانت السعادة أقراصاً
يمكننا التقاطها من نصف تفاحة بلاستك؟ –
ويوم خلعنا ملابسنا في صحراء صغيرة داخل شقة
يعاد تبليطها فوق الميدان،
ويوم انقلبت أعصاب ذراعك أوتار معدن
يمكنني أن أعزف عليها بصوتي،
والهلوسات التي جعلناها شبابيك، ومشاجراتنا
حول النقود وسيناء، والحورية التي جلست بيننا
حتى مالت برأسها على كتفك وأنا راضٍ تماماً…
إلى أن – ذات يوم – مات كل شيء.
قُدنا السيارة إلى الشاطئ أو غابة النخيل
لنتأكد أنه لا يحيا.
أنت واصلت البحث عن مزاج مثالي
بينما تكتشف الفلسفة والكآبة، وأنا اختبأت في بيت أمي
لأكتب رواية. وحين تزوج أحدنا وأنجب الآخر،
لم يكن سوانا لنخبرنا بحقيقة ما يصير.
ظل لكل حدث حديث من الطول والتعقيد
بحيث قلتَ إنك مللتَ الكلام،
إن شيئاً في الكلام لا يؤثّر. وفي هذه القصة الأخيرة،
وحدك فهمت أنني لم أكن مخدوعاً
بقدر ما أردت أن أصدّق،
وأن ما جادت به الدنيا مجرد مشبك
لأسمال بللها لقاء عابر ستجف آجلاً أو عاجلاً
لأعود أرتديها كما خلعتها وارتديتها
ألف مرة أمامك.
كنت تعلم أنني لست سوى أحد أعراض مرض
لا يشبه أمراضنا كثيراً
وأنّ وعد الخلاص خطاب موجه
واللحم والدم محسنات بديعية.
سيتسنى الوقت لنتجادل
فيما لو كان الفيلم هابطاً وإلى أي حد،
لكنك لم تخبرني بأكثر من أن الواقع المشترك
لا يكون براقاً وبأنني لن أقوى على الانتظار.
أكتب لك، كما يقول روبيرتو بولانيو، بدلاً من الانتظار…
ولأن قلقك لم يكن في محله. الوحشة أفسدت كل شيء
لكن البدائل حاضرة طالما الأبدية على الرف
ومن رحمة النوائب أننا لا نحزن إلا على أنفسنا.
كنتَ تقول: أحبها وأحتقرها. الآن أستدعي ضحكاتك
وأنا أتهادى إلى الحمام. قطرات الماء البارد
قد تجلو هذه القورة. أفرغ المنافض في أوعية القمامة.
أصنع القهوة وأشربها.
وكل هذا الذي جرى لي وقتلناه نقاشاً
طوال عام عامر بالشِعر والبكاء:
مجرد وهم آخر أكرهه لأفقده
وحين أفقده أكف عن كرهه لأنه لم يكن هناك.
في الحلم كان كما لم أعد أشتاق إليه: رائعاً ومهلكاً
مثل أورجازم سماوي. خبّرني عنك ولا تقلق علي.
الحسرة للـ”جدعان”.
* بوحي قصيدة Exile’s Letter للشاعر الأمريكي إيزرا باوند
Exile’s Letter by Ezra Pound
From the Chinese of Li Po, usually considered the greatest poet of China: written by him while in exile about 760 A. D., to the Hereditary War-Councillor of Sho, “recollecting former companionship.”
SO-KIN of Rakuho, ancient friend, I now remember
That you built me a special tavern,
By the south side of the bridge at Ten-Shin.
With yellow gold and white jewels
we paid for the songs and laughter,
5
And we were drunk for month after month,
forgetting the kings and princes.
Intelligent men came drifting in, from the sea
and from the west border,
And with them, and with you especially,
10
there was nothing at cross-purpose;
And they made nothing of sea-crossing
or of mountain-crossing,
If only they could be of that fellowship.
And we all spoke out our hearts and minds …
15
and without regret.
And then I was sent off to South Wei,
smothered in laurel groves,
And you to the north of Raku-hoku,
Till we had nothing but thoughts and memories between us.
20
And when separation had come to its worst
We met, and travelled together into Sen-Go
Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning and twisting waters;
Into a valley of a thousand bright flowers …
that was the first valley,
25
And on into ten thousand valleys
full of voices and pine-winds.
With silver harness and reins of gold,
prostrating themselves on the ground,
Out came the East-of-Kan foreman and his company;
30
And there came also the “True-man” of Shi-yo to meet me,
Playing on a jewelled mouth-organ.
In the storied houses of San-Ko they gave us
more Sennin music;
Many instruments, like the sound of young phœnix broods.
35
And the foreman of Kan-Chu, drunk,
Danced because his long sleeves
Wouldn’t keep still, with that music playing.
And I, wrapped in brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap,
And my spirit so high that it was all over the heavens.
40
And before the end of the day we were scattered like stars or rain.
I had to be off to So, far away over the waters,
You back to your river-bridge.
And your father, who was brave as a leopard,
Was governor in Hei Shu and put down the barbarian rabble.
45
And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance;
And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard going …
Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts.
And I was still going, late in the year,
in the cutting wind from the north,
50
And thinking how little you cared for the cost …
and you caring enough to pay it.
Then what a reception!
Red jade cups, food well set, on a blue jewelled table;
And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning;
55
And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the castle,
To the dynastic temple, with the water about it clear as blue jade,
With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums,
With ripples like dragon-scales going grass-green on the water,
Pleasure lasting, with courtezans going and coming without hindrance,
60
With the willow-flakes falling like snow,
And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset,
And the waters a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows—
Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight,
Gracefully painted—and the girls singing back at each other,
65
Dancing in transparent brocade,
And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
Tossing it up under the clouds.
And all this comes to an end,
And is not again to be met with.
70
I went up to the court for examination,
Tried Layu’s luck, offered the Choyu song,
And got no promotion,
And went back to the East Mountains white-headed.
And once again we met, later, at the South Bridge head.
75
And then the crowd broke up—you went north to San palace.
And if you ask how I regret that parting?
It is like the flowers falling at spring’s end,
confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking! And there is no end of talking—
80
There is no end of things in the heart.
I call in the boy,
Have him sit on his knees to write and seal this,
And I send it a thousand miles, thinking.(Translated by Ezra Pound from the notes of the late Ernest Fenollosa, and the decipherings of the Professors Mori and Araga.)
In 1967 a penniless 23-year-old Iraqi, with no documentation, applied to the American embassy in Beirut for a visa to enter the US. A writer, he claimed an intimate knowledge of American poetry. He was called to meet the ambassador, who asked him about poetry. He started with Walt Whitman and referred to many contemporary Beat poets, of whom the ambassador had not heard. But he was impressed. “Enough!” he said, “you’ve got it.” The young man went to New York, and on to San Francisco, which became his home for the next 40 years.The young man was Sargon Boulus, who has died in Berlin aged 63, after some months of poor health.
Sargon was born in al-Habbaniyah, on the Euphrates in Iraq, to an Assyrian family. The British had provided the Assyrians, an ancient but threatened Christian sect, speaking its own Semitic language, with a safe haven near a military base. His family moved to Kirkuk, where Sargon had his secondary education. He started writing poetry aged 12. His first published poem came a year or two later since when, as he wrote, “I haven’t stopped. It just grabbed me, this magic of words, of music.”
It was an exciting time for Arabic poetry, with a rejection of classical forms that had held sway for a millennium and more. Beirut was the centre of experimental poetry, especially the magazine Shi’r (Poetry), edited by Yusuf al-Khal. When he was 17, Sargon sent some poems to Yusuf al-Khal that were immediately published. He was encouraged to go to Beirut and made the journey from Baghdad with no identification papers, avoiding public transport and official border posts. He was warmly welcomed by the innovative poets based in Beirut and lived a hand-to-mouth existence, gathering at the Horseshoe cafe with other writers, and writing for the newspaper al-Nahar. He was picked up by police as an illegal immigrant and jailed. Friends intervened and he applied, successfully, for entry to the US.
In San Francisco, he became part of the Beat generation. Sargon lived on the edge, running a Middle Eastern restaurant, writing and translating, demonstrating for native American rights and against the Vietnam war. He introduced Arab readers to Allen Ginsberg, Carl Snyder and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He became intoxicated by the classical English poets and translated Shakespeare’s sonnets, as well as Shelley, Ezra Pound, Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath. At his death, he left uncompleted a major study and translation of the writings of WH Auden.
He wrote his own poetry, feeling savage about the limitations of Arabic and the upholders of formal classical traditions. He talked about “linguistic fundamentalists”. Arabic, thought Sargon, “is always too full of decoration, unnecessary words and fat – linguistic fat. I’m cutting it like a butcher and I’m trying to show the bones behind the flesh and I think that’s something worth doing.” He wrote poetry in Assyrian, Arabic and English.
He spent time in Athens and Germany, where Iraqi publisher Khalid al-Maaly helped promote his work. He was also a journalist and translated romantic novels into Arabic. From 1998 he was a consultant editor of Banipal, a London-based magazine of Arab literature, and a prolific contributor, translating a range of contemporary Arab poetry into clear and concise English.
Sargon worked hard, played hard and travelled hard. His last years were dogged by ill-health, but he was working and writing to the end. He is survived by his partner of several decades; she shares a name with film star Elke Sommer.
· Sargon Boulus, poet, born 1944; died October 22 2007
TO So-Kiu of Rakuyo, ancient friend, Chancellor Gen.
Now I remember that you built me a special tavern By the south
side of the bridge at Ten-shin.
With yellow gold and white jewels, we paid for songs and laughter
And we were drunk for month on month, forgetting the kings and
princes.
Intelligent men came drifting in from the sea and from the west
border, And with them, and with you especially There was nothing
at cross purpose, And they made nothing of sea-crossing or of
mountain-crossing, If only they could be of that fellowship, And
we all spoke out our hearts and minds, and without regret.
And then I was sent off to South Wai, smothered in laurel groves,
And you to the north of Raku-hoku, Till we had nothing but
thoughts and memories in common.
And then, when separation had come to its worst, We met, and
travelled into Sen-jo, Through all the thirty-six folds of the turning
and twisting waters, Into a valley of the thousand bright flowers,
That was the first valley; And into ten thousand valleys full of
voices and pine-winds.
And with silver harness and reins of gold, Out came the East of
Kan foreman and his company.
And there came also the “True man” of Shi-yo to meet me, Playing
on a jewelled mouth-organ.
In the storied houses of San-ka they gave us more Sennin music,
Many instruments, like the sound of young phoenix broods.
The foreman of Kan-chu, drunk, danced because his long sleeves
wouldn’t keep still With that music playing, And I, wrapped in
brocade, went to sleep with my head on his lap, And my spirit so
high it was all over the heavens, And before the end of the day we
were scattered like stars, or rain.
I had to be off to So, far away over the waters, You back to your
river-bridge.
And your father, who was brave as a leopard, With governor in
Hei Shu, and put down the barbarian rabble.
And one May he had you send for me, despite the long distance.3
And what with broken wheels and so on, I won’t say it wasn’t hard
going, Over roads twisted like sheep’s guts.
And I was still going, late in the year, in the cutting wind from the
North, And thinking how little you cared for the cost, and you
caring enough to pay it.
And what a reception: Red jade cups, food well set on a blue
jewelled table, And I was drunk, and had no thought of returning.
And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the
castle, To the dynastic temple, with water about it clear as blue
jade, With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and
drums, With ripples like dragon-scales, going grass green on the
water, Pleasure lasting, with courtezans, going and coming
without hindrance, With the willow flakes falling like snow, And
the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset, And the water, a
hundred feet deep, reflecting green eyebrows -Eyebrows painted
green are a fine sight in young moonlight, Gracefully paintedAnd
the girls singing back at each other, Dancing in transparent
brocade, Ant the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it, Tossing
it up under the clouds.
And all this comes to an end.
And is not again to be met with.
I went up to the court for examination, Tried Yo Yu’s luck, offered
the Choyo song, And got no promotion, and went back to the East
Mountains White-headed.
And once again, later, we met at the South bridgehead.
And then the crowd broke up, you went north to San palace, And
if you ask how I regret that parting: It is like the flowers falling at
Spring’s end Confused, whirled in a tangle.
What is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking, There is
no end of things in the heart.
I call in the boy, Have him sit on his knees here To seal this, And
send it a thousand miles, thinking.
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