Saturday Morning
Not a glorious morning,
but a heavy, overcast sky, black like basalt,
and miserly,
not a drop,
not a breeze.
Even the bare trees chattered their long teeth,
and the squirrel disguised itself as a bird,
and the bird put on a squirrel’s disguise
and the woman who walks with a cane
pounded the concrete pavement confidently
and headed toward her demise.
The car will not come with fresh milk and eggs,
the workers will not collect our garbage,
an ambulance will not rush in.
We are fated to suffocate here today, all of us,
under an overbearing sky,
a sky crueler
than a sword.
صباح السبت هذا
لم يكن الصبحُ بَهياَ،
كان الغيمُ ثقيلاً، مُدَّنيِاً، لكنْ أسودَ كالبازلْتِ
شحيحاً…
لا قطرةَ
لا نسمةَ
حتى الشجرُ العاري كان يُقَضقِضُ أنياباً متطاولةً
والسنجابُ تَخَفّي في هيأةِ طير…
والطيرُ تخَفّى في هيأةِ سنجابِ
والمرأةُ ذاتُ العُكّاز تدُقُّ الممشى الإسمَنْتَ وتمضي نحو نهايتِها واثقةً.
لن تأتي السيّارةُ باللبَنِ الطازجِ والبَيض
ولن يأتي العمّالُ لأخْذِ قُمامتِنا،
لن تأتي سيّارةُ إسعافِ…
نحن، هنا، محكومون بأنْ نختنقَ اليومَ، جميعاً
تحت سماءٍ هابطةً
تحت سماءٍ قاسيةٍ
كالسَّيف!
Class Struggle
“A little wine makes a young lad
happy,” so said Christ.
Eventually people came to believe
in his glistening wine,
and the god who smiles
from atop the lote tree
at the end of the world
watching us pressing wine.
But those who press the grapes now,
who toil from morning till night,
they’ve disowned us,
have disavowed Christ
and the Lord.
They’re lying down now,
bone weary on the bare ground.
صِراعُ طبَقِيُ
“قليلٌ من الخمرِ يُفْرِخُ قلبَ الفتى…”
قالَ هذا المسيحُ،
وقد آمَنَ الناسُ بالخمرِ رقراقةَ
مثلَ ما آمنوا بالإلهِ الذي يبتسَمُ،
معتلياً سدرةَ المنتهئ
ليشاهدَنا نعصِرُ الخمرَ.
لكنّ من يعصرون لنا خمرَنا
كادحينَ من الصبحِ حتى المساءِ
انتهَوا كافرِينَ بنا
بالمسيحِ
بالربِ…
وأفترَشوا أرضَهمْ متعَبين…
A Discrepancy
Our dead are happy
and they leave us
smiling.
Our dead are scoundrels
who left us
in shuttered rooms
wishing to die.
مفارَقة
مَوتانا سُعَداءُ
لأنّهمو قد رحَلوا عنّا،
مبتسمينْ.
موتانا أوباشٌ
فلقد تركونا في غُرَفٍ
مُؤصَدةٍ
نتمنّى فيها الموت!
King Lear
I am not King Lear…
Everyone knows that I’m not King Lear:
The birds,
the bar waitress,
the parish priest,
the postman,
the retired theatre actress,
the fox slinking past at dawn,
and the cat that belongs to the old lady who lives in the farthest cottage in town.
People know this.
Indeed.
But my two daughters tell me I am Lear the King
and insist that I am Lear?
I don’t know why.
Were they told that my car was tossed around by the wind?
Or that I lost my way home the night of the big snow storm?
Or that I almost got stone drunk in the bar the day the dictator was hanged.
Perhaps that’s why.
Or maybe my two daughters covet what I do not have.
Otherwise, why do they insist that I’m Lear the King?
الملِك لِيْرْ
لستُ لِيرَ الملِكْ…
كلُّهُمْ عارفٌ أنني لستُ ليرَ الملِكْ:
الطيورُ
وساقيةُ الحانةِ
القسُّ في الأبرشيّةِ
ساعي البريد
ممِّلةُ المسرحِ المتقاعدةُ
الثعلبُ المتسلِّلُ فجراً
وقِطُ العجوزِ التي تسكنُ الكوخَ في آخرِ القريةِ…
الناسُ تعرفُ هذا،
نَعَمْ!
غير أنّ ابنتَيَّ تقولانِ إنيَ ليرُ الملِكْ.
وتُصِرّانِ أنيَ لِيرُ الملِك!
لستُ أدري لماذا…
أتكونانِ أُبْلِغَتا أنّ سيّّارتي قلَبَتْها العواصفُ؟
أو أنني قد ضللْتُ الطريقَ إلى منزلي ليلةَ الثلجِِِ…
أو أنني كِدْتُ أسكرُ في الحانِ يوم جنازةِ سَجّانِنا،
ربما كان ذلك…
رُبّمَتا طمِعَتْ إبنتايَ بما ليس عندي،
وإلاّ لماذا تُصِرّانِ أنيَ لِيْرُ الملِك؟
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Saadi Youssef (1934-2021) is considered one of the most important contemporary poets in the Arab world. He was born near Basra, Iraq. Following his experience as a political prisoner in Iraq, he spent most of his life in exile, working as a teacher and literary journalist throughout North Africa and the Middle East. He is the author of over forty books of poetry. Youssef also published two novels, a book of short stories, and several essay collections and memoirs. He spent the last two decades of his life in London, and was a leading translator into Arabic of works by Walt Whitman, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, and Federico García Lorca, among many others.
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Khaled Mattawa is the William Wilhartz Professor of English Language and Literature at the University of Michigan. Mattawa’s latest book of poems is Fugitive Atlas. He is the editor-in-chief of Michigan Quarterly Review.
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Paul Rabinowitz is an author, poet, photographer and founder of ARTS By The People. His works appear in The Sun Magazine, New World Writing, Burningword, Evening Street Press, The Montreal Review, and elsewhere. Rabinowitz was a featured artist in Nailed Magazine in 2020 and Mud Season Review in 2022. He is the author of The Clay Urn, Confluence and Limited Light, a book of prose and portrait photography, which stems from his Limited Light photo series, nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. His poems and fiction are the inspiration for four award-winning films. His first book of poems is truth, love and the lines in between.
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