The Blood Moon from a 19th-century Thai manuscript, MS15760 at the British Library. Source: blogs.bl.uk
It is said that Qasmuna’s father, Ismail, enjoyed improvising verse with her. One day he said: ‘Finish this poem’.
I had a friend whose rare delight,
Though it rewarded care with spite,
Itself exonerated.
Qasmuna thought for a moment and replied:
Gustav Klimt, Adele Bloch-Bauer I, 1907. Source: Wikipedia
To love two people is to have it
coming: body nailed to beams,
dismemberment.
But loving one is like observing
religion.
I held out until fever
broke me.
How long can grass
brave fire?
If I did not have hope
that my heart’s master’s
heart might bend to mine,
I would be stranded, no
closer to gate than home.
Khusraw discovers Shirin bathing in a pool from a 16th-century Khamsa by Nizami. Source: Wikipedia
Y(i)
Distance, and desire ruins me. To meet
is no relief. Come or go, desire hardly cares.
Meeting him, unreckoned
things happen. In place of healing,
another ache of longing.
Because to meet him is to see
a person whose beauty grows
ever more abundant, proud.
All I can do is match my love’s ascent
To his loveliness on its measured scale.
The Guennol Lioness, Mesopotamia, third millennium BC. Source: Wikipedia
I am a lioness: never will I let
my being be the break
on another’s journey.
.
But if that were my choice
I would not answer
to a dog, for to O!
how many lions
am I deaf.
Saul Leiter, 1959. Source: robertacucchiaro.wordpress.com
You’re not there
but details linger. Who knows how
they trickle in and scurry out,
how they hum like a knot
of sandgrouse caught
in the snare of distance,
laying waste
to silence, that stranger
not to be trusted,
Six images of the Rub al Khali (Empty Quarter) by Stuart Franklin, 2008. Source: magnumphotos.com
He came early with the news:
the best of Khindif, full-grown
and young combined, is dead.
No one brought their enemies
more fear, nor saved so many
held captive. Their pearl. Excellent
in war, undaunted, always the one
to meet kings: it did them proud
when he spoke. His bloodline
was perfect: you could trace it
back, a column reaching all the way
to the tribe’s origin. As a bright star
The Jasmine Necklace on pink paper in Nizar Qabbani’s neat hand. Courtesy of Yasmine Seale | قصيدة “طوق الياسمين” على ورق زهري بخط يد نزار قباني. مع الشكر للمترجمة
“Thank you for the jasmine necklace,”
you laughed, and I thought you knew
what it meant, this man’s gift of a garland
of jasmine. I thought you had understood.
.
You sat in a corner, brushing your hair,
drawing drops from a bottle of scent,
on your lips a tune, heartsick, French,
its complaint, like mine, pathetic.
.
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