A collective, multilingual reading in solidarity with jailed Palestinian/Saudi poet Ashraf Fayadh took place on 14 October in Cesenatico (Italy) in one of the sessions of international poetry festival “L’Orecchio di Dioniso”. Sana Darghmouni, editor at la Macchina Sognante, presented the session: the poems were read by a number of poets who had been invited to read their own work at the festival. Ashraf Fayadh’s poems were read in French by Sana Darghmouni, in English by Louise Berenice Halfe and David Gullette, in Spanish by Nuria Ruiz de Vinaspre, in Arabic by Fawzi Karim, in Italian by Filippo Amadei.
Ashraf Fayadh poem translated into French by Abdellatif Laâbi.
1
petroleum is harmless, except for the trace of poverty it leaves behind
on that day, when the faces of those who discover another oil well go dark,
when life is blown into your heart to extract more oil off your soul
for public use..
That.. is.. the promise of oil, a true promise.
the end..
2
it was said: settle there..
but some of you are enemies for all
so leave it now
look up to yourselves from the bottom of the river;
those of you on top should provide some pity for those underneath..
the displaced is helpless,
like blood that no one wants to buy in the oil market!
3
pardon me, forgive me
for not being able to pump more tears for you
for not mumbling your name in nostalgia.
I directed my face at the warmth of your arms
I got no love but you, you alone, and am the first of your seekers.
4
night,
you are inexperienced with Time
lacking rain drops
that could wash away all the remains of your past
and liberate you of what you had called piety..
of that heart.. capable of love,
of play,
and of intersecting with your obscene withdrawal from that flabby religion
from that fake Tanzeel
from gods that had lost their pride..
5
you burp, more than you used to..
as the bars bless their visitors
with recitations and seductive dancers..
accompanied with the DJ
you recite your hallucinations
and speak your praise for these bodies swinging to the verses of exile.
6
he’s got no right to walk however
or to swing however or to cry however.
he’s got no right to open the window of his soul,
to renew his air, his waste, and his tears..
you too tend to forget that you are
a piece of bread
7
on the day of banishment, they stand naked,
while you swim in the rusty pipes of sewage, barefoot..
this could be healthy for the feet
but not for earth
8
prophets have retired
so do not wait for yours to come to you
and for you,
for you the monitors bring their daily reports
and get their high salaries..
how important money is
for a life of dignity
9
my grandfather stands naked everyday,
without banishment, without divine creation..
I have already been resuscitated without a godly blow in my image.
I am the experience of hell on earth..
earth
is the hell prepared for refugees.
10
your mute blood will not speak up
as long as you pride yourself in death
as long as you keep announcing -secretly- that you have put your soul
at the hands of those who do not know much..
losing your soul will cost time,
much longer than what it takes to calm
your eyes that have cried tears of oil
* These poems appeared in Fayadh’s poetry collection Instructions Within which was published by the Beirut-based Dar al-Farabi in 2008 and later banned from distribution in Saudi Arabia.
Translated by: Mona Kareem
Tense Times
By Ashraf Fayadh
Tense times for me,
and sleep’s acting like a newly love-struck teen.
I shall disregard the state my heart’s in
and my mind’s upheavals like water bubbling
past the boiling point.
I am a part of the universe with which the universe is angry,
a part of the earth of which the earth feels utterly ashamed,
a wretched human towards whom
other humans cannot maintain neutrality.
Neutrality: an illusion
like all the graces of which humans speak, so shamelessly theoretical.
Truth is an inadequate term, just like Man,
and love bumps about,
a miserable fly
trapped in a glass box.
Freedom is very relative:
all said and done we live in a ball-shaped prison
barred with ozone.
Set free, our fate
is certain death.
I am incapable of laughing.
Completely incapable of smiling, even.
Incapable, at the same time, of crying.
Incapable of acting like a human being,
which doesn’t upset me in the slightest
though it hurts so
to have a body covered with light down,
to walk on two limbs,
to depend wholly on your mind,
to be drawn after your desires to the furthest point,
to have your freedom trapped,
to have others decide to kill you,
to miss those closest to you
without a chance to say farewell.
What good does Farewell do
but leave a sad impression?
What good’s meeting?
What good’s love?
What good is it to be this alive
while others die from sorrow
over you?
I saw my father for the last time through thick glass
then he departed, for good.
Because of me, let’s say.
Let us say because he could not bear the thought
I’d die before him.
My father died and left death to besiege me
without it frightening me sufficiently.
Why does death scare us to death?
My father departed after a long time
spent on the surface of this planet.
I didn’t say farewell as I should have
nor grieve for him as I should have
and was incapable of tears,
as is my habit, which grows uglier with time.
The soldiers besiege me on all fronts
in uniforms of poor color.
Laws and regimes and statutes besiege me.
Sovereignty besieges me,
a highly concentrated instinct that living creatures cannot shake.
My loneliness besieges me.
My loneliness chokes me.
I am choked by depression, nervousness, worry.
Remorse, that I’m a member of the human race, kills me.
I was unable to say goodbye to all those I love
and who departed, even temporarily.
I was unable to leave a good impression of a last meeting.
Then I yielded to the rifles of longing
leveled my way.
I refused to raise my hand
and became incapacitated.
Then I was bound by sorrow
that failed to force me to tears.
The Knowing gnaws at me from within,
killing every shot I have at survival.
The Knowing is killing me slowly
and it’s much too late for a cure.
Cracks in the Skin
My country passed by here,
wearing the shoe of freedom….
Then off it went, leaving its shoe behind
It ran at a belabored pace… like the rhythm of my heartbeat.
my heart, which was running in a different direction… without a convincing justification.
The shoe of liberty was worn out, old and fake
like the rest of human values, at all levels.
Everything has left and abandoned me… including you.
The shoe is a disconcerting invention
it demonstrates our ineligibility to live on this planet.
it reveals our belonging to another place with no great need for walking
or a place with a floor that has cheap tiles… slippery ones!
The problem is not the slipping… but rather the water,
the heat… the broken glass… the thorns… the dry branches and the sharp rocks.
Shoes are not the perfect solution
but in some way they fulfill the intended goal
just like reason
and like passion.
My passion has become extinguished since last time you left
I can no longer reach you
since I have been detained in a cement box supported by cold metal bars,
since everyone has forgotten me… starting from my freedom… and ending with my shoe, affected by an identity crisis.
Cracks in the skin, a poem written by Palestinian poet Ashraf Fayadh from a Saudi Arabian jail. Translated from Arabic into Italian by Sana Darghmouni, and from Italian into English by Pina Piccolo and approved by the author.
In Spanish Translation, Ashraf Fayadh’s ‘Los últimos descendientes de los Refugiados’
Los últimos descendientes de los Refugiados
Ashraf Fayadh
(del libro Las instrucciones están adentro, 2008)
Del árabe al español: Shadi Rohana y Lawrence Schimel
Provocas indigestión al mundo, entre otras cosas.
No obligues a la Tierra a vomitarte,
y permanece cerca de ella, muy cerca.
Eres una fracción irreducible,
no participas en operaciones matemáticas.
Así, creas confusión en las estadísticas internacionales.
Refugiado: el último de la fila, esperando tu pedazo de patria.
Esperar: ya lo había hecho tu abuelo, sin saber porqué.
El pedazo: eres tú.
Patria: un carnet para colocar en la billetera.
Billetes: papeles que llevan el retrato de los jefes.
Retrato: ocupa tu lugar hasta que vuelvas a tu país.
El Retorno: un ser mítico, de los cuentos de la abuela.
Se acabó la primera clase.
Vamos a la segunda: tú… ¿qué significas?
Todos están desnudos en el Juicio Final,
y nadarán ustedes en las aguas derramados de las cloacas.
Estar descalzo es saludable para los pies
pero insalubre para el suelo.
Estableceremos tribunas para usted, congresos.
Escribiremos elocuentemente sobre ustedes en los periódicos.
Existe una nueva fórmula contra los contaminantes recalcitrantes,
y está a medio precio.
Apúrense para comprar la mitad.
La crisis del agua es muy dura.
Negociaciones serias están en marcha
para garantizar cenizas gratuitas,
para que no te ahogas,
y sin violar el derecho de los árboles a vivir sobre la Tierra.
Evita consumir tu porción de cenizas de una sola vez.
Te enseñaron mantener la cabeza en alto
para que no veas la suciedad sobre la tierra.
Te enseñaron que la Tierra es tu madre
¿pero tu papá?
Lo buscas para averiguar tu linaje.
Enseñaron que tus lágrimas son un desperdicio de agua,
y que el agua… ya sabes.
Mañana…
sería mejor deshacerse de ti.
Sin ti, la Tierra lucirá mejor.
Los niños son como los pájaros,
pero no hacen sus nidos en los árboles muertos.
Y plantar árboles no es la responsabilidad de la agencia de la ONU para los refugiados.
Transfórmate en una hoja
para ser utilizada como un naipe
para escribir poesía
para limpiarte en el baño
para que tu mamá se sirve de ella para prender la estufa
y hornear algo de pan.
Según el pronóstico del tiempo:
el sol permanecerá en la cama por su alta temperatura corporal.
Los huesos, vestidos por carne y luego piel.
La piel se ensucia, y produce un mal olor.
La piel se quema y se ve afectada por factores sobrenaturales.
Mira a ti mismo, por ejemplo.
No pierdan la esperanza…
Dejen que el exilio del que huyen los anime.
Es una formación intensiva para aprender a vivir en el infierno
bajo sus condiciones duras.
Dios mío… ¿está el infierno aquí en la Tierra en algún lugar?
Los profetas ya se han jubilado
así que no esperen a ninguno enviado por y para ustedes.
Por ustedes, los observadores escriben sus informes dirarios
y cobran sus sueldos altos,
necesarios
para vivir con dignidad.
Los falafel de Abu Saíd están expuestos a contaminación
y las farmacias anuncian el fin de la campaña de vacunas.
No se preocupen a que contaminan a sus hijos
mientras el dispensario sigue allí.
El concurso de belleza está transmitido en vivo,
el bikini le queda bien a esta chica,
y esa otra tiene el trasero un poco grande.
Noticias de última hora: “Subida repentino en el número de muertos
por fumar tabaco”.
El sol sigue siendo la fuente de luz,
y las estrellas se asoman pare verlos, porque el techo necesita ser repararado.
Discusión en el estacionamiento:
— La taxi no esté lleno todavía, no partiremos…
— Pero mi esposa está pariendo.
— Es su décima embarazo, ¿no aprendió nada?
Los informes advierten del crecimiento caótico de la población.
Caótico… ¡La palabra que buscaba todo este tiempo!
¡Vivimos en un mundo caótico!
Nos multiplicamos en masa y nuestros hijos permanecen desnudos.
Somos una fuente de inspiración para los cineastas, los noticieros, visitas de las delegaciones y discusiones por el G8… Somos los pequeños. Pero no pueden vivir sin nosotros. Por nosotros, algunos edificios cayeron, estaciones de ferrocarril explotaron (y el hierro es susceptible a oxidarse).
Por nosotros, los mensajes con foto se multiplican.
Somos actores sin sueldo.
Nuestro rol consiste en estar desnudos como nuestras madres nos parieron, como la tierra nos parió, como los noticieros nos parieron, como los informes de várias páginas, como las aldeas adyacentes a los asentamientos israelíes, como las llaves que todavía carga mi abuelo… Pobre de mi abuelo, ¡nunca se enteró de que cambiaron las cerraduras!
Mi abuelo… malditas sean las puertas que se abren con llaves digitales, malditas las aguas de las cloacas que fluyen por al lado de tu tumba, qué te maldiga el cielo sin lluvia. No importa, pues tus huesos no pueden crecer debajo de la tierra… es por culpa de la tierra que no crecemos por segunda vez.
Abuelito, en el Día del Juicio estaré ahí, déjame tomar tu lugar. Mis genitales ya son conocidos para la cámara.
¿Crees que será permitido tomar fotos durante el Día del Juicio?
Abuelito, estoy desnudo todos los días, sin Juicio, y sin que nadie toque ninguna trompeta. Ya me han mandado de adelantado. ¡Soy el experimento del infierno en la Tierra!
La Tierra…
El infierno que fue preparado para los refugiados.
Shadi Rohana is a Palestinian translator from Haifa, doing literary translations between Arabic and Spanish. He’s translated and introduced a number of Latin American authors into Arabic, including Rodolfo Walsh, Yolanda Oreamuno, David Huerta, Eduardo Galeano and José Emilio Pacheco, as well as speeches and declarations from the EZLN in Chiapas. He’s lived in Mexico since 2012.
Lawrence Schimel (New York, 1971) writes in both Spanish and English and has published over 100 books as author or anthologist in many different genres, including one collection of poems written in Spanish, Desayuno en la cama(Egales), as well as a chapbook in English Fairy Tales for Writers (A Midsummer Night’s Press).
El petróleo es inofensivo, excepto por el rastro de pobreza que deja atrás
en este día, cuando las caras de aquellos que descubren otro petróleo van claramente oscuras,
cuando la vida es insuflada en tu corazón para extraer más petróleo de tu alma
para uso público…
Esto… es… la promesa del petróleo, una verdadera promesa.
el fin…
…
Perdóname, perdóname
por no ser capaz de derramar más lágrimas por ti
por no murmurar tu nombre en la nostalgia.
Yo dirigí mi cara al calor de tus brazos
no recibí amor aunque tú, tú solo, y yo el primero de los que te buscan.
…
Él no ha tenido derecho a caminar sin importar cómo
o a girar sin importar cómo o a llorar sin importar cómo.
Él no ha tenido derecho a abrir la ventana de su alma,
a renovar su aire, su desecho, y sus lágrimas…
tú tiendes demasiado a olvidar que eres
un pedazo de pan
Translated into Spanish by Santiago Pérez Malvido.
Tempi tesi
Tempi tesi per me,
e il sonno si comporta come una ragazzina appena colpita
dalla freccia dell’amore.
Dovrò ignorare lo stato in cui versa il mio cuore
e le sollevazioni della mia mente come gorgoglio d’acqua
oltre il punto di ebollizione.
Sono una parte dell’universo su cui l’universo riversa la sua rabbia,
una parte della terra per cui la terra prova assoluta vergogna
un miserabile umano verso cui
altri esseri umani non possono mantenere la neutralità.
La neutralità: un ‘illusione
come tutte le virtù di cui parlano gli umani,
così vergognosamente teoriche.
Verità è un termine inadeguato, proprio come Uomo,
e l’amore si dimena alla meglio, come una miserabile mosca
intrappolata in un cubo di vetro.
La libertà è molto relativa
Tutto considerato viviamo in una prigione circolare
con le sue sbarre di ozono:
e quando veniamo liberati
il nostro destino è sicuramente la morte.
Sono incapace di ridere,
Pure di sorridere sono assolutamente incapace.
E al contempo, incapace di piangere.
Incapace di agire come un essere umano
il ché non mi sconvolge minimamente
sebbene faccia male,
avere un corpo ricoperto di fine peluria,
camminare su due arti,
dipendere interamente dalla mente,
essere attratto dai propri desideri fino al limite estremo,
vedere intrappolata la propria libertà,
vedere altri che hanno deciso di ucciderti,
perdere chi ti è stato più caro
senza poter dar loro l’addio.
A che serve l’Addio,
se non per lasciare l’impronta della tristezza?
A che serve un l’incontro?
A che serve l’amore?
A che serve questo suo grado
di vita
mentre altri muoiono di dolore
per te?
Ho visto mio padre per l’ultima volta attraverso un vetro massiccio
poi se n’è andato per sempre.
A causa mia, diciamo.
Perché, diciamo, non sopportava l’idea
che io morissi prima di lui.
Mio padre è morto e mi lasciato assediato dalla morte
senza che questa mi terrorizzasse a sufficienza.
Perché la morte ci spaventa a morte?
Mio padre se n’è partito dopo aver passato
molto tempo sulla superficie di questo pianeta.
Non gli ho dato l’addio come dovevo
e neppure la perdita ne ho pianto come dovevo
Ero incapace di lacrime,
come è mia abitudine
che peggiora di anno in anno.
Da tutti i lati sono assediato da soldati
dalle uniformi scolorite,
sono assediato da leggi, regimi e statuti.
Sono assediato dalla sovranità,
dal suo istinto altamente concentrato
che le creature viventi non possono scrollarsi di dosso.
Sono assediato dalla mia solitudine,
essa mi soffoca
Sono strangolato dalla depressione, dall’ansia, dalla preoccupazione,
dal rimorso, di essere un membro della razza umana,
questo mi uccide.
Non ho potuto dire addio a tutti quelli che mi sono cari
e che se ne sono andati, anche se solo per il momento.
Non ho potuto lasciare una buona impressione nell’incontro finale.
Poi mi sono arreso ai fucili della nostalgia
puntati contro di me.
Ho rifiutato di alzare la mano
e così sono diventato senza potere.
Poi mi ha legato il dolore
incapace anch’esso di forzarmi le lacrime.
Mi rosica dentro la consapevolezza
e uccide ogni mia possibilità di sopravvivenza.
la consapevolezza mi uccide lentamente
ed è davvero troppo tardi per trovare la cura.
Translated from English into Italian by Pina Piccolo, reviewed from the original Arabic by Sana Darghmouni
.
Cover image: Photo by Melina Piccolo.
