Poem of Iraq by Adnan Al-Sayyed
The Iraq that distances itself
Every time its steps in exile broaden
And the Iraq that hesitates
Whenever half a window opens…
I said: Ah…
And the Iraq that trembles
Each time a shadow passes by
I imagine a muzzle lurking for me,
Or a maze…
And the Iraq that we miss
Half of its history is songs and kohl…
And the other half is tyranny.
Poem “Stranger on the Gulf” by Badr Shakir Al-Sayyab
The wind gasps in the heat like a corpse, at dusk
And on the sails, it either folds or unfurls for departure
The Gulf is crowded with them, struggling maritime wanderers
Half-clothed from every side
And on the sands, by the Gulf
Sits the stranger, gazing confusedly at the Gulf
And shaking the pillars of light with his rising lament
Higher than the boats, frothing in the noise
A voice erupted in the depths of my grieving soul: Iraq
Like the tide rising, like a cloud, like tears to my eyes
The wind screams Iraq at me
And the waves wail Iraq, Iraq, nothing but Iraq
The sea is as wide as it can be, and you are as distant as ever
And the sea stands between you and me, oh Iraq
Yesterday, when I passed by the café, I heard you, oh Iraq
You were the turntable
The cycle of the spheres in my age that rolls back time
In moments of safety, though I lost its place
It is my mother’s face in the dark
And her voice, slipping with visions until I sleep
And it is the palms I fear when they darken at sunset
Filling up with shadows, snatching every child who doesn’t return
From the alleys
And it is the aging sunshade whispering tales of belts
And how the grave opened before the beautiful Afra
And claimed her… except for a braid
Oh Zahra, do you remember
Our glowing oven crowded by the hands of the lovers
And my aunt’s hushed talk of ancient kings
And behind a door like fate
That shut on women
Ever obeying what they desire, as they are the hands of men
The men used to roar and converse without fatigue
Do you remember? Do you remember?
We were happy, content
With that sorrowful tale because it is the tale of women
A crowd of lives and times, we were its vigor
We were its embraces where our essence could sleep
Isn’t that just void?
A dream and a cycle on a record?
If this is all that remains, then where is the comfort?
I loved in you the Iraq of my soul, or I loved you within it
O you two, the lamp of my spirit, both of you, the evening has come
And night has closed in; let you shine in its darkness so I shan’t stray
If I came in this strange land to complete the meeting
The encounter of you and Iraq in my hands… is the meeting
A longing trembles my blood for it, as if all my blood craves
A hunger for it… like every drowning blood desires air
The longing of a fetus stretching from darkness to birth
I wonder how a traitor can betray…
Can a person betray their homeland?
If they betray what it means to be, how can they be?
The sun is more beautiful in my country than anywhere else, even the darkness
Even the darkness there is more beautiful, for it embraces Iraq
Oh, how I lament, when shall I sleep
To feel that on my pillow
From your summer night its scent, oh Iraq
Between the villages frightened of my steps and the foreign cities
I sang your beloved soil
And I carried it, for I am the Messiah dragging his cross in exile,
And I heard the footsteps of the hungry walking, bleeding from stumbling
Leaving in my eyes, dust from you and its fragrances,
I am still striking the dusty feet disheveled, in all the alleys
Under the foreign suns
Clad in rags, I stretch my moist hands out in question
Yellow from shame and fever: shame of a wandering beggar
Amidst foreign eyes
Between contempt, rebuke, and disdain… or (a sin)
And death is easier than sin
From that compassion squeezing the foreign eyes
Raindrops… metallic
Let them go out, you, drops, you blood, you… currency
Oh wind, oh needles stitching me the sail, when shall I return
To Iraq? When shall I return?
Oh, glint of waves and the gentle paddle’s motion
Guide me in the Gulf, oh great stars… currency
Would that the ships would not hold their riders hostage from their journey
Or would that the earth were like the broad horizon, without seas?
I still count, oh currency, I count you and strive for more,
I still diminish, oh currency, with you from the provisions of my exile
I still kindle with your spark my window and my door
On the other bank there. So tell me, oh currency
When shall I return, when shall I return?
Will that happy day come before my death?
I shall awaken in that morning, and in the sky, the clouds
Burst, and in the breeze the chill permeated with the smells of August
And I shall remove the veil of remnants of my drowsiness like a shroud
Of silk, revealing what cannot be shown and what must be shown
About what I forgot and almost did not forget, and doubt in certainty
And it will shine for me as I reach out to wear from my clothes
What I was searching for in the darkness of my soul for an answer
Did joy not fill the hidden valleys of my soul like fog?
Today, as joy pours onto me, it surprises me, I return
Oh, how I lament… I will not return to Iraq
And will anyone return
Who lacks currency? And how do you save currency
While you eat when you are hungry? While you spend what you generously
Suffer to provide for food?
Do we not mourn for Iraq
For you have nothing but tears
And your waiting, in vain, for the winds and the sails
Poem “Is This Baghdad?” by Yahia Al-Samawi
I closed my eyes to the trees of love,
So pour your wine onto the soil, oh cupbearer.
And I threw off the coat I wore,
In the battle of my sorrows against my yearnings.
And with a rock of patience I wrapped myself in no other
As I wander through the maze of horizons.
I am no longer an oven for bread of desire,
The ships of joy have signaled farewell.
The whistle has dried on my lips, and my language has coagulated,
And the letters fled from my pages.
And I grew weary of my voice, calling breathlessly
My homeland, and the palms of my childhood and my companions.
And lovers passed by their orchards,
And the horses of the invaders laid waste my depths.
And the moans of the waterwheel, a distant laughter of the stream,
And the mist of the lantern and the ember of the warmth.
I feared for myself and so I burned
The fire of the heart, the wine of compassion.
I have been addicted to losing since the dawn of my youth,
The illusion of dreams a hit of defeat.
They planted the darkness in my eyes… so my sun
And my window became clouded.
They set my doves free from their captivity,
And bound the dust and its water with a pact.
So, in this liberation of Iraq is a feast,
Filled with rogues from the earth.
What is the wonder if the heart betrays its ribs?
For he who betrayed Iraq… is Iraqi!
The one crying out from darkness, seeking light,
Adrift… from a swamp of filth.
Even the struggle reveals blatant indecency,
Its stench wafting in the market of hypocrisy.
And if ambition is paid for, with hired posts,
It seeks to crawl on necks.
I have seen palms strike their fronds
Out of shame before the wandering beasts.
Is this Baghdad? I used to know her,
She refuses to yield to the treachery of the wicked.
She denies any compromise over the honor of the soil
And offers – before money – her remnants.
She inherited from the “Free” the sword and its resolve
And from “Hussein” the virtues of ethics.
Is this Baghdad? She consumes her own bosom
And finds her enemy in agreement?
Let me have command over my heart,
And I will hasten my ecstasy with her divorce.
She has bound her vow on Iraqi soil,
My soul – my heart – my dowry.
I failed in my love so I became a stranger,
For estrangement is the ultimate failure.
This is my blood, oh palms … flutter again,
I have seen you thirsting for needs.
Rescue my autumn with the spring that intoxicates,
And the rose of yearning in the garden of desire.
And sweep the darkness of sectarianism with light,
And prepare for Tigris the boat of lovers.
Perhaps I may begin life… and not see
My homeland as a victim and blood as rivers.
Oh you, my heart, do I resemble you in love?
Do you complain of the pains of estrangement and separation?
Or are you not the one who endured youth, stubborn
From the water of grapes and bread of embrace?
And the fruits bring sweetness in kisses,
And the rains bring joy in the eyes?
Oh you who lost childhood and adolescence,
What will you lose if you lose the rest?
Is not the jar of life mere dregs?
Close your book… there is no time for reunion.
To Iraq by Abdul Salam Misbah
Iraq…
Peace…
Peace from poetry and poets
To a dream that breaks its path to your eyes
To a flock of birds
That settles down on your palms
To palms
Flirting with dawn on your banks
To a child playing with a beetle
To an elder shaking the trunks of the palms
So they send their leaves flying
And the two cheers
Iraq…
The peace of fertile seasons
And the mistress of rain
To Baghdad and Kufa
To Kirkuk and Basra
And to Fallujah
And to Al-Najaf Al-Ashraf…
Under its soil sleeps the martyr
And from its core
A wave of light and shadow flows
And a thousand martyrs are born
So that the lovers may find rainbows
Iraq…
We have come to sing our poems
And in our throats are embers
And in our hearts a wound
And in the letters fire and revolution
So will you accept the song
For the grass of the meadows to sing?
And to write your beautiful names.
Iraq…
We have come to raise our voices
And shout for dignity
And for lofty ambitions
And for those waiting
On the backs of the storms
And for those carrying the burden of the homeland
Iraq…
Peace… Peace
Your river shall never dry
And your people shall never flee
And all the idols of straw
Will fuel your fire
And the washing rope
On your caretaker’s roof.