A JourneyThrough Poetic Kurdistan

Art is the view of life mirrored in the mind of an artist. Every artist tries to show us his own world in the light of his philosophy of life. There is a mysterious language between the human soul and the soul of nature. In the context of this language everyone of us receives a barrage of concealed signals from nature, but it is only the elite of human beings, namely the poets, who possess the marvellous ability to pick up these rays, turn them into words or a composition of pictures. Tinged with elements of their personalities they reflect them hi a magnificent style which impinges on our sense of beauty, so that these emotional experiences become our property once we read them.

We can prolong our short lives on this earth

and multiply our experiences by adding the unique worlds of others to ours whenever we wander with a poet through the world of his fantasies. A poet can open windows to the spring of life for us so that we can flee the chains of the present moment to those special moments of eternity, moments full oi inspiration, which may even be beyond our imagination.

Sometimes we experience the same moments as the poets, but we are not talented enough to reflect them in the form of living words which can stir up reactions hi others the way they touched us. But poets

can convey to the reader an aura of familiarity with the content of their w.orks as if they had had the same experiences.

The language we use in our everyday life, or even the languages registered in our large dictionaries, is often not nearly adequate to picture a pulsatile emotion in the form of a poem which then is for the readers to understand, enjoy and feel its originality.

We are constantly challenged by the languages we use. Sometimes we do not take these challenges seriously, with the consequence that in some languages we lack many words to describe beautiful events occuring in our surrounding or deep inside us.

It is already this passive attitude (in addition to the differences regarding the character of each language) which makes the translation of poems one of the most difficult tasks which d writer can ever engage in and fulfill.

A poet is like the monitor of radar drawing the vibrations it has just received. Poets treat sensitive areas of our lives whenever a certain event triggers a burst of innate feelings in them. And these feelings are so difficult to trace in another language.

•   What do you call that tiny, barely visible, vibration of the leaves of a tree in the air? I mean "shna" in Kurdish.

What do you call the very first beams of light at dawn? I mean "gzing" in kurdish.

•   What do you call that special place where two lovers meet? I don't mean a general meeting    place(    rendezvous)   but   that special one only for two lovers, namely "juan"   in   kurdish, pronounced with a

delicate French "j".

•   What do you call the moonlight in a single word without mentioning the word "moon"? I mean "treefa" in kurdish, while "mang" is the moon itself.

•   In Kurdish there is "chro" which are the buds especially for flowers and there is

"gopka" which are the sprouts of leaves and twigs.

•   In Kurdish "chreeka" and "jreewa" are

warbling and chirruping of sparrows and other birds. The same two words are also

used to describe the twinkling of stars.

/

In our short journey with Sherko Bekas we will realize how fond the kurdish people are of nature, and that it is a mutual love

between the two. One may try to explain this

affection through the protection the kurds have always enjoyed in the lap of their lovely mountains.

We should also note the paramount ability of this language to survive even without a

decent dictionary. But it is «6t mere survival,

because the kurdish language is characterized by purity, richness and preservation of its own identity.

If every kurd regards Goran as the poet of love and beauty, we can call Sherko Bekas

the poet of the philosophy of love and beauty in kurdish literature. Sherko Bekas does not describe nature in its purity and beauty in a plain way, but rather uses it as a tool or a frame to model a philosophical idea, to inspire meaning, or to exhibit a painting which portrays a living event.

The most beautiful aspect of nature is its liveliness, and the highest grade of life is the

ability to speak. that is why in this art

gallery nature no longer presented as a set of inanimate and mute objects, but as pulsating with life.

The philosophy of love and beauty in Bekas' poetry has such a wide horizon that the language barriers start to crumble as soon as he tries to find an outlet for the stream of his thoughts and allows them to flow without any turbulent effect by these barriers. But because he loves his kurdish language he comes back and apologizes for his rebellion in one of his poems.

Look at that painting which displays two cheeky stars exchanging bunches of twitterings by smiling at each other. One of them misses its target and a bunch of twitters falls onto the bed of our poet who was at that moment watching them from his hiding place in the dark. The warmth of the twitterings brings one of his poems to life by allowing it to "hatch". The word "hatching" here mediates a very gorgeous and vivid scene of the birth of a poem, full of movement and fantasy, which you can feel when you read that cute little "baby-poem".

One may come to the conclusion that shadows of pain and sadness pervade some of his poems. Often birds are killed. The earth is in labour pains giving birth to grains of barley and wheat. Flowers in coffins are carried to the graveyard. Poppies bend down in humiliation to thorns. The poet keeps watch at the wounds over his poems..

All these are shadows of pain and sorrow in the poems of Sherko Bekas. They are not hopelessness or desparation perse, but rather reflections of the present reality of the kurdish people and their national tragedy. They are the pains of kurdish mothers, the tears of children and the divulgence of secret longings for the homeland from their place sof exile.

A poet  from  the orient  says,  "sadness and

pain have always been the womb in which masterpieces of literature, art and music

matured. Sadness is my teacher, but I am the teacher of  happiness."

Though this is not the complete divan of Sherko Bekas but only a selection, even these excerpts teach us a lot about joy. hope. peace and patience.

Read for example his optimistic poem about the new year, his cheerful song for children, or the dreams of the animals in the forest and many other poems in which he lapses into reverie about the dark clouds in the sky over

Kurdistan being driven away, about the sun beginning to shine and happiness to disperse all over. His love poems radiate with warmth, delicacy and tenderness and those about freedom are pictorially staged far away from the abstractness of politics.

Thus we can summarize the world of Sherko

Bekas in three words:

Love - Nature - Freedom.

Bekas is in love with the mountains and the springs, he entrusts the secrets of his heart to

the moon and the stars (the secret of of the heart is called razz as a single word in .kurish), he flirts with flowers, he.writes poems for the poor, , as morning songs for children, but also as an archival memory of the sufferings of a nation taken into captivity inside its own home.

For the first time you can read the history of this nation from the majesty of their mountains, the colours of their flowers, the twinkling of the stars in the sky, the mourning of their trees, the warble of their birds and from the murmur of their rivers. Here you can witness the birth of ebb and flow. If you are curious, you can find the sweet secrets of a rose by tossing a glance at her diaries. You will understand the grim look of those iron bars that hate the gates and windows of the prisons and would rather adorn the windows of the library. The waves

show solidarity with the freedom of the fish

and dislike the nets of the fishermen. The short stories flirt with the hazel eyes which read them and turn into novels for their sake.

For the first time you can read a nation's craving for freedom not in a book but in a garden!

To every word lover and to all those who would like to enjoy the splendid surroundings which inspired these thoughts we dedicate this journey through poetic kurdistan.

 

 

 

 

SHERKO BEKAS

 

THE SECRET DIARY OF A ROSE

A JOURNEY THROUGH POETIC KURDISTAN

TRANSLATED BY REINGARD AND SHIRWAN MIRZA

REVISED BY LUISE VON FLQTOW,PH,D.

PROFESSOR OF TRANSLATION STUDIES,

UNIVERSITY OF OTTAWA

COVER ART WORK BY REBWAR SAEID

 

 

 

mother

I slept between two gardens

and had colourful dreams.

I eavesdropped on two stars

and picked a bunch   of the mysteries of the

night for my thoughts.

I wondered between two streams

and the rushing waters and waves became my friends.

I joined two lovers

and my grey hair

gradually turned black again.

silting beside two mothers

1 encountered

the greatest love on earth.

 

 

 

patience

Oh, my sad and lonely mate! Let your patience grow

just like your chestnut hair..

Let poverty

lap against the shore of your heart

like our four children did.

I know the darkness of the night.

Do not open the doors to desperation! Do not speak with tears!

May your pain be a hard rock,

and you be the five gorgeous flowers

crowning its summit.

  

 

 

burning*

Down the steps of fear darkness crept into my soul like a thief.

Upon arriving in the core of my heart he wanted to reach out for it.

Suddenly

I kindled your love, and in it I burnt the darkness and the fear.

 

 

 

  

separation

If they deprive my poems

of their flowers,

one of my seasons dies.

If they deprive them

of my beloved,

two of my seasons die.

If they deprive them

of the bread,

three of my seasons die.

If they deprive them of freedom, my whole year dies and I with it.

 

 

 

 

gaze

When you came in,

my gaze

became a butterfly

that danced about the room

until it alighted

on the flower

that adorned your hair.

But the moment

you took out the flower

and gave it to someone else,

the butterfly of my gazes

was scattered

in your fingers

without you knowing.

 

 

 

 

roe

The lake in which the writer was drowned

glanced down at its bottom. when it had a closer look

it saw on its bed

where the pen lay at rest

how a big red fish

had spawned its roe for thousands of short stories.

 

 

 

 

The cap

Have you noticed that,

when a flock of crested larks

is flying past

the coffin of a flower or a twig,

the birds pause and,

respecting the sorrow, take off their caps,

until the coffin has passed?

or have you noticed

how an acorn weeps for a murdered bird

and takes off its cap

to dry her tears with it?

But every time the news of a killed oak-tree or a strangled bird reaches me in my room, my pen puts on its cap and weeps.

 

 

 

 

 

jewellery

In the old days a story ran:

A poem attached itself to the jexvellery of an empress.

Time went by.

When the empress died, the poem.

at the emperor's behest.

was buried together with

the empress and her jewellery

 

 

 

night-watch

That night in the valley

all the lights

were extinguished but one:

the lamp of the poet

who was watching over

the painful wound of a poem.

 

 

 

Sorm tide

The tide said to the fisherman:

There are many reasons

why my waves are in a rage.

The most important is

that I am for the freedom of the fish

and against the net.

 

 

 

scaler

The first time

a tree wept for its birds

that were killed,

it shed its tears into a river.

For eternal remembrance

the river gathered the tears of the tree

and made them into

scales for its fish.

 

 

 

The low

A poppy

bowed down to a thorny flower

and kissed her hands.

When she finished she rose,

but her red colour lay spilt at her feet;

and for the rest of her life

she was in agonies

for being so pale.

 

 

 

The locust

A locust climbed

onto a cloud of smoke

and wrote into the darkness of the night:

From now on the wandering of the rain

is prohibited.

The clouds climbed onto the mountain tops

and wrote their answer

with lightning and cloudbursts

into the morning sky.

 

 

epigram

There are many things

that rust and will be forgotten

and finally die-like crown, sceptre and throne of a king.

But there are also many things

in this world

that do not decay and will not be forgotten

and never die -

like the hat, the stick and the shoes of

Charlie chaplain.

 

 

 

  

pain

I am a towering pain

without having to climb onto the shoulders of another grief.

If I lift my head

just a few inches

I can already see the wounds everywhere,

and the poor can see me

wherever they are.

 

 

 

 

 

The lamb

After the explosion,

when the bomber had disappeared,

the lamb was searching in vain

for its mother's teat with its mouth.

It couldn't find its way back

to its flock

or to the brook.

 

 

 

 

comparison

History came

and compared its greatness

to the magnitude of your sufferings.

your sufferings surpassed it by a few  fingerbreadths.

When the ocean wanted to compare

Its depth to that of your wounds,

It screamed for fear of

Being drowned in them.

 

 

 

love

I placed my ear

at the heart of the earth.

It told me of the love between itself

and the rain.

I placed my ear

at the heart of the water.

It told me of the love between itself

and its springs.

I placed my ear

at the heart of a tree.

It told me of the love between itself

and its leaves.

As I placed my ear

at the heart of love itself

it told me of freedom.

 

 

 

together

One evening, a blind man,

a deaf man and a mute

sat together on a park bench for a while.

They sat upright and were cheerful

The blind man saw with the eyes of the deaf man.

The deaf man listened with the ears of the blind man.

The mute understood  both by reading their

lips.

Together, all three smelled the scent of the

flowers.

 

 

 

 

Lalour pains

The labour pains of a handful of soil

during the birth   of two grains of wheat and

barley are never less intense

than those of a mother-

giving birth to a child.

 

 

 

 

 

Love song

It was. the first time that a sugar-cane

rebelled against her field.

This slender and pale maiden

had given her heart to the wind.

But the  field  did  not  consent  to  their

Marriage.

Consumed with love she said,

“He is to me beyond compare.

This is where my heart lies."

To punish the maiden

 Whose eyes were already wet with dew,

The indignant field called the woodpecker

Who drilled a few holes

Into the heart and the body of the plant.

From this day on

She was a flut,

And the hand of the wind

Endowed her wounds with melodies.

She has been singing ever since for the world.

 

 

 

 

The season

At the beginning of a season,

a wound had been put on

a thorny flower like a cap.

At the end of the season one could see how all the thorns and spikes

had become poppies

beneath the sun of the future.

 

 

 

 

 

novel

Oh, beautiful girl,

You read the novel which I had given and came to return it.

After you had put it back into my small book-case,

All the short stories gathered around.

It related the events of those days spent in intimacy with your eyes and it said,

“this beautiful girl

is only fond of reading long stories like me.

She does not even look at short ones."

Later I saw how,

For the sake of your eyes, all the short stories

One after the other,

had become novels.

 

 

 

 

 

roots

Even if the stars, the clouds, the wind and

the sun

do not see the murderers,

when the birds are killed in the sky,

and if the horizon turns a deaf ear to them

and the mountains and the rivers

do not keep their memory,

there ought to be at least one tree

who witnesses their death

and writes their names into its roots.

 

 

 

 

In the forest

Night began to fall.

In its den a lion thought about

how to attack

its neighbour, the tiger,

the following day.

The tiger thought about

how to tear off

the fox's fur

the following day.

The fox thought about

how to reach the fence at the edge of the

brook

in order to devour the young doves.

The dove, however, thought about

how to reconcile

the hunters, the  birds and all the animals of

the forest.

How could she achieve that?

 

 

 

 

Assembly

One night in south America

some borders

had a clandestine meeting,

unobserved by the watch-towers.

They agreed to erase each other

and to confiscate the passports

in all the towns and yillages.

When they rose

they were suddenly seized by the capitals

and not released

until the capitals had multiplied

each of them.

When they were set free

they themselves were given passports.

 

 

 

 

The chair

 

The chair

on which the poet had been killed

was a witness.

It stayed alive

until it saw the death of the executioner

and freedom came upon it.

 

 

 

 

The key

In a distant country

a dreadful event

made a lost key weep.

They had not looked for it,

but instead violently wrecked the city gate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

New year

The meadow that last year's kisses of rain did not make spring up,

I will make green this year,

said the cloud.

with that beautiful flower

which I did not thread in my hair last year

I will adorn myself this year,

said the garden.

That beautiful tall tree

with whom I did not dance last year

I will ask to the dance this year,

said the breeze.

The New Year's crown

that I wore last year

will look smaller than this year's crown,

said the mountain top.

 

 

 

 

 

The brooks

with whom I dallied last year

I will ask for their hands this year,

said the lake.

The horizon

in which I did not fly last year

will be this year's destination of my journey,

said the bird.

The dark-eyed letters

that I did not know last year

I will slip over my hand as a bracelet this

year,

said the little girl.

The whirlwind

by which I was thrown back last year I will break through this year,

said the horse.

The candles of my twelve fingers radiate more hope this year

than last year's did,

said the candlestick on the table.

The grain of wheat

that I did not manage to store in my ant-hill

I will take there this year,

said the ant.

The poem which is shy like a deer

and which last year I could not tame of acquaint with my eyes

I will tame this year

and take it into the bright attic of my poetry-book

and let it sleep in my arms,

said finally I.

 

 

 

 

The wagou

I know .......You and I

However far we proceed

we will never meet,

for we are like a set of rails.

And if we incline towards each other

the wagons of our heart will overturn.

Then you will realize

how many love letters, bottles of scent

and rendezvous,

how many kisses

full of rain

will die

for both of us

in the overturning

of such a turbulent wagon

 

 

 

 

The moon and the sea

Earlier... earlier

this moon did not exist

but another, more beautiful one,

whose face was much brighter.

The water was obsessed with her.

Longing for her,

every night it walked up and down

the coast,

wanting...

 

the moon did not return the affection,

the sea wanted to catch her with a trick. But the waves,

even though they rose up high,

could not reach its cheeks.

On purpose, the moon was unapproachable, she played hide-and-seek with

and vanished behind the clouds.

One day the moon went away for a while

to the desert

and stayed there a few nights.

When she returned her face was dusty

as were her hair and her silver cloak.

hurriedly took off hex clothes and approached the water.

The moon was agitated.

When she stepped onto a stone

she slipped., and splashed..

The sea awakened, startled, and searched for the moon

at the surface, at the bottom., and searched with the hand down to the ground-

Up and down

but there was no moon.

It was this night

that ebb and tide were born.

 

 

 

 

 

zorgotten

You left them on the table.

very quietly,

as if my hands were reaching for

a pair of white doves,

I picked them up.

Outside the wind was chasing the

snowflakes

making the narrow lanes shiver.

All alone,

I swathed myself in my warm fantasies

and set off.

 

 

 

 

Oh, maiden!

Until I reached my room

your fingers were in my hand;

until I fell asleep

your fingers were embracing me.

 

Oh, maiden!

Even if my ten fingers

were frostbitten, one after the other*

I will never forget

the night of the gloves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your love

 

Your love is like the wind-

When I want to burn,

It come and extinguishes me.

 

Your love is like the wind-

when I am aglow,

it comes and kindles me.

 

 

  

 

 

 

angry

Whether I am aware or not-

when I tear and empty piece of paper

I make

an unborn word from my pen

weep.

 

Whether I am aware or not-

when my pen retains a word

I deny the paper

the romance with

a poem, not yet hatched,

and incense it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

present

If you catch a sun-ray

And write with it,

The sun comes to you and awards you a book.

If you read in the waves,

the ocean comes

and,from among his loveliest sons,

he gives you a river,

if, in your heart,

you kindle the love toward the poor,

the future comes

and endows you with all

the happiness of this world.

 

 

 

 

result

The prison

in which the moon was killed

was besieged by the sun-rays.

The river

that had swallowed the brook

was itself devoured by the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

Hope

If my love for you was rain,

I would already be standing in it.

If my love for you fire,

I would already be crouching in it.

my beloved kurdistan!

My poem says:

"As long as there is rain and fire !

I also will be alive."

 

 

 

 

 

 

burden

To me

the head of a nail

and that of a poem are alike.

With their sharp points both are thrust into the depth.

One by the force of the hammer,

the other through the burden of pain

 

 

 

 

piano

Once

a flock of swallows

from the hearts of the poets

of the five continents

calmly flew into a box...

after wards, this box became a piano.

 

 

 

 

 

quest

When the rain

visited me in my room

and left,

he bequeathed me a flower.

The sun, too,

came to see me in my room.

when he left,

he bequeathed me a little mirror

The tree

visted me in my room.

When he left,

he bequeathed me a comb.

But when you, beautiful maiden,

were a guest in my room

and left,

you took the flower, the mirror and the comb

but bequeathed me a very lovely poem.

 

 

 

 

 

boat

To me

My  heart is like a boat

With some holes in the bottom.

again and again

water  presses its way in,

and I bale it out.

Before I have baled out

a bucketful of old sorrow,

it is already replaced by new sorrow.

But neither does this restless boat sink

nor does it anchor

in the whirlwind of this night.

 

 

 

 

bars

In a blacksmith's workshop

the iron bars rose

and looked wrathfully at the fire and tongs.

They had heard

that they were to be removed from the

windows of the library

in order to be made into the gate

of a bolted prison

where the rays of a poem

were to be locked up.

 

 

 

 

 

poplar

A poplar asked:

Why has this weeping willow immersed its head in the lap

of this lake

and no longer raises it?

The wave replied:

It always stood upright.

A lark used to come

and settle down on it

and whisper to it

what was happening

on the other side of the lake.

One evening the lark

had joyful news:

but while alighting

an eagle swooped and atlaeked it.

it tumbled down into the water,

and the weeping willow stooped

to save it.

But its hand could not reach far ei lougli

and the lark drowned.

Ever since, the tree's crown

has been King in the lap of the lake,

searching for the bird.

 

 

 

 

sacriliec

The flood rose until it reached

the crown of a tree.

Atop it still was a nest

where some chicks had been left behind.

with its chest

the tree fought against the water

and stood fast

until darkness set in

and the mother returned.

she was mov ing her last chick,

just as the tree drowned.

 

 

 

 

 

standpoint

The shadow of a mulberry-tree, withdrew

when he heard

that the wanderer

who wanted to rest beneath him

had felled some young trees

down in the vallev.

The moon extinguished her light

when she heard

that some people were meshing a net

in her light

to catch

the first rays of dawn

the very next day.

A key jammed itself in the key-hole

when it sensed

that someone wanted to take out a lantern

and strangle it.

A path led soldiers astray,

One after the other,

when it heard

that they were on their way

to take a garden prisoner.

And a letter tore itself into pieces

inside its envelope

When it heard

that it carried the message

“the poem for the beloved Mahabad"

Is to be killed!"

 

 

 

 

power

Through the narrowest needle's eye

I can pull the thread of a poem,

even in the dark.

The fantasies,

even the slippery ones,

I can seize with the naked hand of a

sentence,

just like this pen.

The biggest whale of the oceans

I can accommodate

in a mugful of words.

But what will never

find room in my heart

or in my poems

is the lie,

big or

small.

 

 

 

 

counting

If you could count every single leaf

in this garden,

if you could count all the big and little fish

of this ocean,

if you could count all the birds

during their migration

from the north to the south

and

from the south to the north,

then I would also promise

to count

every single victim

of this beloved kurdistan!

 

 

 

 

 

nest

For the last few days a pair of turtle-doves has been building a nest

on the window-ledge

of my room at home.

They coo together.

They peck at the window-pane

as if they longed to talk to us.

I see them:

Their almond eyes.

look into my sad eyes.

They are content

with their new home,

sheltered from the roaring wind.

 

No thirst, no hunger,

they nestle against one another, and they flap their wings

with happiness.

 

Oh, you turtle-doves!

I do not know

whence you came,

how long a journey lies behind you.

wanderers in a strange land,

after your nest was destroyed,

I do not know,

but I pity you both,;

for this bliss won't last.

Don't you see my face,

like a dried up spring,

clouded over

with sadness.

Don't you see my heart,

tightened,

and how it hasn't yet wiped off

its moist look?

Oh, you turtle-doves:

Do not flap your wings...

do not coo...

tomorrow they will come...

Tomorrow the tyrants will come.

and destroy this neighbourhood,

your home and mine.

 

 

 

 

soil

With my hand

I reached for a twig.

The branch recoiled in pain.

when I reached for the branch

with my hand,

the stem of the tree began to cry.

When I embraced the stern

the earth quaked beneath my feet

and the stones groaned.

This time, when I bent down and took a handful of soil, the entire kurdistan screamed.

 

 

 

 

 

eyelid

When the moon rose

it gave

the first bunches of its rays

to the mountain top.

Nearby

a spring looked to it imperiously

and demanded a kiss.

Through the window of its room the letter of a wakeful lover  beseeched it to stay.

 When the moon suddenly set

they all looked for it.

They saw

how the moon

Was sleeping in a poem,

holding

the grief of the spring,

the letter and the mountain top behind its eyelids.

 

 

 

snow

I was a child,

and in the beginning

my love for you

resembled a little snowflake.

Time went by.

I realize

just as age follows the slope

this snowflake rolls downwards

and grows.

There will be a day,

oh, my sad white country!,

when my small heart

will no longer bear

the burden of this mountain of snow

and will die by the very hand of this love.

 

 

 

secret

I put the seed of a flower

under the scrutiny if my eyes.

I wanted to reveal the secret

Of its existence

and understand how it emerges.

I did not leave it

until one night-

I don't know how-

I fell asleep.

That very moment,

It revealed its secret.

 

 

  

survival

I went to the ocean

and it told me:

"If it were up to the fishing-rod and the net,

not only the fish of my blue soul

but even I

would have perished a long time ago."

I went into the forest

and it told me:

"If it were up to the axe's fantasy,

not even a single twig

would blossom

here in my body."

oh, my friends,

ocean and forest,

as long as the fish swim in your blue soul

and the green branches continue to grow,

the fish of the eyes*

and the forest of my people will also survive.

 

 

 

tunnel

Beneath the surface of this exhausted

and wounded soul

the hours of exile

are like the wagons of a train

connected to each other.

Every day they travel back and forth.

At the station of waiting, at the station of farewell

their restless doors continuously

open and close me.

Every pain that gets off

is replaced by a hundred new ones.

Such a long tunnel of exile! where is it leading me?

Tears well up behind my eyes, but it is leading me.,

leading me., leading me.

 

dillerent

The same garden

The same tree

The same bench

But neither the same gardener

Nor the same leaves or branches

Nor the same lovers or loved ones!

 

 

 

 

Street

I won't forget the street

that, one evening,

invited us to stroll along it

for several hours.

I won't forget

how, on my way back,

I realized

that the street was becoming

like the two of us:

At the point of your whispers

a blossom burgeoned.

At the point of my sighs

the lanterns' light

was combing the hair of the rain.

At the point of your laughter

a bright melody sprang up.

At the point where I held your hand

I saw some ivy climb aloft a fountain.

At the point where I kissed you

I saw how the lips of all lovers became a swarm of bees

feeding upon the beehive

that made our kisses

into honey for this world.

I won't forget the street

that, one evening,

invited us to stroll along it

for several hours.

I will not forget! How could I?

 

 

 

 

A literary interview

This morning

the crested lark, a journalist,

hurried to put on her cap;

she went to visit the neighbouring poet.

the tree.

She asked him just one question:

"How, when and why do you write? "

He seemed to sway sadly;

later he moved

and said:

Wintertime I merely spend in contemplation and don't write.

In early spring

my words burgeon forth as buds before they turn into poems

of branches and leaves.

During summer my thoughts grow

and at the end of autumn

they get printed

and the falling leaves distribute them.

I do not write with anything but green pens.

only while dancing do I recite my poems.

why do I write? To be honest-

so that the world of love be brightened and the water grow more abundant,

so that the loving birds be fond of me and these surroundings understand me.

 

 

 

 

 

The most wondersul presents

On the mountain,

during the hours of dawn,

it was the birthday of a narcissus.

The presents came from heaven

and earth,

By dusk,

they were all lined up in a row

before this fair girl.

What the narcissus

still remembers best of all

are the three most beautiful presents:

The upright cap of an acorn

the necklace of a ladybird

and a 'popashmeen'* ,

which, some time ago, loving silkworm

had spent four winters weaving

and sent to her

from its prison-cell.

 

 

 

 

Luill pen

A quill stole away.

No book and no paper

knew where it was headed; because they wanted to sharpen and erase it through itself. Because they wanted it

to write in a style that

only the tyrants can read.

 

 

 

walking

As I was walking

I saw a rivulet weeping.

I paused and said:

"Why are you crying?"

It said:

"Before you came

I was a river.

They came and branched off part of me

and cut off pieces

that's why I'm weep in!"

 

 

 

Gold coin

From the hut of one of its words

a weary quill-pen

watched how a gold coin

was rolled towards a flower.

The flower was thirsty..

The gold coin said:

"If you give me your red colour,

I will give you a rivulet in return.

Afterwards I will take you with me

and house you in a bed of glass

in my garden."

The flower replied:

"I will not marry you!"

The gold coin said:

"you are not the only one.

Thirsty flowers are so plentiful.

If not you,

then another."

The quill-pen saw

how the flower's neck bent down

and gradualy drooped with exhaustion.

The quill rose

and let a poem burst into tears

and weep heartbreakingly.

with these tears it filled a cup

and, walking barefoot across thorns,

took it to the flowers.

 

 

 

 

 

peach

Because my eyes

were just two black plums

when you longed for them,

I gave you one of them

and kept the other for myself.

Oh, maiden!

My heart, though, is but one,

just a single peach.

Don't you know?

some time ago,

during the spring of my life,

kurdistan reached for it

and took it away.

See

whether he won't

share it with you.

 

 

 

 

serenity

For some time

I became a good friend

of the river, the snow and the hail.

I was bored

and longed to reach

green meadows.

when I arrived

it only took a little while

before I was tired of them.

I dreamt of

the breeze

beneath an arbour of vine.

The dream came true,

but after a while I became weary of it.

I wished

for the falling leaves to cover me and to listen to autumn's lament. After a while I found it tedious.

But when I encountered your love , oh, beautiful maiden, -serenity dispersed my boredom

and you became all my seasons.

 

 

 

 

The plait

The wind reproached

kale's1 plaits

because they braided themselves

and wouldn't go dancing with him.

The plaits answered:

As long as kakil'"s fingers

do not curl around us

we will not dance with anyone.

The wind said:

And what if I get angry

or if those fingers fall off3?

The crying plaits said:

Then we will cut ourselves off!

 

 

 

 

 

gealousy

The wind and the water

were quarrelling about the moon.

In the early hours of dusk

the water of the pond

became a mirror for the moon.

That night

the moon donned her best clothes.

and combed her hair

at the pond.

Suddenly

the wrathful wind came

rushing towards them from the distance

and shattered the mirror.

 

 

 

 

 

Euphrates

Euphrates often comes to me, murmuring,

sits down beside me and strokes

the waves of his beard with his hand.

He asks me softly:

Recite poems for me.

What will last forever

are my streaming waters

and those poems

that never forget the poor.

***

Why does the Euphrates feature so prominently in Bekas' poems?

" At the shores of the Euphrates 1 sang for the springs of Kurdistan like an ardent lover. Overflowing with memories I was in a state of ecstasy; 1 rested my head on the arm of the sunsets and ..dreamt of my hometown, Sulaimanya, of writing poems in exile and of the red eagles of Kurdistan. Memories of the Euphrates have been with me ever since, wherever 1 go. One can still hear its roaring waters, its love and the melody of exile in so

many of my poems! Who  knows, perhaps the roe of many  other poems - just like the roe of    its fishare   still deep within me and Laughter or sorrow. You cannot command those springing a poet's soul to overflow. They do not respond to pleading or begging. The birth of these waves, these dreams and these flowers is not dictated by   a definite time.    Sometimes a poem is born for a little brook, yet not even a word is said for an ocean. Sometimes it pours down, sometimes it is arid for years."

(Sherko Bekas in an interview with a journalist Kndistan ia 1985)

 

 

 

 

 

Euphrates and a lew sad songs

Halbast

Through the window of clouds

the moon peeps out

and little by little

sprinkles Euphrates with silver.

The trembling rays on the river bed resemble necklaces and earrings.

Like my wife

this night is serene, too.

we sit there,

quiet and in sorrow

On the river bank

on the sand that is still warm

the moon's rays alight on the hair

of my elder sloe-eyed daughter

and set a golden cap on her head.

Crouching,

she is busy

picking up

wet shells

one by one.

My elder dark- eyed daughter

is like a dishevelled bunch of flowers,

only twelve years old.

She is singing to herself

and letting Euphrates

sweep away her song:

"Oh, Kurdistan!..

oh, my life!.."

At the same moment her mother and I raise our heads, without knowing, we softly weep.

 

 

 

 

 

Euphrates and a lew sad songs

The deer

The fingers of the wind are playful.

They make her hair undulate over her shoulders.

The fingers of the wind,

moist with dew,

let her eyes overflow.

I see her return from Euphrates:

swaying, she passes by

sunny spots

of a date-palm grove,

one side of her body in the shade;

a sun-ray dancing on the other side.

She is on her way,

swaying.

She resembles an exhausted deer.

her hands become tired

from carrying the buckets. For a moment she rests.

And now she faces me,

like a red flower,

whose leaflets have been sprinkled with water.

oh, my sad wife!

without your love

and that of Euphrates

I would never-never

have been inspired to write my poems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fisherman

From the distance

the boat of the lonely fisherman

on the water, in the twilight of dusk,

resembles a long tray

with pointed nose and golden flanks.

Suddenly,

as if it slipped down into a valley of waves

or as if it was engulfed,

it glides with the wave;

and suddenly,

expelled,

it ascends onto Euphrates once again.

oh, lonesome fisherman!

Between calm and irate waves

you are

a long-lasting sorrow,

and I am here, at the shore,

nothing but a lonely dwarf palm tree.

A little later,

when darkness grows thicker,

later, when you are already asleep,

your sorrow

and that of Euphrates

will fly together

and descend upon me.

 

 

 

 

 

companion

Good evening! Oh, Euphrates,

on your way down from the mountain,

out of breath.

Oh, mother with moist strands,

the fog is your stole1.

Oh, veins are showing

on the back of your hands,

blue and clear on your shores.

 

Oh, you companion,

bewildered

meandering-

sometimes fast.

sometimes slow,

good evening!

Without you..... how could I

rid myself of the rust of this boredom

encrusting the hours of my life?

It is only to you, in this lonesome place

that I can come,

you listen to me,

and in your lap,

on the swing of your restless waves

you stroke my hair

as you would a son's

and you rock my restlessness;

and, gently whispering,

I pour ouMhe sorrows of my

poems in front of you.

In the shadow and depth of your bosom

I bury the flame of my breath.

Without you.... how could I

rid myself of the rust of this boredom

encrusting the hours of my life?

Only you, my dear confidant,

alone at this tranquil shore

strewn with pebbles,

only you bestow happiness on my heart!

I see you before me,

lying on one side,

your head resting on your hand,

your elbow in the sand,

the waves of your glances

spray me with golden rays;

I sit in the quiet shadow

of the broad-leaved fig-tree,

on which the fading sunlight

creeps upwards,

then, as if peeping out

of the window of the branches

it appears and vanishes

now and again.

I sit here, cross-leggedly,

and, like the sunlight from the north

my fantasy

sinks into you,

little by little

like embers.

Far from the beloved,

far from the land of the 'Gul umar'

the grey days pass me by

like drifts of smoke

from village houses in the evening.

Sadness,

slippery like algae, coates my soul.

A pain,

rough like the hackle

of a palm-tree's hard stem,

grazes my security

and wounds the buds of my sentiments!

Many of my dreams are like fish, deprived of water, their eyes wide open still, but suffocated!

These days are like 'jala"3, bitter in the mouth of my life.

But you, my faraway loved ones! you, my dear friends, wherever you are,

my memory of you accompanies me like a shadow, your colourful letters and pictures are in the chamber of my heart. The love and the longing far from you, are my new anthology in my innermost book.

Good night! Good night!

your are not blind at night.

Oh,mother in exile

and travel,

Oh, you companion,

Oh, Euphrates, moving along in the dark,

although now

my glance, like a bird with a broken wing,

does not reach you,

so that he might snuggle up to your neck

and kiss you, -

your rushing,

like the voice of venerable history,

like the echo of a quiet valley,

does indeed reach me

in the shining moonlight, melodious...melodious.

 

Oh,you companion

that never rests,

I am sleepy,

I return to my abandoned house,

to my lonely, sad room.

until we meet here again

tomorrow.

oh, you my only confidant in the strangeness.

Good night!

 

  

 

 

 

twitterings

It was midnight in summer...

Above mv head

two stars high above the mountain

were exchanging smiles,

throwing bunches of twitterings to each

other.

The one higher up once missed its target

so his twittering fell on my bed

and one of my poems hatched!

 

  

 

 

 

luarrel

The storm provoked

a quarrel

between two trees.

They pulled each other's hair

and bruised

each other's leaves and twigs

until late at night.

The sun rose

and the daybreak

reconciled them both.

But what perished

during this season

was their fallen fruit

on the ground.

 

 

Childrens song

Oh, children!

one night I heard

how the snow

whispered to the moonlight:

My dear,

turn the lantern of your eyes

brighter!

without you

the clouds make me

weep.

Therefore drive them away!

clothe yourself

in my sequinned gown

so that "zeen’s starry eyes

at the window

are not angry with me,

and so that the colourful dreams

in the garden of "Mam's"* fantasy

will not be scattered

through the breath

of autumn

***

Oh, children!

one morning I saw

a flower

combing her hair

in front of a mirror

of tiny ripples of a pond.

I heard her say:

Oh, water of my life!

Make my cheeks rosy

and adorn my bosom

with colourful patterns,

fashion my leaves '

into a plait.

Do you know why?

So that my leaflets may shine and my beloved butterfly

will not become angry

and fly away,

broken-hearted,

without you

the thorns will attack me

with their fingers of wrath

and scatter me.

* * *

oh, children!

once at midday I perceived

how a field called out loud

to the seeds:

Do come

and thrive

in my broken-up heart!

Do come

and raise your heads

from my wounds!

- on one condition

that, later on,

you will give me happiness

in your lap.

oh, children!

It was evening

when the snow and the moonlight

arrived at my side.

It was evening

when the flower, the ripples

and the butterfly

said:

So far we have been

talking to each other.

What do you have to say?

I replied:

For the snow

to become even more beautiful,

for the moonlight

to become even more attractive

and the butterfly

even prettier,

for the seeds of the field

even more fertile,

for me

to love them even more

and have them stay in my house

as guests,

so that I adorn with them

the beloved words

of my life

and so that they may

fully be accomodated

in my heart,

so that the children of this world

and our children

will never turn their eyes away

from the falpping of the dove of peace,

so that these children

are free for all times

and their laughing resembles a tree

which brings forth

many pairs of unsaddened eyes

and fruits

in the garden of wishes...

oh, children! ,

because of all this please do not go away,

but stay here with me!

Every time you come to me

you inspire me

to colourful poems

like your dreams!

 

 

  

 

 

reward

Look here!

It is the same landscape.

But in one area

It is raining

and in another it is barren!

The clouds bestow

the reward of water

only on that soil

which last year

neither hosted

the locust colonies

nor surrendered.

 

 

 

 

Autumn

Today autumn passed

and left this region.

when I visited

the abandoned place,

I saw

that he had left behind

a sigh.

I took this sigh

home.

It appeared custom-tailored

for one of my poems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

companions

At the beginning

Of each autumn,

when flocks of birds

travel southwards

and leave us

for love of warmth,

note well!

in those days

you see the companions

of those birds

on northern meadows*,

captive,

saddened.

They lift up their moist eyes,

yearning,

and in the garden

nestle their breasts

at the nest

and the bars of the cages

facing south.

In those days,

listen carefully!

you will hear the captives sing,

constantly,

for the trees of the warm south!

 

 

 

 

worries

I went through a forest, when a fir-tree approached me and asked about the clouds. I said:

They are on their way to you. It is less than an hour ago that I saw them on the summit.

Only a little further along my way

a walnut branch

held my shirt and asked:

Don't you know

where the breeze has gone?

I have not seen it

for the last two days.

I said:

I saw it sleeping

in the snowfield.

After another few steps

a dark olive tree

beckoned to me

and asked:

Have you seen a dove

with a blue breast and sweet song?

I said:

yes, I saw her on that hill,

where she found her way

into the heart of a shepherd

and not long ago

built a nest in it.

As I went on

a weeping-willow

brushed a strand out of its face

And asked:

Have you seen a plump fish

with a scaley frock?

I said:

I saw it.

In a garden further up,

in a boat of abroad fig-leaf,

kissing a red fish

of that pond.

I went on.

A cherry-tree corssed my way

and asked:

In which land of love

is my beloved nightingale held captive?

I whispered to her

and drew the latest address

from my pocket.

When I left the forest,

I saw an axe run,

with mud-soiled feet,

breathless.

Coming up to me

it asked:

I lost a few rebellious trees.

I searched for them

for a long time,

garden after garden,

house after house.

Did you not see them?

That moment I resolved

to become blind, deaf and mute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

eyesight

In a castle

a bunch of flowers

said to its golden vase:

Until yesterday, when I was still in the

meadow,

where the poor could smell me

and the leaves were my green parasol

shielding me from rain and sun,

when the birds, the trees,

the wind and the snow

were my acquaintances, friends and

companions,

I was smiled upon by love.

My kisses were

the scent of life.

But since I came into the lap

of this castle yesterday

and the nose of the king*

inhales

the scent of my life

I see myself

As a thorn

that extinguishes

the eyesight

of its own spring

 

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (1)

Also this night

I fetch down

a star from the twig

in the garden of this cloudless sky.

Now, in my hut,

I take my star in my lap.

Its twitters awaken my father*.

He reaches out,

takes it and places it between the youth

and the poem:

On one side

I kiss its silvery cheek,

on the other side my father writes

a poem in its light.

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (2)

When the snow

is your guest,

do not let it get warm,

or your hose will be flooded.

(I heard this from one of Piramerd's* fires.)

 

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (3)

-How can he sleep,

after he has already killed so many dreams?

-He sleeps, but he never dreams!

(This was the secret conversation between a couple of birds form two kurdish towns.)

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (4)

When the storm

obstructs your passage, become a mountain.

when the breeze

conies up to you delightedly,

become a garden.

(I read this in the diary of an oak. )

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (5)

Is that a magpie. flying there.

or the black-and-white cry

of my mother?

(These were the words of a child from Halabija, Halabja, half a minute before it was blinded and deafened by poison gas.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (6)

I never let contentment

have access to

the clouds of my thoughts,

so that,

even if it rains a thousand times,

it seems like once to me,

 

 

( This proverb was told to me by a quill pen that, until its death, was never deprived of the rain of fantasy.)

 

 

 

 

  

Butterley valley (7)

Every time, without

knocking at the door of my words,

a cloud

enters my room,

without a prior arrangement to meet,

and brings me

songs

with damp hair.

Every day,

without asking,

a wave or two or three,

full of rays and flowers,

reach the shadow of my mountain.

They do not leave

before they have turned

me into an oasis of poems

or my room into a lake of stars.

An oak-tree comes to me

and links its roots

to the veins of my feet.

A huge rock comes, gives my back its strength.

A summit comes

and adds

its height

to mine.

The strangers' tears in autumn are my friends. They, too, come to me with the mild evening breeze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Butterley valley (8)

It is not a real mountain anymore

if it is satisfied

with just a single colour

or soothed by a single snow-storm..

It is not water anymore

if it is satisfied

with one hurricane

or soothed by one sandstorm.

It is not a tree anymore

if it is satisfied

with one season

or soothed by one rainfall.

I love such a poem

that is not satisfied

with just one road, one border or one town

and whose pains

are never eased.

 

 

 

  

 

Butterley valley (9)

I have come

so that the wind may show me

how to rock a river.

I have come

so that the rock may show me

how I could grow on its crown..

I have come

so that the roots may show me

how I could reach the heart of the earth.

I have come

so that the flower may show me

how the poem becomes more beautiful.

I have come

so that the birds may show me

how my gazes can fly.

I have come

so that the mighty fire of love

for my faterland

may burn me.

Here,

in this dense love

I am as secure

as the truth.

Here,

in this canyon full of smoke and fear

I am as secure

as the dance of freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

memory

In the fire, when a damp piece of firewood

sheds copious tears,

it is thinking of its beloved sun,

whom it did not meet

at their rendezvous

one late autumn,

because the rain came

and the snow

covered its naked body.

It is only for the memory

of the beloved sun

that it

radiates love

and cries heartbreakingly.

 

 

 

 

 

charcoal

That night in 'Shech wasan'

I burnt to ashes and charcoal,

the following day

the newspapers in Europe

became blind as bats.

page for page.

That very night in a church,

far away from me,

the flame of a candle singed

a few hairs of a priest's beard.

The following day,

every single newspaper in Europe,

from the first page through the last, smelt of burning.

 

 

 

 

 

Diary

A flower wrote its own diary;

half of it

was about the beautiful gaze of the water.

The water wrote its own diary;

half of it

was about the splendour of the forest.

when the forest wrote its own diary,

half of it

was about the beloved homeland.

When Kurdistan wrote its own diary,

the whole diary,

from the beginning to the end,

was about the merciful mother:

freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wish

As the tusk of a wild beast of prey

was being chiseled,

it was asked:

What shall we make out of you?

The tusk answered:

I would like to become

the handles of knives and daggers.

As the antlers of a beautiful deer

were being carved,

they were asked:

And you?

The antlers answered:

we would like you

to turn us into

brushes for beautiful eyes.

As they carved

a twig of an old walnut tree,

they asked:

And you?

It answered:

I would like you

to make canes for the elderly

out of me.

They unearthed a huge rock

in Kurdistan

and asked:

And you ?

What would you like to become?

It said:

I would like you

to turn me into

a statue to freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

hlabja

It was the fourteenth of that month;

On 'Goyja'2the wind abducted my pen.

when I found it and started to write,

my words flew like a flock of birds.

it was the fifteenth of that month;

l'Sirwan"3 washed away my pen.

when I cought it and started to write,

my poems turned into fish.

It was the sixteenth of that month!

Oh, you sixteenth day!

When 'Sharazoor'4 took my pen

and returned it that I may write,

my fingers were dried up

like Halabja

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only one of us

It was evening,

we barely managed to escape ,

but like the rain on that day

we, too, were not meant to stop.

We inarched like a chain of tears

and, like drifts of smoke,

climbed up

a mountain.

We were wet and dripping with rain,

our legs were the pond of our bodies,

our children: swallows,

our women: autumn trees,

our elderly: exhausted horses.

All of us wet: downspouts.

Except one of us under an umbrella;

no raindrops fell on him.

He also was the calmest among us:

It was the child.

shielded by my wife's womb!

 

 

 

 

Traitor

One midnight in summer.

on a mountain

a yew tree

tiptoed away,

just after the moon had set

behind the mountain crest.

It was alone.

It did not let any twig

or passer-by see it.

The tree, looking towards the valley,

sought refuge in the house of an axe.

The axe made it a guard,

to look after its castle.

One day in winter

the old axe was very cold.

It hacked the yew-tree into pieces

It hacked the yew-tree into pieces

and threw it into the fire-place.

 

 

 

 

 

Kneeling down

It was midnight

when a thought

sat down

on the throne of a poor word.

At dawn

we saw the king

kneeling down

before a beautiful poem.

 

 

 

 

 

pebble

A hair of a beautiful girl

was left behind on my shoulder.

Later on I made it into

a swinging-rope for one of my young poems.

A pebble from kurdistan-

since when? how? I don't know!

had got into a corner of my pocket

and today I chanced to find it.

I took it out, kissed it

and turned it into the ka'ba of all my poems.

Scope

You have only one room

for the gathering of your love poems.

your poem has only one window

to view the horizon.

Your poem has only one chair and table

as world and universe.

That is why your poems are so breathless

and their flight

only spans

a few yards!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Statue

The day will come

when all the lamps in this world

will rebel

and refuse to light up anymore,

because ever since they have existed

their eyes have been shining

above the heads of thousands of statues

in this world,

but not a single statue

has been erected

for Edison.

 

 

 

  

chirping

when early in the morning the sunlight came

and awakened the summits irom their sloop,

a wide-awake bird from my poem

had long since returned

from the summit

and continuously

been chirping

on the snow

of a piece of paper

in front of me.

 

 

 

 

  

Twig

As I was walking

a twig embraced

one of my novels.

I waited

until they separated.

Then I saw

how my novel had become a flock of birds

and the twig

my quill pen.

 

 

 

 

Excerpts from reviews and reader commentaries to the German edition

1.       Wanger's University Bookstore, Innsbruck, 3/3/1993

"It has been a long time since I read any poems, but this book showed me the beauty of the language once again."

2.        Maria Ruetz, Tarrenz/Austria

"These poems are a dream! It feels like a wonderful translation."

3.       Stuttgarter Zeitung, 8/20/1993

" Bekas' inspired metaphors place poetry in opposition to his own people's political helplessness in a Kurdistan persecuted for centuries. ...Who ever reads Bekas' poems is accompanied to the authentic wellsprings of Kurdistan."

4.      Saechsische Zeitung, Dresden, 5/14/1993

This enchanting book is of very singular charm. Soft, muted pensivenes lingers on this quiet world of love and longing, grief and hope. Carefully, scene after scene is strung to an endless universe of gardens, stars, birds and fish, of peaks, clouds, wind and seasons by which the people are embraced in good and bad."

5.         Neues Deutschland, Berlin, 9/24/1993

" With free verse Bekas created vivid epigrams.... In his poetry nature is alive, can commune with people and gives them room for contemplation."

6.       Der Landbote, Winterthur, 12/24/1994

" 'Mother', the very first poem, already made a deep impression with its metaphorical language, derived from those realities that create dreams - a language itself derived from dreams. One can therefore assume  that the translators,..., have rendered

a   valid   rccomposition  in recreating these

texts....

Those who expect mainly  political texts in

this collection will be looking   for them in

vain.Bekas" poetry is rooted in nature, the

earth, the universe, as  well as love and life

and the strong sensations   human emotions

and striving. ...

Bekas" poems are about human   nature, of

people and for people, both near by and very

distant."

7.       Gregor Wcy, Hitzkirch/Germany

"I really liked the fact that annotations and footnotes were provided."

8.        Kurdistan Heutc, April/May 1993

"Bekas1   poems... are concise and intense. They directly reach the bottom of the heart. ...With    his   quiet,   vivid   pictures   Bekas succeeds in crossing the magical threshold between writer and poet."

SHERKO BEKAS

DURING THE HOURS OF UNEASINESS

TRANSLATED BY SHERZAD HASSAN

 

 

 

 

Metamorphosis

One day... if you died and it was windy,

Your soul might be transmigrated into the body Of a Leopard.

If you died and it was a rainy day,

your   soul might be transmigrated into a pool,

If you died and it was a sunny day,

You    might   be   metamorphosed   to    a sunbeam.

If you died and it was a snowy day,

You might be metamorposed to a partridge,

And if you died in a foggy day,

Your   soul might be transmigrated into a valley.

But you see me now: lam still living

And reciting poems for you

whereas it has been a long time

that my soul transmigrated into the body of

Kurdistan .

 

 

 

 

 

Eye

I am here and I can see in that mountain,

a girl walks her way gently towards the upland to have dock-patience

And I can see from here that a beast is hiding Itself in a pit on the same road in the mountain

I am here and I can see a deer in that plain So thirsty that it walks towards a spring I can see that a trap is set on the road to entrap the deer

I can see from here that a white tied horse neighing and hitting the earth

I can see a black snak under the horse's belly,

hissing and ready to bite Now I am standing up

I take my gun down from the wall behind me

 

 

 

 

 

I reach to the valley hurriedly

I kill the snake and untie the white horse and mount its back and fly with it I reach the plain

disjoin me trap

and save the deer

I am still flying and I reach the upland in the mountain

I reach the road on which the girl collects dock-patience

I shoot the beast and chase it

I save the girl also

And when 1 come back to you

I will have the girl,dock-patience,the deer and the white horse of love with me .

 

 

 

  

 

Night-paper

Shawnama

 

After each meeting of wine and me

I stand the beach of a greenish dream

The drunken ship of Rambud casts anchor near me

And will take me through a drunken river

My head will change to a cloud

My poem will be saturated with rain

My hands are birds

And my body will be a forest

After each meeting of wine and me

We take the road of the wind

Together with lonliness we walk and walk

till we reach the realms beyond life

We will visit Death

And ask God some questions

We steal some secrets

And leave some sorrws

And again we go back the way of wind

After each meeting of wine and me

for the following morning : Inside a sick room

ther will be a coughing bottle

a weary glass

Some waste imagination

And I leave uncompleted poem behind.

 

 

 

 

Daily

In   the    Metro... I am a long penetrating dream

In each day I will drag my country through a tunnel

For several times : I will take sulaimania up and take (Goyzha) down, and several times:

I close my memory and open   it so many times

I change the line of my ravings

I am also a long and penetrating dream in the Metro

My past rattles behind, and for the time

being my disturbance is a wagon cradling me

and for the future I will be a tunnel and a path : Lost !

 

 

 

 

 

Woman’s scream

Snow    is  not  white  for  itself and  for nonsense

It is the tear of a  lonely god frozen from alienation

River  does  not roar  for  itself and for nonsense

It is the cry of a love travelling far away... very far

and leaves the fountain of its beloved and the wind doesn't scream for nothing

That is an eastern frightened woman with her hair bristling up,

And a  man in the shape of a dagger chases her.

 

 

 

 

warning

Don't walk into this poem barefooted....! It is full of small pieces of glass ! It was just a moment ago

When my  imagination dropped a mirror of my ennui

And like my alienation it was broken into pieces

Don't touch the leaves of these verses and you are bare-handed.

They are all in all thorny !

It was just a short time ago and one of

my herbs of tedium on the plains of these words flowered

Into the prickles of letters and pain

And when you leave this poem

Don't forget your umbrella ! Watch out

You will see in the south of sorrow and sadness

A dark cloud of voice is coming

Whenever it reaches to the sky above us.. ..I know

how his sad hymn will rain heavily.

 

 

 

 

 

A white paper

For how long I have been sitting here and my paper is white...

So white that no word grows on it

Too dry to flow out as water from a spring

for how long I have been  sitting and my paper is white

And the tree behind my window stands still in the wind

And   looks at me with weariness... very weary

my paper is still white, a ring dove comes

Which consoles the tree, and whispers with the branches

After a while even the ring dove flies and my paper is still white

Suddenly the tree stretches its hand with a blue gust of wind

And before me the tree writes its poem on the glass of my window

For how long I have been sitting and my paper is still white .

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pool

With this blue and transparent skirt

You   are lying... and the bed becomes a pool

I am sitting close to you, half naked

As if it is the first  time... I am watching you

The  cushion is wet and your hair hasn't been dry yet

A very gentle ray comes in secretly

The half of the pool turns to be silvery

The ear rings glitter

One of your legs is up like a pyramid

Your soft thigh shines

The two white partridges are in the shadow

The small and moist meadow,

Beneath your navel is full of sun

I am sitting, half naked, beside you

And within me a hard blaze is'burning

and about to turn aside

and go deep into this blue magic

I won't come out till my firey reddened rod

Whizes within the pool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loss

The night is sleeping ! Each time you carry it on your back,

And take it to the top of the mountain The rain touches it, but it won't be awaken

The snow falls down upon it and it is still sleeping

The  tempest   shakens it... and it is still sleeping

whereas in the morning when a thread of beam touches it gently

You can't guess how it disappears

You don't know  how it will be lost on the spot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A bird

In the sky of your blue blouze

I see a golden bird has been flying for thretj days

Flies and flies without reaching to the

snowy hills of your breasts

As if it is stuck in the wind

One day I will catch this bird

And I will let the bird of my finger fly

You watch and see ! In a blink of eye

my bird will reach its place.

Sep.1997