(1934- April 3, 2006) / Translated By: Reda Mansour Muhammad al-Maghout is a poet, playwright, and columnist, born in 1934 in al-Salamiyaa, Syria. His best collections are: -- Huzn fi Daw' al-Qamar [Sadness in Moonlight, 1959], Ghurfa bi-malayin al-Judran [A Room with Millions of Walls, 1964] and al-Farah laysa Mihnati [Joy is not my Profession, 1970], and was the first modern Arab poet to bring attention to the colourful complexities of the simple life. He introduced Arabic poetics to current and newly-coined words, sometimes even slang-words juxtaposed in simple phrases creating a cadence previously unknown. Written during his exile in Beirut, his poetry -- which is among the pioneer works of non-metrical Arabic free verse -- is a cry in the jungle of language against the ruthless world of exile. He presented a new vision of life that was an access to the unknown for new generations of poets, and is still an influential force in modern Arab poetry. He has also several plays, among them; The Hunchbacked Bird (1967), The Clown (1974), a novel, The Seesaw (1991), and ten collections of his satirical articles. Since 1970 Al-Maghut has published no new poems, but poetry still remains the hidden passion of this clear-sighted man, as he says himself: "To be a great poet in the Arab world, one must be sincere; to be sincere one must be a free man; to be free one must live; and to live one must keep mum . . . You sicken me, poetry, you immortal and divine carrion!" To A Tourist Here I sit – equidistant between the innocence of childhood and the decline of old age Tourist – help me see – I need your binoculars What calls for my attention – I cannot fathom I, a poet from the East Your white scarf – place it on the sidewalk Please sit at my side as the rain – soft as the yellow sun Soothes – a balm for the soul. Guides and maps are impotent They are unable to help you Your writing do nothing for you as time winds down like a cheap watch Peasants of multiple decades deliver folk wisdom Just two quatrains will deliver in a folk song the history of the east The Tattoo This the third hour of the twentieth century Corpses everywhere in this hollow land pedestrians crying tears of hopelessness Watch as I lie down in the middle of the street I resemble an old Bedouin who lives with bars of steel Policemen victimize demonstrators who in vain seek justice Watch as I write in the dark My pen and my tears are now one. My pen is impotent but still i write – words as hollow as a life without hopelessness Prison bars seek what i no longer am as my pen scribbles like a child with language hiding in the dark Where does this fear originate? When will it be no more? My bones are old; my hopes mock me like blood losing its redness My love – in vain I try to restore my courage even my misery All EYES ON THE HORIZON The Aroma of bread Or the scent of nations on travelers’ clothes In my finest dress- like a lover Anticipating my first date Flooded with excitement. Catching sight of her (the revolution) my, soul sings A song of enchantment and young love Evenings I plan to accompany her To both alleys and country sides Where I can open my heart and fill her With all that I am and wish to be. Until sleep overtakes her Like a grandmother by a fire place. But suppose she fails to come. Then sorrow will assault me And hope hide among the trees And I will curse the heavens. WHEN THE WORDS BURN Poetry no longer becomes me I see Lebanon Burning I seek escape from this conflagration What can one do when his nation is collapsing A village girl can do me no good Only collapse I see Poetry hides its light from my sight An unknown girl is seeking my love or is it the love of all? The mountains swell with passion in the desert of my days I am not your typical citizen My words fail and mock my efforts I – a ruthless eagle not knowing what to do Arabs skirt to and from lost among the mountains their voices of sadness weigh on me Graves of the unknown mar the land My eyes of treachery stare in blindness My brothers are now unknown to me Lebanon – nation hiding her treasures from me as women captive and alone shed tears on lonely crags. My nation is voiceless all of my efforts futile How can I write poems of trees and other treasures of nature My words fade like ice in temperature of ultimate heat Days of gladness – are they no more? A bullet in my throat my only answer (Beirut 1958) |
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