It’s World Poetry Day, which this year is also Nowruz, Holi, Purim, Nizar Qabbani’s birthday, and (apparently) the day when Twitter was founded. Last year, we shared an eclectic list of 21 Arabic poems, translated to English, composed between the sixth century and the 2010s:
That list was noticeably short on women, particularly women who wrote poetry in the sixth through nineteenth centuries. Not much classical Arabic poetry by women has been translated as poetry; we’re thus particularly grateful to efforts by Yasmine Seale.
By the time we reach the twenty-first century, it becomes easier to find the work of women poets translated from Arabic, although women’s poetry is still under-translated vs. men’s. No Asmaa Yasin, only one poem by Fatima Qandil on the whole wide internet (?), just a whisper of Saniya Saleh, a single published collection of work by Iman Mersal, and the only Rasha Omran collection was published open-source online, not that I’m complaining.
Deceased poets are in a chronological order. Living poets are a jumble.
This list is not, in any sense, canonical. Nor is it complete.
Follow the links for each complete poem.
He came early with the news:
the best of Khindif, full-grown
and young combined, is dead.
Then Time came,
and harvested its malice.
Time never fails.
3) From ‘Ulayya bint al-Mahdi’s (777-825 CE) epigram, tr. Yasmine Seale
To love two people is to have it
coming: body nailed to beams,
But loving one is like observing
My soul is given over to sighing,
If only it would depart with those sighs!
If my fate were in my hands
I would race to my demise!
No good remains now that you’re gone:
an outstretched life, I fear, before me lies!
5) From “The Unnamable Remains,” Qasmuna Bint Ismail (unknown, probably twelfth century), tr. Yasmine Seale
So the sun, to which for all its light
The moon is obliged, is still by it
Time’s out and I’m home alone with the shadow I cast
Gone is the law of the universe, scattered by frivolous fate
Nothing to hold down my things
Nothing to weigh them to the floor
My possessions have flown, they belong to others
My chair, my cupboard, the revolving stool
7) From “To A Girl Sleeping in the Street,” Nazik al-Malaika (1923-2007), tr. Emily Drumsta
In Karrada at night, wind and rain before dawn,
when the dark is a roof or a drape never drawn,
when the night’s at its peak and the dark’s full of rain,
and the wet silence roils like a fierce hurricane,
the lament of the wind fills the deserted street,
the arcades groan in pain, and the lamps softly weep.
A guard frowns as he passes with trembling steps,
lightning shows his thin frame, but shadows intercept.
8) From “Cure Your Slavery with Patience,” Saniyah Saleh (1939-1995), tr. Marilyn Hacker
Cure your slavery with patience
or so I was told
Cure your oppression and memory with sleep
as for me
I sat under the high, thorny trees
until they flowered
These are not numerical symbols
They are not dates of defeats or chronicles of victories
a language for measuring the calendar’s arithmetic
or for marking an early punishment or a delayed reward
My memory is betrayed
by monotonous math classes
with their yawning lessons
and me leaving through the bolted window
without the teacher sensing anything
except the unruly winds
the source of which she fears
10) From “The World’s Heart,” Nujoom al-Ghanem, tr. Khaled al-Masri
We only recognised that sea laden
with our mothers’ fear after it raised
its head high and ate the feet of our homelands…
11) Taken from Rasha Omran’s The Woman Who Dwelt in the House Before, with translations by Abdelrehim Youssef, Kim Echlin, and Monica Pereschi.
Each time I begin to write about love
the other woman reaches out
and pushes my fingers from the keyboard
the lonely woman who lost everything
the wild woman
who looks like me
12) From an untitled poem of Saadia Mufarreh’s, tr. Yasmine Seale
but details linger. Who knows how
they trickle in and scurry out,
how they hum like a knot
of sandgrouse caught
in the snare of distance,
to silence, that stranger
not to be trusted,
getting the better of love,
that looted thing.
13) From “Raising a Glass With an Arab Nationalist,” Iman Mersal, tr. Robyn Creswell
“The nation is on fire,” he said, instead of good evening, and
I started coughing from the smoke that suddenly engulfed me.
14) From “Dragonflies,” Asmaa Azaizeh, tr. Yasmine Seale
Millions of years ago, there were no winged creatures.
We all crawled around on our bellies and paws
15) From “The Book of Games,” Rana al-Tonsi, tr. Robin Moger
In every city is a wall that opens,
a feeble light,
who chose to tread the wrong path.
16) From “Anatomy of the Rose“ Soukaina Babiballah, tr. Kareem James Abu-Zeid
When the rose perceived the distance
between itself and the earth,
it brought forth its thorns.
17) From “The Room of Darkness,” Mona Kareem, tr. Robin Moger
I am from darkness, my
homeland is an aging butterfly
my prayers are the desert.
18) From “Praising ‘Fear,’” Dara Abdallah, tr. Mona Kareem
Why despise “fear”? Zealous writing that glorifies “heroism” and “sacrifices” and “blood” recharges a violent and masculine symbolic language. A text filled with heroism is a suffocating lung.
19) From “Pleasant thoughts for getting rid of rage,” Malaka Badr, tr. Robin Moger
I have rage enough to burn the city
and murder its inhabitants
individually, each a different way,
with blithe delight unspoiled by guilt.
The keys that do not open doors
Are the same keys that lock them
And the keys wrapped in chains
Have nothing but the spectacle of jingling
21) From “Abstraction,” Aya Nabih, tr. Maged Zaher
The petrified clocks
Are harsh like a wall
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