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Tea at Chez Paul's
Narguileh
Milkweed
Under the Crescent Moon
Missing Words
How the Song Turns into a Legend
Salawat
Adagio por una viola d'amore olvidada
Bajo pinceladas
Al Milad
Effets du temps
Niagara
La vieille femme
Vases communicants
Tea at Chez Paul's
We ate Schtengels at Chez Paul's,
twisted breads sprinkled with coarse salt
 clinging
to our lips.
We could see the sea enfolding us
through the tall bay windows
of the semi-circular Swiss teahouse.
You described a Phoenician Tale
just for me,
how the mountain slopes
reddened each spring
with
Adonis' blood,
how this delicate flower,
truly and duly Lebanese
has come to be called a red poppy, an anemone,
with all its melodious variations,
alkhushkhash,
un
amapola,
un
coquelicot,
ed
anche un papavero...
We walked through a field scattered
with red poppies bright as when Ishtar
sprinkled nectar
on her beloved's blood.
Time
seemed elastic then,
space
infinite.
I wished to bring home a handful of scarlet light,
to keep the softness of its wrinkled petals
alive a while longer.
The moment I cut Adonis' flower,
hanging like a broken limb, its corolla fell over
my hand,
head too heavy with dreams.
No
wonder blossoms tremble
on
their fragile stem.
Sometimes love is only real when not uprooted.
Isn't
there a geography of every emotion?
not a precious, intricate Carte du Tendre,
but
a trail of forgotten footsteps mapping
every heartbeat, every motion?
A
stairwell, a car, a booth, a parking lot,
a
streetlight, a gateway,
an old-fashioned reverbère,
a
Bus Stop or maybe a tree, a tree stump
, a moss-covered path, a pond,
a
small creek, a flat stone,
a
hill, a porch or even a wooden bench?
Take the poppy, for instance. It will only breathe
and give joy at its birthplace.
I
can still feel the small flower melting
into liquid silk in my palm.
I
held the red petals to my cheek
like a morning kiss while you kept telling how Ishtar
or
as some may say Astarté, often mistaken for Isis,
was
truly her Phoenician incarnation,
before she was ever called Aphrodite or Venus.
I
remember how you talked and talked
until we both stepped into Ishtar's temple.
First published by
Nimrod International Journal Awards 25: Who
We Make & Are Made by History 41 1 (2003). Reprinted in Inclined To Speak: Anthology of Contemporary Arab American Poetry University of Arkansas Press, ed. by Hayan Charara (2008).
Narguileh
Trapped in his backyard,
an old man
thinks of cafés,
backgammon games, dice
thrown over inlaid wood.
Fingertips folded
on an empty palm, hand
recapturing the lost motion,
he draws on his pipe,
reviving crackling embers,
attentive to the divas' deep
vibrato, Feyrouz,
Sabah, Om
Kolsoum.
He breeds canaries
in a shed, feeds them egg
shells, slices of apple.
Each dawn, he hangs
cages on the trellis
overlooking the swing
waters his vegetables,
precious seeds
flown from far away,
curled cucumbers,
a special vine from Lebanon
its silken leaves
fit for stuffing.
Rolling patience beads
made of coral,
he sits for hours
under the covered porch.
Lips stuck to the tip
of the painted pipe,
he thanks the Lord,
his grandchildren
would live free
in the New World.
Does it matter if,
his soul sinks
in an iridescent flask,
blown into eddies of smoke?
Eastern voices mix
with the birds' song, Sabah,
Om Kolsoum,
Feyrouz.
Carefully kindling coals
with tongs, he watches
arabesques, swirls emerging
from underwater, imprisoned
in the blown glass,
bursting at the surface,
deafened words
of a drowned Phoenician sailor,
the last words
of those dying
without knowing why.
First published by
Curbside Review 4 (2003).
Forthcoming in Arab American Writers and Diaspora LiteraturInterlink Press, ed. by Nathalie Handal. .
Milkweed
Only at dusk is one swept by the deep
sweet scent of milkweed,
a turbulence
in the evening's crisp air. Scepters,
edging the road in triple rows,
crowned by pink,
minute star-like flowers
linked by invisible rays.
I pull the thick stem, an ancestral
gesture,
freeing hairy filaments
from rain-soaked earth, to bury
in the creek's
moist soil.
Rubbing my sticky fingers, I wonder
what powers lie
in the white bleeding
of broken leaves, the stigmata of purple
veins, cures lost
with old shamans,
before this land was named Michigan.
And I think of Lebanon, the green figs
we grew in the mountains
of Baabdat,
figs picked, children climbing forbidden
fences. At the bottom of each fig,
a white tear
covered the circular scar,
a tear, beading from invisible pores,
sheathing our skin
with transparent gloves.
I hear my mother's voice, an echo
of ancient wisdom,
purification rites:
"Never rub your eyes before washing
or you'll go blind!" Would milkweed
sap heal
sightless eyes, unaware
of star-like flowers
offering their last silk-winged seed?
A swarm of bees milks intangible beads;
I inhale the dizzying
scent, anchoring
myself in increasing darkness. A spark
reveals hidden berries,
the whiteness
of a Daisy, Queen Ann's lace,
fireflies,
springing from nowhere,
greener in a darkened back alley
between three black
trunks, rising motes of flame
in the cool liminal hour,
vision inside vision,
inside me, at the verge of the night,
the wild dance
of heated elytra
everywhere around grass and wildflower,
attentive only to that mysterious,
incoherent language,
emerging from folds
of bark, creased blades of grass,
moisture trapped
in lichen, in humus,
underneath flattened, blackened oak leaves.
First published by
Sulphur River Literary Review 13 3 (1997).
Reprinted in Inclined To Speak: Anthology of Contemporary Arab American Poetry University of Arkansas Press, ed. by Hayan Charara (2008).
Under the Crescent Moon
The violonist has grown wings,
the donkey is flying.
The bride and groom listen all night-long
to the blue notes cascading over the red-tiled roof.
They hear a secret tune,
each from a different slice of the moon.
He takes off his Top hat, unties his black knot,
hums to the opalescence marking
the beginning of his dance.
Dovelike, she lies in embroidered sheets,
her ruffled dress rests on a chair like discarded
wings.
She knows her waist will swell by the full moon,
dreams of its dark side where Chagall is hiding.
First published by
Sulphur River Literary Review 20 2 (2004)
Missing Words
We both stared at the illuminated images
of what must have been a rare book. Its pages
seemed to turn on their own, one by one,
following the rhythm of our breath--were we
so afraid
to touch its precious leaves?
I noticed faded characters here and there, like
distant memories, missing lines rubbed away by fingers
or written in invisible ink, perhaps words never
said,
unable to fall in proper order--could the writer
or scribe
have wished to light a match, imagined its fire
racing along the
elongated curves of the phrase, erasing even the
traces
of his thought?
Then came an empty page, papyrus-like, arresting,
intimidating the one about to stamp it with the
colors
of life--what ever happened to this page, I
wondered,
realizing you were gone
First published by
Puerto del Sol 38 1 (2003)
How the Song Turns into a Legend
We all have but one song, spend a lifetime
looking
for ways to say it,
as
one recites an unending poem,
a chanson de geste,
a
canto, or an epic.
What happens then if you whisper it only to yourself,
burying
it deeper every day?
Wouldn't
it wilt as petals pressed
between the pages of a book?
And
couldn't a garden die of indifference?
But take any couple, an encounter, turn it into
a legend,
make
it last... Their story told and retold,
ritualized
by repetition,
until their stature grows, their eyes brighten,
until
their voice is heard,
their
sin forgiven...
Recount tales in tongues, in parables, uttered in
public squares,
whispered in corners
in
sotto voce,
from
mouth to mouth,
hear a mother's voice warn her children
with
a half-smile,
witness
puppets parody star-crossed lovers in street fairs,
in
jest, in awe,
in ever-changing roles and settings.
Watch words form lines, notes, scripts, scores written
in scrolls,
in
parchment, in manuscripts folded in folio,
in
quarto,
scribbled in notebooks, in recipe books,
in
brown paper, engraved in stone, in bronze,
gold
or ivory,
transcribed,
transformed,
until
only names are left untouched.
When so many variations deafen the original song,
then,
and only then,
the
images retain their spell,
become
universal,
art
legitimizing what could never endure.
First published by
Puerto del Sol 39 2 (2004)
Salawat
Lament
of an old Lebanese.
I have lost count
of nights
lulling myself to sleep,
of magical signs,
salawat, unheard
pleas,
my rosary,
restrung so many times,
I can no longer
distinguish
Ave from Gloria.
I could be imploring Allah,
my beads
the same size,
as my neighbor Yasmine's
who lost
her two sons.
All of us
people
of the Book,
all faithful, burned incense,
knelt
in the right direction,
all wept
at the wakes of loved ones.
Now, in each home
an oil lamp lights
black picture frames.
A flat stone
pressed
against my heart,
the used up
words, eroding
the tip of our tongue,
our lips, our soul,
keep coming
back, salawat,
soothing
like water falling
over
boulders.
First published by
Parting Gifts 9 2 (1996-1997).
Forthcoming in Arab American Writers and Diaspora Literature Interlink Press, ed. by Nathalie Handal.
Adagio por una viola d'amore olvidada
...el hiperespacio proveería un medio
para navegar a través del tiempo y del espacio...
Michio Kaku
En el ángulo oscuro
de un desván que recorrí en sueños
encontré una viola d'amore
reclinada contra una mecedora
único respaldo del penoso peso
del embarazo
compañera muda
cómplice de largas horas de espera
La compré en la galería Regency,
la que se quemó durante la guerra civil
veíamos entonces arder piras y hogueras
desde lo alto de la montaña
lenguas de fuego
lamían los pies de las estrellas
y pensar que me serviría algún día
en mi ahora de huesos dolientes
¿Qué más da el recuerdo de una mecedora,
cuando lo perdimos todo en Beirut?
La silla se encontraba en el ático
al lado de una viola d'amore
que reclinaba su espalda
contra el dorso de la silla,
un par de cuerdas flojas
ecos visibles de silencios rotos y al cabo del alargado cuello,
la cabeza tallada de un cupido
tan polvoriento
que no se le notaban
los ojos vendados
¿Y qué más da si nadie tocara en la familia?
Sólo quisiera saber lo que esta cabeza
escuchaba cada vez
que la esbelta alejandrina
la apretaba con firmeza
bajo el mentón
cuando era joven y fuerte
y no mi nonna que se deslizaba
por los pasillos
en una silla de ruedas
sus nudosos dedos
desgranando el rosario de nácar
bajo la mirada profunda
del ícono virginal
La imagino tocando en el balcón de nuestra casa
en Heliópolis,
¿o estaría entonces en
Alexandría?
La veo apoyar el cuerpo inerte
de la viola d'amore
contra su pecho
y con cada rasgueo,
resoplaba una y otra nota
gotas de agua cristalinas
el doble juego
de cuerdas haciéndose eco
Tenía una manera de andar
que atraía las miradas...
hasta el día que la casaron
a los diez y seis años
a un joyero ferviente de masonería
que no sabía nada de música
En esos días decidió guardar la viola en el ático
al lado de mi mecedora.
First published by Letras Femeninas vol 33 2 (2007).
Reprinted
in Poetic Voices Without Borders Vol 2 (2009) Gival Press, ed. by Robert Giron.
Bajo pinceladas
Una cosa era constante en su composición
una
pareja sentada en un banco bajo una palmera
una
mimosa o hasta un laurel
Una vez se le ocurrió retratarlos frente a una casita
rústica
cubierta de hiedra y buganvillas de color magenta
rodeada
de olmos o de una cascada de sauces
sus
sienes plateadas ondulando con la brisa...
.
¿Pero dónde colocaría este locus amoenus,
en un barrio tranquilo o en medio del campo?
Con el pasar del tiempo, se conformó con un piso
o
un dos piezas en una terraza llena de plantas trepadoras
y
luego con cuatro paredes enmarcando siluetas remotas...
Optó por el óleo. De este modo, nadie vería los
fallos
se
secarían los colores y se improvisaría,
capa
tras capa de sombra bruñida o tierra de Siena quemada,
matices
de ocre derretido atravesado de nubes
sobre
un fondo azul cerúleo, teñido de cobalto o de índigo
cambiando
estaciones a su antojo...
De la acuarela, ni pensarlo
cada
pincelada,
cada
espacio vacío
revelaría
el vuelo de una idea
una
frase inacabada,
una
palabra no dicha
como
si se pudieran poner palabras en boca de alguien,
pintarle
la mente o el corazón,
cuando
siquiera nos mira a los ojos...
De la misma manera que la huella
de un dedo en el ala de una mariposa no se puede
remendar,
la tinta traza sobre el papel el eco
de
la palabra elusiva,
otra
que nos llega al azar,
el
recuerdo de una mueca,
una
espalda que se aleja
Sus esbozos se empinaban sobre estantes cubiertos
de polvo,
en cajones olvidados, doblados en dos o cuatro como
folios
o
enrollados en forma de papiro
llenos
de un mudo tumulto detrás de las puertas cerradas,
A menudo leía entre las sombras cuando los pliegues
abiertos
liberaban rayos de luna
capturados
en el parpadeo de las persianas...
Pero con los óleos, sólo una tela bastaba
un
palimpsesto que siempre permanecería
capa
sobre capa hasta formar un cuadro tridimensional
que
sólo ella podía descifrar...
Meditaba largas horas frente a esta forma perfecta
encerrando
una mandala circular
una
visión sosegada
que decidió enmarcar como su versión final
hasta que el marco se estiró,
extendiéndose
al tamaño de su cuarto
fundiéndose
con el papel magenta dorado
tapizando sus propias paredes....
Publicado por
Explicación de Textos Literarios 31 2 (2002-2003)
Al Milad
Blottis autour d'une cheminée,
Ils essaient de réveillonner
Sans pour autant oublier
Les absents, les voitures piégées.
Il est si difficile de prier
Quand chaque jour se creuse le fossé
Et qu'il n'y a plus de sécurité
A l'ombre des Cèdres ennéigés.
Du fond de sa crèche, l'enfant Jésus
Semble faire la sourde oreille
A ces enfants désenchantés
Ayant perdu jusqu'au droit de rêver.
Et même la colombe désorientée
A oublié qu'elle s'est depuis longtemps
Nichée au beau milieu des oliviers.
Dis,colombe, vas-tu te décider
A reprendre ton office de courrier?
Paru dans Le
Journal Français d'Amérique 7 24 (1985-1986).
Reprinted in Poetic Voices Without Borders Vol 2 (2009) Gival Press, ed. by Robert Giron.
Effets du temps
Peu a peu, graduellement,
Sans effort ni peine,
Le temps, la vie routinière
Laissent leur empreinte
Sur les coeurs et l'esprit,
A la manière d'un peigne
Glissant sans résistance
Dans une chevelure en désordre.
Chaque mouvement du peigne,
Mettant en place mèche après mèche
Pour donner finalement lieu
A une coiffure nette, ordonnée,
Mais dépourvue de charme et d'attrait.
Paru dans Chimères
18 2 (1986).
Reprinted in Poetic Voices Without Borders Vol 2 (2009) Gival Press, ed. by Robert Giron.
Niagara
Ton grondement sourd me parvient,
obscurément étouffé par la double paroi de la baie
vitrée.
De ce huitième étage, les yeux rivés à la fenêtre,
je m'extasie devant ta majestueuse beauté.
Si seulement je pouvais m'élancer a l'instar de
ces mouettes
me fondre dans la blancheur de ton écume.
Rythme monotone, infernal, tes eaux bouillonnent
dans un roulement incessant, ta buée se dégage,
évanescente, épousant les nuages qui s'estompent
face à ce constant apport émanant de ton cratère
ardent,
s'élançant en vapeurs glacées, caressant d'une berge
à l'autre, en guise de gouttelettes accueillantes
les visages étranges qui journellement te côtoient.
Attirés par toi sans distinction de race, ils reçoivent
ainsi le baptême égalitaire de tes puissants torrents.
Gronde, écume, exprime ta rage et ta liberté,
symbole de passion déchaînée, irréfrénée.
Ton grondement sourd me dérange.
Paru dans Chimères
18 2 (1986).
Reprinted in Poetic Voices Without Borders Vol 2 (2009) Gival Press, ed. by Robert Giron
La vieille femme
Car Femme, elle a vécu sans flamme,
Fidèle à son devoir d'état
Noyant jour après jour son âme.
Dans une barque sans rames,
Elle a vogué par ci, par là
Car Femme, elle a vécu sans flamme.
Ravalant son amertume
Goutte à goutte et sans éclats,
Noyant jour après jour son âme.
Et de trop veiller ses mômes,
Parcheminée se retrouva
Car Femme, elle a vécu sans flamme.
Privée de fruits et d'arômes,
Ses rêves aussi elle refoula
Noyant jour après jour son âme.
Au gré des flots et de son homme
Se dessécha se consuma
Car Femme, elle a vécu sans flamme,
Noyant jour après jour son âme.
Reprinted in Poetic Voices Without Borders Vol 2 (2009) Gival Press, ed. by Robert Giron.
Vases communicants
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