And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are,” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
– Translated by Milosz and Robert Hass
Tag: Life
Mourid Barghouti | Midnight
Life is hidden somewhere,
I know,
somewhere not far from here,
I know.
Should I search for it
as one would a pin,
as one would a broken button,
as one would a ring dropped in the dust?
Should I go back to sleep for one more hour
so that I might see it in my dream?
Should I consult mountebanks
and fortune tellers,
describing its appearance,
hoping that a charm of their making,
hung round my neck,
might take me back to it
or bring it back to me?
Should I post its picture in the police stations,
clinics, emergency rooms
and newspapers,
with the sentimental caption:
life, we have forgiven you, we shall not punish you for running away.
Life, we are all waiting;
please, life, come back to us!
Mourid Barghouti, extract from the poem ‘Midnight’ translated by Radwa Ashour.
Ayesha Kidwai’s Hindi translation:
यहीं कहीं छुपी होगी ज़िन्दगी,
मुझे मालुम है, कहीं पास ही होगी,
मुझे पता है.
ढूँढ़ूँ क्या मैं उसे?
जैसे कोई खोजे एक पिन
जैसे कोई खोजे एक टुटा बटन
जैसे कोई खोजे धूल में गिरके खोई हुई एक अंगूठी
क्या मैं एक घंटे के लिए फिर से सो जाऊं,
ताकि उसे मैं अपने ख़्वाबों में देख सकूँ?
क्या मैं नीमहकीमों और ज्योतिषियों से सलाह करूँ,
उसका हुलिया उन्हें बताऊँ,
यह आस लिए कि उनके बनाये हुए गंडे-तावीज़,
गले में लटकाये,
मुझे उस तक वापस ले जा पाए,
या उसको मेरे पास लौट के ले आये?
क्या मैं उसकी तस्वीर पुलीस स्टेशनों, क्लिनिकों, हस्पतालों और अख़बारों
में छाप दूँ,
इस जज़्बाती संदेस के साथ:
ऐ ज़िन्दगी, हमने तुम्हें माफ़ किया,
तुम्हारे भाग जाने की तुम्हें कोई सज़ा नहीं देंगे.
ज़िन्दगी,हम सब को तुम्हारा इंतज़ार है
लौट के हमारे पास आ जाओ, ऐ ज़िन्दगी!
Things shouldn’t be so hard | Kay Ryan
A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.
Juvenilia 