Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? (2 page)

Like the balcony of a house, I look at whatever I will

I look at my friends as they bring the evening post:

Wine and bread,

And some novels and records…

I look at a seagull, and Army lorries

Which change the trees of this place

I look at the dog belonging to my immigrant neighbour, who came

From Canada a year and a half ago…

I look at the name; Abu al-Tayyib al-Mutanabbi',

Who travelled from Tiberias to Egypt

On the horse of song

I look at the Persian rosebush which climbs

Over the iron fence

Like the balcony of a house, I look at whatever I will

*

I look at trees which keep night from itself

And keep the sleep of those who love me dead…

I look at the wind, which seeks the land of wind

In itself…

I look at a woman sunning in herself…

I look at a procession of ancient prophets

Who are going up barefoot to Jerusalem

And I ask: ‘Is there a new prophet

For this new age?'

*

Like the balcony of a house, I look at whatever I will

I look at my picture, as it flees from itself

To the stone stairs, carrying my Mother's handkerchief

And shaking in the wind: what would happen if I were to become

A child again? And I returned to you… and you returned to me

I look at an olive bole which hid Zachariah

I look at words that are extinct in
‘Lisan al-‘Arab'

I look at the Persians, the Romans, the Sumerians,

And the new refugees…

I look at the necklace of one of Tagore's poor women

Ground under the wheels of the handsome prince's carriage…

I look at a hoopoe exhausted by the King's reproaches

I look at what is beyond Nature:

What will come… what will come after the ashes?

I look scared at myself, from a distance…

Like the balcony of a house, I look at what I will

*

After two days I look at my language. A brief

Absence is enough for Aeschylus to open the door to Peace,

A short speech is enough to incite Anthony for war

A woman's hand in mine

And I embrace my freedom

And the ebb and flow in my body begins anew

Like the balcony of a house, I look at what I will

I look at my ghost

Coming

From

Afar…

They have saddled the horses,

They know not why,

But they have saddled the horses in the field

*

…The place was ready for his birth: a hill

Which looked east and west from the scented bushes of his ancestors

And an olive tree

Near an olive tree in the holy books which elevate the plains of language…

And azure smoke which prepares the day for a question

Which concerns only God. March is the spoiled child

of all months. March’s snow falls like cotton on almond trees.

March makes mallow for the court of the church

March is a land for the night of the swallow, and for a woman

Who prepares to cry out in the wilderness… and reaches out to the holm oaks.

*

Now a child is born,

And his cry,

Is in the crevices of the place

*

We parted on the steps of the house. They were saying:

In my cry is caution which sorts ill with the frivolousness of the plants,

In my cry is rain, did I wrong my brothers

When I said that I had seen angels playing with the wolf

In the courtyard of the house? I do not remember

Their names. And also I do not remember their way

Of talking… and of the agility of their flying

My friends flare up by night and leave

No trace behind them. Shall I tell my mother the truth:

I have other brothers

Brothers who leave a moon on my balcony

Brothers who weave with their needle the coat of daisy

*

They have saddled the horses,

They know not why,

But they have saddled the horses at the end of the night

*

…Seven ripened ears suffice for Summer’s dining table.

Seven ripened ears in my hands and in every ripened ears.

The field germinates a field of wheat. My Father used to

Draw water from his well and say

To it, ‘Do not run dry’. And he would take me by the hand

To see how I grow like purslane

I walk on the brink of the well: I have two moons,

One on high

And another swimming in the water… I have two moons

*

Trusting, like their forebears, the righteousness

Of the laws… they beat the iron of their swords

Into ploughshares. ‘The sword will not mend what

Summer has ruined’, they said. And they prayed

Long, and sang praises to Nature…

But they have saddled the horses,

So as to dance the dance of horses,

In the silver of the night…

*

A cloud in my hand wounds me: I do not

Want of the Earth more than

This Earth: the scent of cardamom and straw

Between my father and the horse.

In my hand a cloud wounds me, but I

Want no more from the sun than an orange, and no more than

Gold flowed from the words of the Call to Prayer

*

They have saddled the horses,

They know not why,

But they have saddled the horses

At the end of the night,

And have waited

For a ghost to rise from the crevices of the place…

Here is a present untouched by yesterday…

When we arrived

At the last of the trees, we realised we had lost our will to be conscious. And

when we looked for the lorries, we saw absence

Piling up its selected objects, setting up

Its eternal tent around us…

Here is a present

Which is untouched by yesterday,

Slipping away from the mulberry tree is a thread of silk

shaping letters on the ledger of night. Nothing

But the moths illuminate our bold

Plunge into the pit of strange words:

Was this wretched man my father?

Perhaps I shall manage here. Perhaps

I, myself, am now giving birth to myself,

And am choosing for my name upright letters…

*

Here is a present

Which sits in the space among the vessels watching

How passers-by mark the reeds of the river,

Polishing their pipes with air… Perhaps speech

Is transparent and we look through windows that are open,

And perhaps time hurries with us

With our Tomorrow in its luggage…

*

Here is a present

Which has no time,

No one here has found any who remembers

How we came out of the gate, like the wind, or at

What time we tumbled out of yesterday, how

Yesterday was shattered on the pavement into pieces which the others

Fit together as looking glasses, after us…

*

Here is a present

Which has no place,

Perhaps I manage, and I cry out in

The night of the owl: Was that wretched man

My father, to make me bear the burden of his history?

Perhaps I change in my name, and I choose

My mother’s expressions and her ways, just as they ought

To be: as if she is able to amuse me whenever salt touches my blood

or cure me whenever I am bitten by a nightingale in the mouth!

*

Here is a present

Which is passing,

Here is where strangers hung their rifles on

The branches of olive trees, and prepared a hasty

Supper from metal cans, and went off

Hurriedly to the lorries…

Where are you taking me, Father?

Towards the wind, my son…

As together they came from the plain where

Bonaparte’s troops had set up a mound to observe

Shadows on the old wall of Acre –

A father says to his son: Fear not, fear not the whistle of bullets! Lie flat

In the dust to be safe! We will be safe, we will climb

A hill to the North, and go back when

The troops return to their own people far away.

– And who will live in our house when we are away,

Father?

– It will remain just as it was,

My son!

He felt the key as he felt

His limbs, and was reassured. He said to him,

As they crossed over a thorn hedge,

My son, remember: here is where the British crucified

Your father on a hedge of prickly pear for two nights,

But never did he confess. You will grow up

My son, and will tell to those who inherit their rifles

The account of blood inscribed over iron…

– Why did you leave the horse alone?

– To be company for the house, my son,

For houses die when their inhabitants leave them…

Eternity opens its gates, far off,

To the stalkers of night.

In the fallows are wolves howling at a fearful Moon. A father

Says to his son: Be strong like your grandfather!

Climb with me the last hill of holm oak,

My son, remember: here is where the janissary fell

Off the mule of war, keep with me,

So we shall go back.

– When, Father?

– Tomorrow. Perhaps in two days’ time, son.

The next day was frivolous, wind murmuring

Behind them through the long winter nights.

The troops of Joshua Ben Nūn were building

A fortress from the stones of their house. They were both

Panting for breath on the track to ‘Qana’: here is where,

One day, Our Lord passed. Here is where

He turned water into wine. He spoke

Much of love. ‘My son, remember

Tomorrow. Remember the Crusader’s fortresses

That April’s grasses have nibbled away after

The troops have gone…’

He contemplates his days in cigarette smoke,

He looks at his pocket watch:

If I could I would slow down its ticking

To delay the ripening of the barley…

He steps out from himself, exhausted, disgruntled:

Harvest time has come,

The wheat heads are heavy, the sickles lie idle, the land

Is now far from its Prophet’s door.

Lebanon’s summer speaks to me of my grapes in the south

Lebanon’s summer speaks to me of what lies beyond nature

But my way to God starts

From a star in the South…

– Are you talking to me, Father?

– They have signed a truce on the island of Rhodes,

My son.

– How does that affect us, how does that affect us, Father?

– Things are over…

– How many times shall things be over, Father?

– It is finished. They did their duty:

They fought with broken rifles against the enemy’s aircraft.

We have done our duty, we kept clear of the China tree

So as not to disturb the Commanding Officer’s cap.

We sold our wives’ rings so that they might hunt sparrows,

My child!

– So are we going to stay here, Father,

Under the willow tree of the wind

Between the sky and the sea?

– My child, everything here

Will be like something there

By night we shall be like ourselves

We shall be scorched by the eternal star of likeness,

My child!

– Father, say something to cheer me!

– I left the window open

To the cooing of the doves

I left my face at the brink of the well

I left speech

Hanging over the cabinet rope

To tell its tale, I left darkness

In its night wrapped in the wool of my waiting

I left the clouds

On the fig tree spreading their trousers

I left the sleep

Renewing itself in itself

I left peace

Alone, there on the land…

– Were you dreaming while I was awake, Father?

– Get up. We will return, my child!