"The Enemies" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                    "The Enemies"

We are enemies then
from a world without feelings
that does not understand the song of the eyes
the eyes that have no secrets,
and love is a story that is told
of a yesterday that is embraced
by soil and hatred

We are enemies then
vast worlds apart
with lost and vague limits
that make our roads impossible,
but through the long dry ages
we walk
searching for the gate
seduced by our fading love
to the desert

We are enemies then
memories sleeping deep within us
confused paralyzed and lost
shadowed by hatred
and stripped of every shape
and the spell of days
in pieces left every dream

We are enemies then
though by dreams we are bound
dreams from a past left behind
and things forgotten and empty eyes
on fading faces and no sound
like a distant star
receding in the dark

We are enemies then
though with passion we are filled
awake but yet
worlds apart
worlds we feel and know
like the dead beneath the humiliated soil
feel the steps and noise
of life above

                                      * * * * 

"The Beautiful" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                            "The Beautiful"

Crying beyond distances beyond the land
letting your hair fall your hands your tears
against the pillow
why do you cry? Does a beautiful cry?
did they not give you the melodies and songs?
did they not not feed you the letters?
did they spare the words?
oh! beautiful, what the tears for then?

We spared not each lip
to describe your wounds
the description that hurt us and our ears
and when you carried the heavy chains
and thirsty lips longed to a drop of water
and gathered the themes
then said we
shall sing for her
along the nights

Then said we
they made her drink blood with flame
they crucified her on the woods of a cross
while we sang for heroism
"we shall save her"
"we shall save her"
and drowned beyond the horizon of "shall"
amongst the glittering words
and we woke
"long live the beautiful"
"long live the beautiful"

We adored and melted in her smiles
the beauty of the love that chains killed
shall we feed our words
with meanings from her wounds?
is this a place for songs?
hence songs will be shame
and shame let them be
and let them melt against
the nobel wounds of hers

They made her carry the wounds of knives
while we made her carry the wounds of distant
meanings with smiles
oh, shame shame
of the wounds of a beautiful 
   
                                                    * * * * 

To J

J is about a dream, and like most dreams, is not real.  In it and through it, though, life flows, like a solitary wave dragging along its own path, its own glow, its meaning, its beginning and its end.
J is about that one I never really knew; yet I touched, smelled, and felt. J showed me how it would have been, could have been.  How happiness can be real, attainable, precious, and yet remain precarious.  And how a woman can embody all this and more - and remain a dream.
J resides in and helps weave every man's fears and dreams.  J defines his limits and extends his depths and heights. In the sand J draws his failures and successes. In a colorless world J gives him color.  In an endless sea of meaninglessness J gives him his own.
Like art J abstracts life, and in that way, is different things to different men.  To me, J is that measure of constancy when the immutable is no longer so.  A reassured but tenuous connectedness; like a full moon shining down on an endless cold desert gently lending it its faint light, connecting with it through its borrowed warmth of distant and powerful others, again and again.  The passage of time seems to add regularity each time, without a little less monotony;  each time is more intense than the last, more precious and more entropic.
Intensely personal and stubborn, J came out gushing out of a wound, like the warm waters of a desert spring; quick to ascend into ether.  Between it and its mirage lies its essence.  Its kairos visible but distant like the light of a dead star,  a dead beginning.
The dream was not even mine.  The borrowed happiness, once free will always find its way home, and it seems it has.

My First

This title is inspired by the teacher,  Edward, pluralized then claimed.

I met the teacher for the first time in 2002, a little more than a year before he left us.  I had read some of his books before, but I never really thought I would just meet him.  But I did. He was bearded and looked tired.  The illness had gotten to his body but not his mind, and certainly not his spirit.  He was warm. His smile was big.  I  remember it well.  I also remember that I did not feel awed.  I felt reassured,  in place, at least for that brief period.

After his lecture and book signing ritual I joined him with many others for dinner.  In between he rertired for few minutes on his own to reappear looking only slightly better, I thought.  Others wanted to know his thoughts on many different things.  They wanted to know about his newest books, his theories, his passions.  I had few questions of my own, but I did not feel like I needed any answers any time soon, I don't think.

We met again over breakfast, this time with fewer fans.  He looked better, I thought.   The English professors did not stop hounding him, politely but with visible, unabashed admiration and awe.  I asked some of my questions and Edward responded with lengthy, complete answers.  I do not remember his exact answers.

On the way to the airport to see him off I sat next to him where he asked me about family, career, and where I thought the road was taking me, us.  I do not remember my exact answers.  But I remember him  listening intently as if he was taking notes, waiting for me to finish.  At the airport he asked me what my plans were for the rest of the day.  When I told him I was driving back home he asked me if I could join him instead on the small plane flight back to NY.  I did.

During the flight we talked about a lot of things.  I do distinctly remember asking him about his daily schedule and how in the world does one in his position find the time to write all these books, run errands, and be a world renowned Edward.  His short and complete answer was that he did not waste time sleeping.  No more than 4 hours, I remember the number he prescribed.  I nodded.    At the aipport about to get into his cab, he looked me in the eye, clutching my hand, and said, I am glad you could join us, you'll do OK, I hope we could do this again.

On the flight back I saw the skyline below and I felt his absence.    A year later the world felt the same absence, and is no longer the same.