Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hassan El Ouazzani

On the outskirts of life

A cloud
fell beside my heart. And what will happen
after all this massacre? Two clouds fell. No problem.
More people are dead on the battlefront. Let them queue up then,
so I can decorate them with some oblivion. Cities fell.
Cities will I build. The desert battalion has occupied more
strongholds. I will barricade myself in the remaining bastions. The anthem.
The anthem. Make way for the band of the blind.
Let the death wagon cross my mornings, let Hulagu’s armies pass
to the battlefront, let Nero go to Rome.
These are my friends.

In the nest of my heart
women drew close to each other.
No jealousy disturbs their sleep. They agreed
at last to share the same space
the same pain
and the same
void.

Once again,
losses are playing
in the hallways of my heart.

Good,
I will lock up my heart
and drown them in cigarette smoke
and glasses of pain.

I will stop
the beating in my heart
so that they turn, like this,
with no home, and no land.
I will uproot
my heart so as to uproot
all the anguish in my breast.

Let
then
the death wagon head alone to the battlefront.
I will not follow Khalil Hawi,
for on my table
is a glass I haven’t drunk from, around it
friends entertain themselves, late-night chat,
stories of great friendliness. Behind me is the void,
before me the mornings, on my shoulders the wind.

I will not
tie my days to the steps of Van Gogh
for it takes me an hour to swim in the River Seine, a day
to climb Mount Hermon, a year to reach the outskirts
of Beirut, two years to cross the towers of China.

It takes
life, the whole of life
for things to sweep through my hands

– the night with its intense darkness, the sun with its ferocity, waves
with their bafflement, the earth with its vastness, clouds with their anger,
the desert with its nomadism, the river with its forlornness.

It should,
then, show me more sympathy.
Its water should cover me
a little.

Life
life. I will tie it to my steps
like this, exactly as death ties my youth to itself.

DE RANDEN VAN HET LEVEN

Naast mijn hart
daalde een wolk neer. Wat zal hierna gebeuren
na deze hele slachting. Twee wolken daalden neer. Geeft niet
Aan het front vallen meer doden. Laten ze zich opstellen
dat ik hen kan onderscheiden met
Ik zal steden bouwen. Het woestijnregiment heeft andere forten
bezet. Ik zal me in de overgebleven forten verschansen. Het volkslied
Het volkslied. Maak de weg vrij voor het muziekkorps van blinden
Laat de lijkwagen mij ’s morgens voorbijgaan. Op naar het front
soldaten van Hulagu, laat Nero naar Rome gaan
Dat zijn mijn vrienden
 
In het nest van mijn hart
sluiten vrouwen vriendschap met vrouwen
geen afgunst teistert hun bedden. Zij besluiten
tenslotte dezelfde ruimte te delen
dezelfde pijn
en hetzelfde
stof
opnieuw
vieren
de gevallenen feest in mijn hart
 
Goed
ik zal mijn hart stevig sluiten
om hen in sigarettenrook
en bekers van pijn te verdrinken
 
Ik zal mijn hartslag
stoppen
zodat ze thuisloos
en zonder vaderland zijn
 
Ik zal
mijn hart uitrukken
om al deze pijn kwijt te zijn
 
Laat
daarom
alleen een lijkwagen naar het front gaan
ik zal Khalil Hawi niet volgen
want op mijn tafel
staat een glas dat ik niet dronk met er omheen
een vriendenkring, gepraat tot laat in de avond
liefdesverhalen. Achter mij stof
voor mij de morgens en wind op mijn schouders
 
Ik
Zal mijn dagen niet aan Van Goghs stappen binden
omdat ik een uur nodig heb om in de Seine te zwemmen, een dag
om de berg Hermon te beklimmen, een jaar om de rand
van Beiroet te bereiken en twee jaar om over de Chinese muur te lopen.
 
Ik heb een leven nodig
een heel leven
dat dingen mijn handen teisteren
 
- de duistere nacht, de felle zon, de verdwaasde golven, de wijde wereld, de donkere wolken,  de nomaden in de woestijn, de troosteloze rivier −
 
Het leven moet
daarom aardig voor me zijn
het water moet mij een beetje
bedekken
 
Het leven
Het leven, ik zal het aan mijn stappen binden
zoals de dood mijn jeugd aan zich bindt

Close

On the outskirts of life

A cloud
fell beside my heart. And what will happen
after all this massacre? Two clouds fell. No problem.
More people are dead on the battlefront. Let them queue up then,
so I can decorate them with some oblivion. Cities fell.
Cities will I build. The desert battalion has occupied more
strongholds. I will barricade myself in the remaining bastions. The anthem.
The anthem. Make way for the band of the blind.
Let the death wagon cross my mornings, let Hulagu’s armies pass
to the battlefront, let Nero go to Rome.
These are my friends.

In the nest of my heart
women drew close to each other.
No jealousy disturbs their sleep. They agreed
at last to share the same space
the same pain
and the same
void.

Once again,
losses are playing
in the hallways of my heart.

Good,
I will lock up my heart
and drown them in cigarette smoke
and glasses of pain.

I will stop
the beating in my heart
so that they turn, like this,
with no home, and no land.
I will uproot
my heart so as to uproot
all the anguish in my breast.

Let
then
the death wagon head alone to the battlefront.
I will not follow Khalil Hawi,
for on my table
is a glass I haven’t drunk from, around it
friends entertain themselves, late-night chat,
stories of great friendliness. Behind me is the void,
before me the mornings, on my shoulders the wind.

I will not
tie my days to the steps of Van Gogh
for it takes me an hour to swim in the River Seine, a day
to climb Mount Hermon, a year to reach the outskirts
of Beirut, two years to cross the towers of China.

It takes
life, the whole of life
for things to sweep through my hands

– the night with its intense darkness, the sun with its ferocity, waves
with their bafflement, the earth with its vastness, clouds with their anger,
the desert with its nomadism, the river with its forlornness.

It should,
then, show me more sympathy.
Its water should cover me
a little.

Life
life. I will tie it to my steps
like this, exactly as death ties my youth to itself.

On the outskirts of life

A cloud
fell beside my heart. And what will happen
after all this massacre? Two clouds fell. No problem.
More people are dead on the battlefront. Let them queue up then,
so I can decorate them with some oblivion. Cities fell.
Cities will I build. The desert battalion has occupied more
strongholds. I will barricade myself in the remaining bastions. The anthem.
The anthem. Make way for the band of the blind.
Let the death wagon cross my mornings, let Hulagu’s armies pass
to the battlefront, let Nero go to Rome.
These are my friends.

In the nest of my heart
women drew close to each other.
No jealousy disturbs their sleep. They agreed
at last to share the same space
the same pain
and the same
void.

Once again,
losses are playing
in the hallways of my heart.

Good,
I will lock up my heart
and drown them in cigarette smoke
and glasses of pain.

I will stop
the beating in my heart
so that they turn, like this,
with no home, and no land.
I will uproot
my heart so as to uproot
all the anguish in my breast.

Let
then
the death wagon head alone to the battlefront.
I will not follow Khalil Hawi,
for on my table
is a glass I haven’t drunk from, around it
friends entertain themselves, late-night chat,
stories of great friendliness. Behind me is the void,
before me the mornings, on my shoulders the wind.

I will not
tie my days to the steps of Van Gogh
for it takes me an hour to swim in the River Seine, a day
to climb Mount Hermon, a year to reach the outskirts
of Beirut, two years to cross the towers of China.

It takes
life, the whole of life
for things to sweep through my hands

– the night with its intense darkness, the sun with its ferocity, waves
with their bafflement, the earth with its vastness, clouds with their anger,
the desert with its nomadism, the river with its forlornness.

It should,
then, show me more sympathy.
Its water should cover me
a little.

Life
life. I will tie it to my steps
like this, exactly as death ties my youth to itself.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
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