Poem
Mourid Barghouti
MY GRANDFATHER’S CLOAK
With a gentle hand, the storm graspsthe handle of the door of the world;
like a hesitant stranger, it lets itself in,
stripping off its masks one after the other.
Dropping lightning into woods,
darkness into torches,
despair into ships,
the devil into horse’s hooves,
blueness into the lips of the carriage driver,
and throwing me naked
into the jaws of the night.
The storm
nearly wrenches loose the stag’s horns.
The muscles of the waves
almost push back the coastline.
The sea is a team of phosphorescent horses
whipped by unseen lashes;
they chomp the drizzle, the horizons and the stars
and carry on their flying hooves
the stench of sulphur.
There are no boats on the sea,
the harbour is a sheet of shattered porcelain.
Nothing protects the trembling coast,
not even the fur of the sea’s foam.
Two chairs on the sand escape the storm
as if they were two lame runners
in a race.
Even the most proficient of animal-tamers,
cannot restore the unfettered waves
to the guards’ control.
I take refuge in that house with the imposing dome,
merciful arches,
warm blankets
and my grandfathers’ pictures
(worn out at the edges
in spite of the solidity of their moustaches),
pictures secure on the walls
as if they were built into them.
My grandfather, still harbouring the illusion
that the world is fine,
fills his rustic pipe
for the last time
before the advent of helmets and bulldozers!
My grandfather’s cloak gets hooked
on the bulldozer’s teeth.
The bulldozer retreats a few metres,
empties its load,
comes back to fill its huge shovel,
and never has its fill.
Twenty times, the bulldozer
comes and goes,
my grandfather’s cloak still hooked on it.
After the dust and smoke
have cleared from the house that once stood there,
and as I stare at the new emptiness,
I see my grandfather wearing his cloak,
wearing the very same cloak –
not one similar to it,
but the same one.
He hugs me and maintains a silent gaze,
as if his look
could order the rubble to become a house,
could restore the curtains to the windows,
and my grandmother to her armchair,
as if it could retrieve her coloured medicine pills,
could lay the sheets back on the bed,
could hang the lights from the ceiling,
and the pictures from the walls,
as if his look could return the handles to the doors,
and the balconies to the stars,
and persuade us to resume our dinner,
as if the world had not collapsed,
as if Heaven had ears and eyes.
He goes on staring at the emptiness.
I say:
what shall we do when the soldiers leave?
What will he do when the soldiers leave?
He slowly clenches his fist,
recapturing a boxer’s resolve in his right hand,
his coarse bronze hand,
the hand that tames the thorny slope,
the hand that holds his hoe lightly
and with ease,
the hand which, with a single blow,
splits a tree stump in half,
the hand that opens in forgiveness,
the hand that closes on the candy
with which he surprises his grandchildren,
the hand that was amputated
many years ago.
© Translation: 2009, Radwa Ashour
From: Midnight and Other Poems
From: Midnight and Other Poems
DE JAS VAN MIJN GROOTVADER
Met zachte hand opent de stormde deur van de wereld
aarzelend als een vreemdeling komt hij binnen
en legt één voor één zijn maskers af
hij bliksemt in de bossen
dooft fakkels
drijft schepen tot wanhoop
jaagt Satan in de hoeven van paarden
geeft koetsiers blauwe lippen
en werpt mij naakt
tussen de kaken van de nacht
De wind
blaast bijna de bok de horens af
Golven
belagen de kust
De zee is een horde vurige paarden
opgejaagd met onzichtbare zwepen
kauwen ze op regen, einders en sterren
aan voort vliegende hoeven
hangt een zwavelgeur
Er zijn geen schepen afgemeerd
de haven breekt als porselein
Zelfs lagen schuim
beschermen de kust niet tegen huiver
Twee stoelen vluchten voor de wind
en vliegen als kreupele atleten
over het strand
De beste dompteurs krijgen de kaken van deze nacht niet op elkaar
of de losgebroken golven
weer in hun hok
Ik zoek mijn heil in het huis met de indrukwekkende koepel
de gastvrije arcaden
met warme dekens
en de portretten van voorouders (met verweerde randen
ondanks de stevige snorren)
vast aan de muren alsof ze samen zijn opgetrokken
en mijn grootvader, die meent dat de wereld goed is,
stopt voor het laatst
zijn boerenpijp
voor de helmen
met bulldozers komen
Aan de tanden van de schuif
heeft zijn jas zich geklemd
de bulldozer gaat meters terug
gooit zijn lading neer
en vult onverzadigd
de schuif opnieuw
twintig keer
komt en gaat de schuif
met zijn jas
Als het stof is opgetrokken
van het huis dat daar stond
en ik naar het nieuwe gat kijk
zie ik dat hij zijn jas aandoet
Ik zie dat hij die jas aantrekt
geen andere
dezelfde
hij omhelst mij, en kijkt zwijgend
alsof zijn blik
het puin beveelt een bewoonbaar huis te worden
en de gordijnen naar de vensters brengt
en mijn grootmoeder met haar gekleurde pillen
naar haar stoel
de lakens naar de bedden
de lampen naar het plafond
en de schilderijen naar de muren brengt
alsof zijn blik knoppen weer aan deuren zet
en balkons weer naar de sterren kijken
alsof hij ons weer aan het avondeten zet
alsof de wereld niet verging
alsof de hemel ogen en oren heeft
kijkt hij de leegte in
ik zeg:
wat doen we als de soldaten weg zijn
wat doet hij als de soldaten weg zijn
traag balt hij zijn vuist
legt de wilskracht van een bokser in zijn rechterhand
zijn hand
de harde, bronzen hand
die de bramenhelling bedwong
die de bevloeiing wiskundig regelde
die met gemak de bijl hanteerde
als een gebed
die met één klap een boomstronk spleet
een hand, open voor vergeving
dicht met snoepjes voor de kleinkinderen
zijn afgezette hand
jaren geleden
© Vertaling: 2009, Kees Nijland en Asad Jaber
MY GRANDFATHER’S CLOAK
From: Midnight and Other Poems
Publisher: Arc Publications, Todmorden, Lancashire
Publisher: Arc Publications, Todmorden, Lancashire
Poems
Poems of Mourid Barghouti
Close
MY GRANDFATHER’S CLOAK
With a gentle hand, the storm graspsthe handle of the door of the world;
like a hesitant stranger, it lets itself in,
stripping off its masks one after the other.
Dropping lightning into woods,
darkness into torches,
despair into ships,
the devil into horse’s hooves,
blueness into the lips of the carriage driver,
and throwing me naked
into the jaws of the night.
The storm
nearly wrenches loose the stag’s horns.
The muscles of the waves
almost push back the coastline.
The sea is a team of phosphorescent horses
whipped by unseen lashes;
they chomp the drizzle, the horizons and the stars
and carry on their flying hooves
the stench of sulphur.
There are no boats on the sea,
the harbour is a sheet of shattered porcelain.
Nothing protects the trembling coast,
not even the fur of the sea’s foam.
Two chairs on the sand escape the storm
as if they were two lame runners
in a race.
Even the most proficient of animal-tamers,
cannot restore the unfettered waves
to the guards’ control.
I take refuge in that house with the imposing dome,
merciful arches,
warm blankets
and my grandfathers’ pictures
(worn out at the edges
in spite of the solidity of their moustaches),
pictures secure on the walls
as if they were built into them.
My grandfather, still harbouring the illusion
that the world is fine,
fills his rustic pipe
for the last time
before the advent of helmets and bulldozers!
My grandfather’s cloak gets hooked
on the bulldozer’s teeth.
The bulldozer retreats a few metres,
empties its load,
comes back to fill its huge shovel,
and never has its fill.
Twenty times, the bulldozer
comes and goes,
my grandfather’s cloak still hooked on it.
After the dust and smoke
have cleared from the house that once stood there,
and as I stare at the new emptiness,
I see my grandfather wearing his cloak,
wearing the very same cloak –
not one similar to it,
but the same one.
He hugs me and maintains a silent gaze,
as if his look
could order the rubble to become a house,
could restore the curtains to the windows,
and my grandmother to her armchair,
as if it could retrieve her coloured medicine pills,
could lay the sheets back on the bed,
could hang the lights from the ceiling,
and the pictures from the walls,
as if his look could return the handles to the doors,
and the balconies to the stars,
and persuade us to resume our dinner,
as if the world had not collapsed,
as if Heaven had ears and eyes.
He goes on staring at the emptiness.
I say:
what shall we do when the soldiers leave?
What will he do when the soldiers leave?
He slowly clenches his fist,
recapturing a boxer’s resolve in his right hand,
his coarse bronze hand,
the hand that tames the thorny slope,
the hand that holds his hoe lightly
and with ease,
the hand which, with a single blow,
splits a tree stump in half,
the hand that opens in forgiveness,
the hand that closes on the candy
with which he surprises his grandchildren,
the hand that was amputated
many years ago.
© 2009, Radwa Ashour
From: Midnight and Other Poems
From: Midnight and Other Poems
MY GRANDFATHER’S CLOAK
With a gentle hand, the storm graspsthe handle of the door of the world;
like a hesitant stranger, it lets itself in,
stripping off its masks one after the other.
Dropping lightning into woods,
darkness into torches,
despair into ships,
the devil into horse’s hooves,
blueness into the lips of the carriage driver,
and throwing me naked
into the jaws of the night.
The storm
nearly wrenches loose the stag’s horns.
The muscles of the waves
almost push back the coastline.
The sea is a team of phosphorescent horses
whipped by unseen lashes;
they chomp the drizzle, the horizons and the stars
and carry on their flying hooves
the stench of sulphur.
There are no boats on the sea,
the harbour is a sheet of shattered porcelain.
Nothing protects the trembling coast,
not even the fur of the sea’s foam.
Two chairs on the sand escape the storm
as if they were two lame runners
in a race.
Even the most proficient of animal-tamers,
cannot restore the unfettered waves
to the guards’ control.
I take refuge in that house with the imposing dome,
merciful arches,
warm blankets
and my grandfathers’ pictures
(worn out at the edges
in spite of the solidity of their moustaches),
pictures secure on the walls
as if they were built into them.
My grandfather, still harbouring the illusion
that the world is fine,
fills his rustic pipe
for the last time
before the advent of helmets and bulldozers!
My grandfather’s cloak gets hooked
on the bulldozer’s teeth.
The bulldozer retreats a few metres,
empties its load,
comes back to fill its huge shovel,
and never has its fill.
Twenty times, the bulldozer
comes and goes,
my grandfather’s cloak still hooked on it.
After the dust and smoke
have cleared from the house that once stood there,
and as I stare at the new emptiness,
I see my grandfather wearing his cloak,
wearing the very same cloak –
not one similar to it,
but the same one.
He hugs me and maintains a silent gaze,
as if his look
could order the rubble to become a house,
could restore the curtains to the windows,
and my grandmother to her armchair,
as if it could retrieve her coloured medicine pills,
could lay the sheets back on the bed,
could hang the lights from the ceiling,
and the pictures from the walls,
as if his look could return the handles to the doors,
and the balconies to the stars,
and persuade us to resume our dinner,
as if the world had not collapsed,
as if Heaven had ears and eyes.
He goes on staring at the emptiness.
I say:
what shall we do when the soldiers leave?
What will he do when the soldiers leave?
He slowly clenches his fist,
recapturing a boxer’s resolve in his right hand,
his coarse bronze hand,
the hand that tames the thorny slope,
the hand that holds his hoe lightly
and with ease,
the hand which, with a single blow,
splits a tree stump in half,
the hand that opens in forgiveness,
the hand that closes on the candy
with which he surprises his grandchildren,
the hand that was amputated
many years ago.
© 2009, Radwa Ashour
From: Midnight and Other Poems
From: Midnight and Other Poems
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