Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Adonis

YOU ARE IN THE VILLAGE THEN

1.
When he leaves home carrying his axe, he is certain that the sun is waiting for him in the shade of an olive tree, or a willow, and that the moon that crosses the sky tonight over his house will take the road closest to his steps. It is not important to him where the wind goes.

2.
The blueness of the sky, the redness of fruit, the greenness of leaves: These are the colors that his hands spread on the page of day.
He is an artist who cares about his hands’ work, not what the hands of art achieve, but the things inside things, and not as they appear, but how he describes them. And because he knows how to listen to things and how to speak to them, he lives on the margin of what people perceive. He believes that ‘the order that imprisons motion and interrupts the feasts of the imagination will only lead to collapse.’
And it collapses without theatrics or noise. He knows ‘that a bullet now replaces his plough,’ but he also knows, with growing certainty, that ‘his plough will go further and that it will reach deeper than any bullet can.’

3.
When you see this farmer carrying his plough, you sense then that he is competing with it as if in a war. It proceeds ahead of him toward the weeds and thorns and he remains barefoot, following behind. The sound of the plough, as it tears at the thorns and soil, joins you, penetrates you, and it’s lovely to hear it become loud like a trumpet with a deep raspy blow filling the sky.

4.
You are in the countryside then. It does not matter where you walk now, near the river or at the foot of a mountain, or a village lost among the rocks, where mud houses mix with cement cellars in a folkloric symphony that combines the tenth and the twentieth centuries. Let your eyes swim in all that’s around them, forget the café and the street. Surrender like a leaf flying in the air, like the fuzz coating the branches, like pollen dust. Become a child. Only then will invisible creatures come toward you. Solitude filled with a treasure of hidden murmurs. Absence that instantly becomes a presence. Each tree is a person, each stone a sign.
There are herds of small animals that shine like distant stars, among grasses and plants. And there are stones that have heads and arms and that may walk behind you at night. There are small streams flitting among small trees that become beautiful maidens who appear to tired people heading to their houses before dawn, during the first hours of enchantment.

5.
The village is not a poet, as much as it is a painter. There is a remarkable ease to its touch as it draws the same picture every single day maintaining the same beauty. It is repetition that does not repeat the same motion, something like the waves of the sea, or like the desert renewed endlessly in sand, its only dress.
There is no uniqueness to this touch as if it comes from an absolute neutrality forever positioned at degree zero.

6.
You are in the village then?
I remember now what I almost forgot. To contradict the light in the village, one will end up choosing solitude, sitting on the other side of the mountain, or the square, or among the barefoot children and black goats.
And I remember now that we used to gaze at the stream covered with green grasses, hardly able to determine its course. We thought it was in pain, and moaning.
And I now know why we felt dried up in the memory of the stream.
And in the days now inscribed in the dust of the road leading to the stream, I also read what we knew and did not know to write:
Peace to the sun that always went ahead of us, without ever moving. 

DUS, JIJ BENT IN HET DORP

1.
Toen hij met zijn hak naar buiten ging, was hij er zeker van dat de zon in de schaduw van de olijfboom of de steeneik op hem wachtte en dat de maan als zij die nacht over zijn huis ging, de kortste weg naar zijn stappen zou nemen. Daarom gaf hij er niet om waarheen de wind woei.
 
2.
Het blauw van de hemel, het rood van de vruchten, het groen van het blad waren de kleuren die zijn handen op de bladzijde van de morgen spreidden.
 
Een kunstenaar is bezig met het werk van zijn handen, niet met wat de hand van de kunst doet. Dingen zijn dingen, niet zoals ze zijn of zoals hij ze ziet, maar zoals hij ze beschrijft terwijl hij weet naar hen te luisteren. Daarom weet hij dat hij met ze praat. Hij leeft in de marge van wat gebeurt en in de dingen waarmee hij praat of samenleeft, kunnen we zien hoe ‘de ordening die beweging aan banden legt, instort en de feesten van de verbeelding belemmert.’

. . . instort zonder theater en gedruis. Hij weet dat ‘kogels de plaats van zijn hak hebben overgenomen’ maar hij ziet met groeiende zekerheid dat ‘zijn hak verder reikt en dieper gaat dan een kogel.’
 
3.
Als je deze boer met zijn hak ziet, voel je dat hij zich met hem meet alsof het oorlog is. De hak gaat hem voor naar de doornstruik, vooral omdat hij op blote voeten loopt en omdat het geluid van de hak die de doornstruik vernietigt één met de hak is. Het is prachtig om hem te horen als een blokfluit, die met schorre, diepe toon de ruimte vult.
 
4.
Je bent dus buiten op het land. Het doet er niet toe waarheen je nu gaat, de rivier, de voet van de berg of naar een dorp verloren tussen de rotsen waar lemen hutten tussen cementen gewelven staan, in een folkloristische symfonie waarin de tiende en de twintigste eeuw samenkomen.
 
Laat je ogen zwemmen in hun omgeving, vergeet het koffiehuis en de straat. Geef je over als een blad dat rondvliegt in de lucht, als een pluis van de takken, als pollen, wees een kind, dan komen onzichtbare wezens naar je toe: eenzaamheid met een schat aan verborgen gedruis. Afwezigheid die in de kortste keren in aanwezigheid verandert. Elke boom is een persoon, elke steen een teken.
 
Er zijn kuddes kleine dieren die tussen gras en struiken als verre sterren glinsteren. Er zijn rotsen met hoofden en armen die laat in de nacht achter je aan kunnen lopen. Er zijn kleine kreken waarin struiken zich vermaken, soms meisjes worden om hinderlagen te leggen voor mensen die tegen zonsopgang, vlak voor de dag aanbreekt, moe naar huis teruggaan.
 
 5.
Het dorp is geen dichter zoals het dorp schilder is. De ongedwongenheid van zijn schilderkunst ligt daarin dat hij steeds weer hetzelfde schildert, elke dag weer en het mooi houdt. Het is een herhaling die niet de beweging herhaalt maar zichzelf, zoals de zee golft, zoals woestijn verandert en haar enige kledij, zand, vernieuwt.
 
Er is niets persoonlijks in zijn schildering, alsof het volmaakt neutraal is, altijd stilstaand op punt nul.
 
6.
Je bent dus in het dorp?
Ik herinner me nu wat ik bijna vergat: Niemand in het dorp verzet zich tegen het licht, of hij afzondering verkiest aan de andere kant van de berg of verkiest om bij de kinderen op blote voeten en de zwarte geiten op het veld te zitten.
 
Ik herinner me nu dat we naar de bron keken die zo met groen gras was bedekt dat we bijna niet konden zien waar het water stroomde. We dachten dat de bron pijn had en huilde.
 
Ik weet nu waarom wij uitdroogden in het geheugen van de bron.
 
. . . en met het verhaal van de dagen dat je in het stof van de weg die mij erheen bracht, hebt gelezen, las je ook wat wij wisten en niet konden schrijven:
 
Vrede zij de zon die ons steeds voorging zonder te bewegen.

إذاَ ، أنت في القرية


 -1-
حين خرج ، حاملاً فأسه كان واثقاً أنّ الشمس تنتظره تحت ظل زيتونة ، أو سنديانة ، وأنّ القمر حين يعبر، هذا المساء ، فوق بيته ، سيسلك الطريق الأقرب إلى خطواته . لذلك لم يكن يهمّه أين تذهب الريح .

-2-
زرقة السّماء ، حمرة الثمار ، خضرة الورق : تلك هي الألوان التي تفرشها يداه فوق صفحة النهار.
فنّانٌ يُعنى بعمل يديه ، لا بما تعمله يدُ الفنّ . والأشياء هي الأشياء ، لا كما هي أو كما يراها ، بل كما يصفها. وهو يعرف أن يصغي إليها ، لذلك يعرف أن يتحدث معها. يعيش على هامش ما يجري ، وفي الأشياء التي يحادثها أو يعايشها ، نستطيع أن نرى كيف  "يتهدم النظام الذي يسجن الحركة ، ويقمع أعياد الخيال" .
..... يتهدم ، دون استعراض ، وبلا ضجيج . يعرف أن "الرصاصة تحلّ محلّ فأسِهِ" ، لكنه يُدرك بيقين متزايدٍ ، أنّ "فأسه تذهب إلى أبعد ممّا تذهب الرصاصة وأنّها تصل إلى أعمق مما تصل " .
-3-
حين ترى هذا الفلاح حاملاً فأسه ، تشعر أنه في تنافس ٍ معها يشبه الحرب ، ذلك أنّها تسبقه دائماً إلى الشوك. خصوصاً أنّه يظلّ حافياً ، وأنّ صوتها ، وهي تقتلع الشوك ينضمّ إليها. وما أجمل أن تصغي إليه يعلو كأنه مزمارٌ ، تزيّنه بُحّةٌ عميقة تملأ الفضاء .

 
-4-
إذاً ، أنت في الرّيف . لا يهمّ أين تسير الآن ، قرب النّهر ، أو في سفح جبل ، أو في قرية ضائعة بين الصخر والصخر ، تمتزج فيها بيوت الطين بأقبيةِ الإسمنت في سنفونية فولكلور توحّد بين القرن العاشر والقرن العشرين.
اتركْ لعينيك أن تسبحا في ما حولهما ، وانْسَ المقهى والشّارع . استسلمْ : كورقةٍ تتطاير في الهواء ، كزغب الغصون ، كغبار الطلع / كن طفلاً . آنذاك ، تُقْبِلُ إليك كائناتٌ غير مرئية : الوَحْدة ، لكن تلك التي تكتنز بالهدير المخبوء . الغياب ، لكن الذي يتحوّل في أقلَّ من لحظةٍ إلى حضور. وكلّ شجرةٍ شخصٌ ، وكلّ حَجرٍ إشارة.
وثمة قطعان من الحيوانات الصغيرة التي تلمع كأنّها نجومٌ بعيدة ، بين الأعشاب والنباتات . وثمّةَ صخورٌ لها رؤوسٌ وسواعد ، وربما سارت وراءك في أواخر اللّيل. وثمّة جداولُ صغيرة تتمرأى فيها شجيرات تنقلب أحياناً إلى عرائسَ تكمن للأشخاص الذين يعودون إلى بيوتهم ، متعبين ، قبيل الفجر ، في أوائل السَّحَر.
-5-
ليست القرية شاعرةً ، بقدر ما هي رسّامة. وفي رسمها يُسْرٌ عجيبٌ هو أنّها تكرّر اللوحةَ نفسها ، كلَّ يوم إلى ما لا نهاية ، وتبقى هذه اللّوحة جميلةً . ذلك أنه التكرار الذي لا يكرّر الحركة ، بل ذاتَه كتموّج البحر كما تتنوَّع الصحراء وتَتَجدّد بثوبِها الوحيد : الرمل .
ولا ذاتيّةَ في رسمها . كأنما هي حيادٌ مطلق . كأنّها واقفة أبداً ، في درجة الصفر .

 
-6-
إذاً ، أنت في القرية ؟
أذكر ، الآن ، ما أكاد أن أنساه : ما من أحد في القرية يعاكس الضّوء ، سواء اختارَ العزلة ، أي الجلوس في الطرف الآخر من الجبل ، أو اختار الجلوس في الساحة ، مع الأطفال الحفاة والماعز الأسود .
وأذكر ، الآن : كنا ننظر إلى النبع تغطّيه أعشاب خضراء ، حتى لا نكاد نتبيّن مجراه . وكنّا نظن أنه يتألم وينتحب .
وأعرف الآآن ، لماذا كنّا نيبس في ذاكرة النبع .
.... وتلك الأيام التي قرأتها في غبار الطريق الذي كان يقودني إليه ، قرأت معها ما كنّا نعرفه ونجهل أن نكتبه :
سلاماً للشمس التي تسبقنا دائما ً ، دون أن تتحرك.
Close

YOU ARE IN THE VILLAGE THEN

1.
When he leaves home carrying his axe, he is certain that the sun is waiting for him in the shade of an olive tree, or a willow, and that the moon that crosses the sky tonight over his house will take the road closest to his steps. It is not important to him where the wind goes.

2.
The blueness of the sky, the redness of fruit, the greenness of leaves: These are the colors that his hands spread on the page of day.
He is an artist who cares about his hands’ work, not what the hands of art achieve, but the things inside things, and not as they appear, but how he describes them. And because he knows how to listen to things and how to speak to them, he lives on the margin of what people perceive. He believes that ‘the order that imprisons motion and interrupts the feasts of the imagination will only lead to collapse.’
And it collapses without theatrics or noise. He knows ‘that a bullet now replaces his plough,’ but he also knows, with growing certainty, that ‘his plough will go further and that it will reach deeper than any bullet can.’

3.
When you see this farmer carrying his plough, you sense then that he is competing with it as if in a war. It proceeds ahead of him toward the weeds and thorns and he remains barefoot, following behind. The sound of the plough, as it tears at the thorns and soil, joins you, penetrates you, and it’s lovely to hear it become loud like a trumpet with a deep raspy blow filling the sky.

4.
You are in the countryside then. It does not matter where you walk now, near the river or at the foot of a mountain, or a village lost among the rocks, where mud houses mix with cement cellars in a folkloric symphony that combines the tenth and the twentieth centuries. Let your eyes swim in all that’s around them, forget the café and the street. Surrender like a leaf flying in the air, like the fuzz coating the branches, like pollen dust. Become a child. Only then will invisible creatures come toward you. Solitude filled with a treasure of hidden murmurs. Absence that instantly becomes a presence. Each tree is a person, each stone a sign.
There are herds of small animals that shine like distant stars, among grasses and plants. And there are stones that have heads and arms and that may walk behind you at night. There are small streams flitting among small trees that become beautiful maidens who appear to tired people heading to their houses before dawn, during the first hours of enchantment.

5.
The village is not a poet, as much as it is a painter. There is a remarkable ease to its touch as it draws the same picture every single day maintaining the same beauty. It is repetition that does not repeat the same motion, something like the waves of the sea, or like the desert renewed endlessly in sand, its only dress.
There is no uniqueness to this touch as if it comes from an absolute neutrality forever positioned at degree zero.

6.
You are in the village then?
I remember now what I almost forgot. To contradict the light in the village, one will end up choosing solitude, sitting on the other side of the mountain, or the square, or among the barefoot children and black goats.
And I remember now that we used to gaze at the stream covered with green grasses, hardly able to determine its course. We thought it was in pain, and moaning.
And I now know why we felt dried up in the memory of the stream.
And in the days now inscribed in the dust of the road leading to the stream, I also read what we knew and did not know to write:
Peace to the sun that always went ahead of us, without ever moving. 

YOU ARE IN THE VILLAGE THEN

1.
When he leaves home carrying his axe, he is certain that the sun is waiting for him in the shade of an olive tree, or a willow, and that the moon that crosses the sky tonight over his house will take the road closest to his steps. It is not important to him where the wind goes.

2.
The blueness of the sky, the redness of fruit, the greenness of leaves: These are the colors that his hands spread on the page of day.
He is an artist who cares about his hands’ work, not what the hands of art achieve, but the things inside things, and not as they appear, but how he describes them. And because he knows how to listen to things and how to speak to them, he lives on the margin of what people perceive. He believes that ‘the order that imprisons motion and interrupts the feasts of the imagination will only lead to collapse.’
And it collapses without theatrics or noise. He knows ‘that a bullet now replaces his plough,’ but he also knows, with growing certainty, that ‘his plough will go further and that it will reach deeper than any bullet can.’

3.
When you see this farmer carrying his plough, you sense then that he is competing with it as if in a war. It proceeds ahead of him toward the weeds and thorns and he remains barefoot, following behind. The sound of the plough, as it tears at the thorns and soil, joins you, penetrates you, and it’s lovely to hear it become loud like a trumpet with a deep raspy blow filling the sky.

4.
You are in the countryside then. It does not matter where you walk now, near the river or at the foot of a mountain, or a village lost among the rocks, where mud houses mix with cement cellars in a folkloric symphony that combines the tenth and the twentieth centuries. Let your eyes swim in all that’s around them, forget the café and the street. Surrender like a leaf flying in the air, like the fuzz coating the branches, like pollen dust. Become a child. Only then will invisible creatures come toward you. Solitude filled with a treasure of hidden murmurs. Absence that instantly becomes a presence. Each tree is a person, each stone a sign.
There are herds of small animals that shine like distant stars, among grasses and plants. And there are stones that have heads and arms and that may walk behind you at night. There are small streams flitting among small trees that become beautiful maidens who appear to tired people heading to their houses before dawn, during the first hours of enchantment.

5.
The village is not a poet, as much as it is a painter. There is a remarkable ease to its touch as it draws the same picture every single day maintaining the same beauty. It is repetition that does not repeat the same motion, something like the waves of the sea, or like the desert renewed endlessly in sand, its only dress.
There is no uniqueness to this touch as if it comes from an absolute neutrality forever positioned at degree zero.

6.
You are in the village then?
I remember now what I almost forgot. To contradict the light in the village, one will end up choosing solitude, sitting on the other side of the mountain, or the square, or among the barefoot children and black goats.
And I remember now that we used to gaze at the stream covered with green grasses, hardly able to determine its course. We thought it was in pain, and moaning.
And I now know why we felt dried up in the memory of the stream.
And in the days now inscribed in the dust of the road leading to the stream, I also read what we knew and did not know to write:
Peace to the sun that always went ahead of us, without ever moving. 
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