Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mohamed Al-Harthy

PAUSING IN THE GARDEN

I will rest, poet, I will rest . . .
I will follow the signposts,
whether or not I stumble on the road,
and I will add more stumbling blocks
once I’ve crossed the threshold:
 
a small stone on which to pause and catch my breath
between the gasping verses;
or a rock still on its way to the abyss,
teetering now on the brink of the void
that the painter’s brush forgot to color in,
between Yeats’ stone and the rock on which they displayed
the poetry of Imru al-Qays . . .
where every poem before it’s born
carries within itself
descendants and ancestors, whether the stumbling
between one verse
and another
takes forever
or no time at all.
 
For some reason
 —or none at all—
a parenthesis
shone in the verse:
it might ruin the flow, might slow things down,
unless the (opening and closing) parentheses snatch up the verse—
if they even exist, that is.
And if they don’t exist, then the trap
is hidden between the lines,
and will conceal
or reveal
a sudden interruption
in the rhythm.
 
Forget about the dotted lines
(that say nothing)
…………………………….
…………………………….
although they say everything in this garden
where I’m pausing
—that which can be dispensed with,
and that which cannot—
because they are the poem’s guardian angel
in eternal wagers that do not settle
for the permanence of rock or stone,
so that the poem might live each day, so that it might live
its endless life
between the pages of a book. 

EEN RUSTPUNT IN DE PAUZETUIN

Ik ga rusten, beste dichter, ik ga rusten…
ik zal de aanwijzingen van de weg volgen - of ik wel of niet over stenen struikel
niets zal me weerhouden om struikelstenen toe te voegen
            als ik over de drempel ben gestapt:
 
Een gladde stopsteen om te herademen tussen hijgende zinnen
of een rots op weg naar de afgrond
voordat zij in de volle leegte komt
            die het penseel van de schilder vergat in te kleuren
tussen de steen van William Butler Yeats en de rots van de moeallaqa van Imroe ’l-Qays…*
omdat elk gedicht voor zijn geboorte in zich
nageslacht en voorouders draagt – of het gestommel tussen de ene en de andere regel
                        kort of lang is…
 
Met of zonder reden schittert
            een zin tussen haakjes
hij vertraagt de stroom, hij vertraagt de stroom om als vloedstroom los te barsten
            als de (openende en sluitende) haakjes hem niet grijpen
                        als dat bestaat!
als hij er niet is, dan bedekt of onthult de verborgen valstrik tussen de regels
een plotselinge ritmebreuk
 
Hoed u voor de puntenregels
(de regels die niets zeggen)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
hoewel zij alles zeggen in de tuin van pauzes
wat wel en niet gemist kan worden…
            want zij zijn de bewaarengelen van het gedicht
in weddenschappen van de eeuwigheid die niet genoeg heeft aan de duurzaamheid van steen           leve het gedicht, dat hij leve
alle dagen van zijn leven dat niet eindigt tussen de bladzijden van een boek

استراحة في حديقة الوقفات

سأستريحُ أيها الشاعر، سأستريح…
سأقتفي إرشادات الطريق - تعثرتُ أم لم أتعثر بحَصبائها
ولن أكفَّ عن إضافةِ أكثر من حَجَرِ عثرةٍ
بعد عُبور العَتبة:
 
حَصاةِ وقفةٍ ملساء لالتقاط الأنفاس بين الجُمل اللاهثة
أو صخرةٍ لم تزل في طريق هاويتها
قبل أن يتأرجحَ مصيرُها في كُتلة الفراغ
     الذي نَسيتْ تلوينهُ ريشةُ الرسَّام
بين حَجَر وليَم بَتْلَر ييتسْ وجلمود مُعلقة امرئ القيس...
حيث كلُّ قصيدةٍ قبل ولادتها حملت في أحشائها
الأحفادَ والأسلاف - قصُرتْ أم طالت العثراتُ
              بين بيت وآخر...
 
لسببٍ أو دونما سببٍ تلألأتْ فيه
     -جُملةٌ مُعترِضةٌ-
قد تبطئ مجرى السَّيل، قد تبطئ مجراه ليتدفق سيَّالًا
     إن لم تتلقفهُ الأقـ(الفاتحة والغالقة)ـواسُ
         إن وُجدتْ!
وإن لم تُوجد؛ فالمَصيدة كامنةٌ بين السُّطور
تُخفي أو تُظهِرُ انقطاعًا مُفاجئًا لوتيرة الإيقاع.
 
     دعك من الأسطر المنقوطة
     (الأسطر التي لا تقول شيئًا)
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
مع أنها تقول كُلَّ شيء في حديقة الوقفات
ما يُستغنى عنهُ وما لا...
     لأنها ملاك القصيدة الحارس
في مُراهنات الأبديَّة لا تكتفي بديمومةِ حَجرٍ أو حصاة
     لتحيا القصيدةُ لتحيا
كُلَّ يوم حياتها التي لا تنتهي بين صفحات الكتاب.
Close

PAUSING IN THE GARDEN

I will rest, poet, I will rest . . .
I will follow the signposts,
whether or not I stumble on the road,
and I will add more stumbling blocks
once I’ve crossed the threshold:
 
a small stone on which to pause and catch my breath
between the gasping verses;
or a rock still on its way to the abyss,
teetering now on the brink of the void
that the painter’s brush forgot to color in,
between Yeats’ stone and the rock on which they displayed
the poetry of Imru al-Qays . . .
where every poem before it’s born
carries within itself
descendants and ancestors, whether the stumbling
between one verse
and another
takes forever
or no time at all.
 
For some reason
 —or none at all—
a parenthesis
shone in the verse:
it might ruin the flow, might slow things down,
unless the (opening and closing) parentheses snatch up the verse—
if they even exist, that is.
And if they don’t exist, then the trap
is hidden between the lines,
and will conceal
or reveal
a sudden interruption
in the rhythm.
 
Forget about the dotted lines
(that say nothing)
…………………………….
…………………………….
although they say everything in this garden
where I’m pausing
—that which can be dispensed with,
and that which cannot—
because they are the poem’s guardian angel
in eternal wagers that do not settle
for the permanence of rock or stone,
so that the poem might live each day, so that it might live
its endless life
between the pages of a book. 

PAUSING IN THE GARDEN

I will rest, poet, I will rest . . .
I will follow the signposts,
whether or not I stumble on the road,
and I will add more stumbling blocks
once I’ve crossed the threshold:
 
a small stone on which to pause and catch my breath
between the gasping verses;
or a rock still on its way to the abyss,
teetering now on the brink of the void
that the painter’s brush forgot to color in,
between Yeats’ stone and the rock on which they displayed
the poetry of Imru al-Qays . . .
where every poem before it’s born
carries within itself
descendants and ancestors, whether the stumbling
between one verse
and another
takes forever
or no time at all.
 
For some reason
 —or none at all—
a parenthesis
shone in the verse:
it might ruin the flow, might slow things down,
unless the (opening and closing) parentheses snatch up the verse—
if they even exist, that is.
And if they don’t exist, then the trap
is hidden between the lines,
and will conceal
or reveal
a sudden interruption
in the rhythm.
 
Forget about the dotted lines
(that say nothing)
…………………………….
…………………………….
although they say everything in this garden
where I’m pausing
—that which can be dispensed with,
and that which cannot—
because they are the poem’s guardian angel
in eternal wagers that do not settle
for the permanence of rock or stone,
so that the poem might live each day, so that it might live
its endless life
between the pages of a book. 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère