In honor of the Moroccan holiday, Revolution Day, we present this work by one of Morocco’s most revolutionary poets.
Tahar Ben Jelloun Moroccan b. 1944
Before
a long time ago
I lived in a tree, then in a cemetery.
My tomb was under an oak. Dogs and men pissed on my head. I said nothing. Little
mauve flowers, scentless, grew there.
I had nothing to say.
Today shovels picked me up and threw me in this well.
I pace the abyss.
I descend. I am suspended.
The ashes still smolder. They rise, surround me, then fall again,
grey dust that makes my body a sand-filled hourglass.
I crumble. I am old abandoned rock.
I am sand and time.
I am faceless.
I nourish the land and pour my words into the land’s blood.
I irrigate the tree roots in late spring.
I count the days and the deaths while
men carry their households on their backs.
This body which was once a word will no longer look at the sea and think of Homer.
It did not pass away. It was touched by a flash from the sky crushing speech and breath.
These crystals mixed in the sand are the last words pronounced by these unarmed men.
In this country the dead travel
as statues and flames
They wear eyeglasses
and stretch out their scorched arms for flight.
We say they became invisible
Left to offer the living the years that remained of their lives.
Thus only years litter the desert: a century, more.
Lives for the taking, as jackals gorged on lives tremble to say:
“Death is not fatal just as night is the sun’s shadow.”
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon — do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
If trying to hold back this crazy, vain,
impossible and frightening desire,
and if to hide from danger so intense,
convincing myself of what I can’t see,
it does not help to see me as I am,
sometimes courageous, sometimes racked with fear,
in such confusion that I never dare
to guard against the evil deep in me,
how could it help to see the painting of
the famous youth who with his melted wings
in falling, to a sea his name bestowed,
and one of him, whose own madness and fire
he must lament beneath those fabled trees,
and even in the water won’t grow cold.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
Subhadra Kumari Chauhan Indian 1904 – 1948
The throne was shaken and tensions rose among the Raajvanshs, the royal heirs,
In aged India, new ideas were taking hold,
The people of all India lamented their lost freedom,
And decided to cast off British rule,
Old swords glittered anew as the freedom movement of 1857 started.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
She was as dear to the Nana (Nana Ghunghupant) of Kanpur as his real sister,
Laxmibai was her name, her parents only daughter
She’d been with Nana since her schoolgirl days
The spear, knife, sword, and axe were her constant companions.
She knew by heart the tales of valor of Shivaji
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
None were sure, was she Laxmi or Durga devi or Devi durga reincarnate?
The people of Marathward were awed by her (expertise) skill with the sword,
They learned from her how to fight, the strategy of war,
To attack and humiliate the enemy were her favorite sports.
Her love for Maharashatra-kul-Devi was equaled only by her love for Bhavani.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Laxmibai was married in Jhansi, with great jubilation
Entering the joyous city as Queen,
Grand celebrations were held in the palace in Jhansi, in honor of her coming.
Just as when Chitra met Arjun or Shiv had found his beloved Bhavani.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Her presence was a blessing at the palace of Jhansi and candles of celebration burned long
But as days passed the dark clouds of misfortune overshadowed the royal palace.
She put aside her bangles and prepared for battle
For fate was unkind and made her a widow
Grief stricken she was, with no heir for her king,
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The candlelit hope of Jhansi had died and Dalhousie was overjoyed at his luck.
He’d long awaited the time to usurp this kingdom
He sent his solders to Citadel and raised the flag of Britain on the royal palace,
British rule came to Jhansi as a guardian comes to an orphan,
While with tear filled eyes the Rani watched as her city became deserted.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Despotic kings used flattery and lies
And came to India disguised as poor merchants
Dalhousi exerted his power, ill-gotten, and changed the fate of India,
Insulting all of India’s leaders, without exception.
The Queen played the part of a maidservant, but truly she was still the Queen,
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The capital Delhi fell, followed by the fall of Lucknow,
Peshwa was imprisoned in Bithur and the Nagpur tragedy occurred.
And after the fall of Nagpur, Udaipur, Tanjore satara, and Karnatak fell quickly at the hands of the intruders.
The British already had control of Sindh, Punjab and Assam.
It was the same sad tale for Bengal,Madras and many other states.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Feeling sick with helplessness the Rani wept bitterly for her beloved India.
Her royal ornaments and clothes were being sold in the markets of Calcutta.
This humiliation was published in the British daily papers:
“Buy the ornaments of Nagpur, buy the Naulakha locket of Lucknow” were the highlights of this loss of honor.
This is how the honor of the royal ladies of India was sold to foreigners.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Both the poor and the royals suffered insult and atrocity at the hands of the British rulers.
Brave soldiers of India recalled the honor of their ancestors,
The lost treasures, the names and titles of great warriors and leaders, like Ghunghupant, and Nana,
The beloved sister of Nana, Rani, the Queen, invited him to Ran-Chandi,
To awaken the sleeping, divine spirit of the Indian people, the holy war had already begun.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen od Jhnasi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The desire for freedom was as a burning fire of revolt, from the royal palace to the poor and common folk,
This spark, which was born in the inner soul of the people.
It consumed Jhansi first, then spread in Delhi and engulfed even Lucknow,
In Merat, Kanpur and Patna, the struggle for freedom raged strong,
Which inspired the peoples of Jabalpur and Kolhapur
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
In that great freedom struggle, many brave brothers lost their lives.
Among them: Nana Ghunghupant, Tantya, great Azeemullah,
And many more: Ahmedshah Moulvi, Thakur Kunwar singh, Sainik Abhiram.
Though by the British, they were considered rebels and their sacrifices a crime,
Their names will always shine in the heavens of the ancient history of India.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Well, leave the tale of the bravery of those great men, and back to the battlefield of Jhansi
Where Laxmibai stands boldly like a man among other brave men,
Lt. Walker met her in battle, and pushed back this brave army of men,
But as Rani drew her sword, drums thundered in Heaven,
Walker retreated after Rani wounded him, astonished at her skill and agility.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Rani pursued Walker for hundreds of miles to the (city) of Kalpi,
Where his horse was exhausted and fell to the ground, Walker was thrown off as well.
In the field of Yamuna, Rani was defeating the British once more,
Rani pushed back the British and took control of the state of Gawalior,
The British soon left and ended their rule of Vsindia of Gawalior,
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
The British army reorganized, under the command of General Smith,
And still the freedom fighters prevailed.
Rani was joined in the battle by Kaana and Mandra, and all together they fought furiously,
But, alas, when Commander Hughrose came with reinforcements,
The Rani was completely surrounded on the field.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Though deeply wounded, Rani still fought her way through the British army,
But alas! Rani’s horse became mired in a canal at the edge of the field of battle,
And while she struggled with the untrained animal, the British caught up with her there,
Like a lioness she fought, all alone while being attacked from all sides,
She fell mortally wounded, the glorious death of a martyr.
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
A battlefield martyr was Rani. Her departed soul was then riding a divine vehicle, moving towards heavens
Her light enjoined to the Divine, as a true heir of divinity
Only 30 years of age, she was a superhuman, she was a holy being.
In the form of a freedom fighter, she came to give us light and a noble life,
She showed us the path of freedom and taught us the lesson of courage
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once agina of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
Oh Rani Laxmibai, India will remember you forever, Blessed Rani,
Your life’s sacrifice awakens an Eternal freedom in the soul of India’s people,
History may forget, Jhansi may be destroyed,
But your name Rani, Queen of Jhansi, will be an eternal memorial of courage
The Bandelas and Harbolas sang once again of the courage of the Queen of Jhansi,
How she fought like a man against the British intruders,
So was the Queen of Jhansi.
In honor of the Moroccan holiday, Allegiance Day, we present this work by one of Morocco’s great contemporary writers.
Amina El Bakouri Moroccan b. 1969
Oswaldo
It happens that my soul quivers before your wavelike presence
So in evenings not like these evenings
My mature blossoms start budding…
It happens that towards you
Sweeping nostalgia transports me
So to your lantern-lit boulevards I rush
Seeking, amid daybreak variegations,
My grief-stricken voice…
When it laid for your veins’ itinerary,
Plans from erring poems
And moons
Oswaldo
I am no object of desire of yours…
The blades of my soul
Are overladen with racemes of light.
Smeared with the mysterious darkness from the glow of words
My hands confiscate my days
glaring with ink
that flows painfully opaque
on the breast of dreams…
Horror-stricken, I drink at the lofty heights
Whose marine dew blessings surround me
With vows of nothingness
And wild goats of whiteness…
The sky’s fibres testify
To my disobedience
And my disengagement from the sin of original disclosure…
From the pain that lurks
Behind the white sun
And the musical minaret of speech.
Oswaldo
Remember I was obedient to your deep kisses
My nights were not only ash
I would gaze at your mysterious face
preoccupied as it was with the stars’ movement
And embellished with strange songs
And poems.
Let me for a while
Comb the night’s chest
With the cooing of words…
I soar as high as the swings of your wild soul
To secretly overview the splendor of distant lands
And light a moon in the universal ink-pot
Let me, from your large, beautiful eyes, extract
The honey of the stars
And sip the nectar of your lisp
Secretly filling the carafe
Like the virgin of the dormant tribes!
Oswaldo
Suppose you are a mutilated idea
Floating in the kingdom of Air
Arranged by coincidence
To redeem yourself from hell fire…
Suppose your dreams have, forever, forsaken you
When, all at once you dreamed them
With no prior notice or time limit…
Suppose Lorca offered you
The wild mint of paper
On a furious civil war night
Will the wild mint then
Have the self-same malice of beautiful roses
On the coffin of jasmin?
Suppose Al Khanssa’
Tore up grievously the bosom of her femininty
And the eagles of her anguish fell to pieces as did Sakhr, her brother.
Will the distressed bands of sand
Send forth the same inevitable wailing
When the pigeon coos in tears
mending the patches of pain?
Oswaldo
Rarely did I whisper my erotic poems to you…
A single eyelash twitch suffices
To awaken the soul from its slumber…
To distress a flock of sand-grouses in their nests
To open the gate of probability
Towards a mutilated poem
That might wail, but never come…
Or thus whoop the falling nights!
My own night was not enough
As I stared at the same glare fading slowly into
The blossoms of speech…
Perplexed larvae ripped up on the loom of
My own killing letters.
Marble thirst beat me
With a feeble whip.
I aimed thus the spark of nostagia at your secret water…
O disdainful passer-by
Let our words fall like hail
On the jujube trees of time
Let us by means of water
Pay allegiance to the metaphor therein
So that poetry exalts in us…
Let us see the dead sea off towards its own exile
Let us wait a little…
Tell me
Why are poets first to die?
Oswaldo
Do not torture me anymore
I do not carry Diogenes’ lamp in daylight
But I may come to you
On the morrow of a dark windy day
To present a succulent laudation
That makes you shake all over
I may, with true intuition, trap you into a dilemma
And stir the fire of your open wakefulness
Or in my transparent boudoir
Shield you from the straits
Of extreme redolence
When the female
Of awesome,
Terrible,
Erring fields
Clothes herself in Sheba’s stars.
Believe me. The glass sheets
And the dew of poetry may tell lies
Amid the uproar of slammed doors.
The dazzle of glass may fool us
Like the body’s intuition
When an illusory vision
Blinds eyesight!
O passer-by
The words’ encounter has long been rare
The heat has fallen
You have long enough deceived my pain
Do not cure me with feverish silence…
The echo of water has reached the shelter of the soul
And this very night, screened by my surmise,
Adorned by my insomnia
Has sailed far away into the distance
I have but on very rare occasions whispered my repulsion.
So tell me
Why does poetry not come smoothly anymore…
Why does it not resemble truth and light anymore?
Oswaldo
A fire fiercer than the glow
Of passionate hearts
Erupts volcano-like into the ribs of words
Awakening the ecstacy of quickly receding
Rhymes!
I am no inexperienced marine woman
To be fooled by a water poem…
Or am I to blame for feeling thirsty?
So why does the choke betray
The water drinker?
Or am I to blame for profound fascination?
So why does water flow downwards
All the time?
Oswaldo
“The only good that looks like gold is… the road”
So said uncle Boulos
Once, one fleeting dawn.
Verses are ablaze on your pernicious head.
Trees now border your long foggy path.
I am not yours through any kind of belonging
And I have but unwillingly
Appointed you a guardian of my solemn pledges.
So… proceed in your visions.
The way of poetry is rather long…
Proceed adventurously… opening your arms to the wind
To the virginity of the land
The road will not mistake you
When it sees you coming far away like a cross or a martyr
The road will not mistake you
The road will not mistake you!
Busy with his ropes and gears,
tides and currents,
he didn’t know and never
will how he came to appear
scowling in our
family snapshot.
We brought him home
by accident
on a film showing
part of a holiday,
children in jerseys on the dock,
grinning, puddled in sun,
and at the edge,
the ferryman’s dark image.
Well, that’s one way
to survive,
to be captured alive
by someone, caught
by a click and locked
in a box held by an unknown
hand at an unknown hour.
Later to rise from
a chemical bath imprinted on
a glossy three-by-five
to glare
out forever,
unknowing.
We present this work in honor of the Japanese holiday, Mountain Day.
Shigeji Tsuboi Japanese 1897 – 1975
Deep at the bottom of a precipice
a swift stream intensely blue goes bubbling by,
in the unlimited sky beyond
a cable car moves along
burdened by a load that is heavy
and unseen by eyes.
Its thick cable
might be cut off at any unknown time.
Inside myself also
something continually keeps moving along.
Possibly
it might be an express train.
The middle of the night . . .
though almost all noises have faded away,
in the ears’ intensely dark tunnel
there is something hurrying through.
Danger!
Unconsciously shouting,
my own voice awakens me,
the one eye of an intensely red signal
keeps staring at me.
From morning
until late at night
time is regulated by stop-go signals.
Danger!
Larger than an infant’s head,
a single egg
comes rolling down from somewhere
and crosses the street. . . .
Inside the intense darkness
now again
cable cars
are seen to be crossing.
For the sake of public construction work,
I thought, maybe, they were loaded
full of cement,
but with skeletons only
the cable cars were loaded,
one after another
endlessly moving away.
Poets Corner 