Incomprehensible Lesson
Incomprehensible Lesson
Fawzi Karim
in versions by
Anthony Howell
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The poems included here in ‘The Empty Quarter’ first appeared in a chapbook of that title published by Grey Suit Editions, 2014. ‘Usual Story’, ‘The Painting’, ‘The Night drives in its Nails’ and ‘The Balloon’ all appeared in Modern Poetry in Translation. ‘Patrolman’ and ‘Over Hastily’ appeared in The Next Review. ‘Central Line’ was published in Ambit.
Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
1
IN THE SHADOW OF GILGAMESH
In the Shadow of Gilgamesh
2
THE EMPTY QUARTER
On the Highest Peak
Paradise of Fools
Waiting for the End
Lowfield Road Quartet
Pain
Heading for the Sea
The God of Solitude
Because It Happens Every Day
Central Line
Faust in Casablanca
In Earl’s Court
The Empty Quarter
3
INCOMPREHENSIBLE LESSON
The Forgotten City
Wall
The Scavengers
Seeing and Pleading
The Painting
The Goal-Keeper
Black Ink
The Tale
The Night Drives Its Nails
Winter of God
The Muse
For the Thousandth Time
The Crack
In the Dark We Listen
Dialogue with Waves
The Patrolman
Incomprehensible Lesson
The Balloon
The Flame
No One Comes to Join Me
Usual Story
The Absent
To the Reader
The Isle of the Dead
Over Hastily
About the Author
Copyright
Incomprehensible Lesson
Introduction
1
In the poem ‘The Empty Quarter’, I tried to confront the time of my exile in London, while I tried before that to regain the experience of a homeland in my earlier poem ‘Plague Lands’.
My sense of my own homeland faded with Baghdad, which has itself gradually faded during the war years, since the early eighties until now. My sense of it has faded with the demise of my neighbourhood ‘al Abbassiyya’, faded with my boat in the Tigris river, and with the palm trees next to the house; faded with the berries and oleander inside the house, with the house itself. I felt all this when I returned to Baghdad, after the 2003 war, and after the end of the dictatorship. It dawned on me vividly that my time there had completely faded, leaving hardly a mark. ‘Plague Lands’ was an attempt to restore it, through memory fused with the imagination. Thus my memory was expanded, enhanced, in order to transcend time, to transcend history and enter myth, enter the domain of poetry.
The time of my exile in London, in the poem ‘Empty Quarter’, moves at a different pace to my circulation. I tried, since I came to this great city in early 1979, to adapt to the fast pace of life here, but it feels like a very fast pace, which does not respond to the slow pace of my inner time, poetic time, the time of the Eastern cafe, in which I feel that I swim, in the slow current of the Tigris, without having to look at my wristwatch, or waiting for something to happen. There is a hint in the ‘Empty Quarter’, that may easily be missed, about the threshold – where ‘Tigris Time’ crosses over into the time of exile:
Why would the passers-by
bother to notice
a tramp out of time with all tourists?
He stands there, gaunt as a telephone pole,
hoping, but for what?
No one sees the huge locked door that looms there,
right in front of him;
A weathered door that stops him
from breaking into the hubbub of London.
First reaction? Back into the head.
Time is not counted in seconds here,
but in the ripples as they pass.
The desire to vanish, which is present in all my poems, is an expression of the desire to belong to this internal time, this poetic time. To transform history into myth, the time of memory into the time of the imagination, is to transcend the time of hours and days, and enter the myth that exists without time. I think that this transcendence is the most important fruit of the tree of exile, which thus took on a metaphysical dimension.
Traditional Arabic poetry did not help me much in this, with the exception of the unusual voices of Abu Nuwas, and al-Ma’arri, because Arab poetry is generally either restricted to the five senses, and driven by sensual obsession, or taken up with generalised abstract ideas. The poem in which passion might ascend to the plane of thought has remained in the shadows. An older Eastern poetry (Persian, Indian, Chinese), rather than Arabic poetry, has become a haven for me. Sensory dominance and abstract ideas inform our modern Arab poetry as well as the tradition. All too often, the poet relies on great ideas: political, social, religious or ideological. Even modernity, where an Arab voice may simulate the literature of the West, has became a doctrine, spoiled by a touch of sanctity. Therefore our modern poet is characterized as a prophet with a bloated ego and a sense of certainty. You can see such a tendency in al Mutanabbi in the past, and in Adonis in our time. This brand of poet knows, when he writes his poem, what he wants before he begins the first line, because he writes his poem under a banner, informed by some great idea. The most prominent poets of our time are poets of the banner, poets of conviction. The poem that enters the maze with its first line is rare.
The poets of the maze are few, and they live in the shadows, in the way that al Ma’arri used to live in the past, or as al Sayyab, al Brekan and Abdul Saboor exist in the present.
Use of the verbal magic in the Arabic language is an instinctive trait among Arab poets since the pre-Islamic period, and has only been strengthened by the ‘Koran’, which made Arabic a sacred language. Ancient and modern poets have trod carefully and even perhaps too cautiously in also allowing poetry to be thought-provoking, and capable of taking its readers well beyond the surface of the word, beyond the power in its sound, and beyond the sheer eloquence of the sentence. In the past, our poets demonstrated an enthusiasm for al Jahiz (the great critic of the eighth century) when he expressed his preference for the form/ shape/sound of the word to its meaning, and they get excited today with regard to a deconstructive criticism that analyses the signifier at the cost of the signified.
Taking their cue from al Jahiz, a lot of Arab poets and critics have become enchanted by the modernist denial of content, which they found abundant in contemporary French poetry and criticism. The spark of this abstract tendency began in Morocco and Beirut, where the French language was really the prevailing language among intellectuals of literature. It then widened its influence to cover the best part of the Arab world, so books which even had titles that could not be understood became best-sellers.
English, in comparison, had less impact on the poetry and criticism of the sixties generation, and that neglect of English poetry persists to this day.
To despotic regimes in the Arab world, this absence of meaning has been a gift – engendering a silence about matters that they never imagined could be achieved at such a low cost.
2
A poem called ‘Song of Rain’ by al Sayyab has the following line:
Do you know what sort of grief the rain sends?
Critics observed that al Sayyab was influenced here by Edith Sitwell, and regretted this, bec
ause the rain in our climate is a testament to goodness. How then can it arouse grief to the heart of the poet!
Our critics invariably approach the poem via theory. They do not realize that the feelings of the poet here come from a source which is a mystery. I can have such feelings towards the rain (perhaps because I live in Greenford!) – and towards the sadness of its falling which also has a natural and divine beauty… I call it the metaphysical dimension of poetry.
I think that this metaphysical dimension is fundamental. In western poetry, part of the reaction against the romantic strain, is to deny any significant relationship between poetry and mystery. Archibald McLeish has a phrase: ‘A poem should not mean but be,’ which expresses the desire of a number of poets, to be thought of as skilled makers creating an artefact, rather than perceived as Seers. I prefer to be a Seer.
I would like to mention here that some of the theories of intellectuals in the West about poetry and its criticism cannot escape being considered as corrupted by the phenomenon of a society revelling in its prosperity. There is a dearth of adventurous ideas, and in their place a reliance on techniques and displays associated with the field of pure form.
‘Freedom of choice is being misused today by Western writers’, writes the Polish poet Czesław Milosz, ‘for the purpose of creating dehumanized literature perhaps, it is true, under the pretext of rebelling against a dehumanized world. But are the western writers themselves conscious of the difference between genuine concern and what is just subservience to fashion or a marketing device?’
When encountering the wave of East European poetry translated into the languages of the capitalist West in the fifties and after, English poets were enthusiastic about this fresh humanitarian voice in poetry – coming from the heart of suffering, from the heart of life. The desire to take advantage of this has changed a lot of their abstract tendencies.
Recent Arab poets and critics of poetry (with access, as I see it, to a poetic voice that comes from the heart of suffering) nevertheless deceive themselves on a permanent basis: they seem willing to mimic poets and critics in the West in their ‘subservience to fashion or to a marketing device’. They neglect to take note of the poets in Eastern Europe, who have suffered, like them, from the scourge of totalitarianism, and from the worship of some ‘great idea’ at the expense of a more humane expression. They are afraid that if they looked towards these poets of eastern Europe, they might see themselves in the mirror, and this would bring home to them that they remain outside of western modernity.
The poet and his critic in our Arabic literature today will avoid this mirror at all costs. The Arab poet may well prefer a self-deception dictated by an illusory feeling of being on a par with western poets and critics.
3
In the sixties, the publication of books of poetry, especially in Beirut, reached a very high level. Readers became accustomed to following the news of poetry and poets through a number of literary and poetic magazines such as ‘al Adab’, ‘al Adeeb’, ‘Shir’ magazine and ‘Mawaqif’ - as well as through the poetic publications brought out by the major publishing houses. We were familiar with the poets who came before us - al Sayyab, al-Bayati, Baland al Haidari, Nazik al Malaike, Adonis, Salah Abdul Saboor, Khalil Hawi, Nizar Qabbani, Yusuf al-Khal, Hijazi, Saadi Youssef - and we used to follow their poems through their books. Readers relied on a book of poetry when assessing the worth of a poet.
However, in Iraq, when the Baath Party came to power, this totalitarian regime instigated the phenomenon of ‘the festival of poetry’, and their cultural media ensured that this became well known and influential. Other Arab regimes saw the benefit of this and quickly followed the Baathist example. The official media channels were quick to direct such performing poets to the ethos of the targets it had an interest in implementing. The media also started to highlight the phenomenon of the ‘star’ poet. Thus, the published book of poetry was gradually put into the shade, and after that consigned to darkness. All the publishing houses, those in Beirut, as well as in the other capitals of the Arab world, have now come to rely financially on the official institutions of their governments.
The ‘sixties’ generation in Iraq was leftist for the most part, and often Marxist, and they were subjected to a great deal of intimidation. The dominance of the cultural festival has consigned most of these poets to obscurity, and many of them have had to flee Iraq.
A book of poetry is no longer the standard in the evaluation of a poet. The festivals of poetry and access to the cultural media are what confer esteem to the poet, and put him or her under the spotlight, as far as the public at large are concerned. The survival of a handful of the Iraqi poets from the sixties today is the product of their own courageous resistance to oblivion.
4
I came to London on the run from a nightmare. My nation and the Arab world has brought me more than enough suffering, and it is this that makes me sense my responsibility so intensely. It obliges me to put humanity in the foreground, rather than an idea.
London finally brought with it the opportunity to read English, and this raised a window on the poetry of the whole world. So vast did this ocean of poetry appear that I sensed myself shrinking, until I became no more than the atom of Lucretius. But London in its generosity has also given me the wonder of classical music. This in its turn has raised a window on the universe and beyond, until I sense that I am able to hear the Pythagorean music of the planets.
Poetry is the twin brother of music. And to this day, when I write a poem on the keyboard of my computer, I experience a liberation from the limitations of language and its restrictions, and enjoy imagining that I am striking the keys of a piano. Each poem I write is accompanied by a melody in my head, making it easier to be rendered loud and clear – as if a song.
5
The poem is written from an ethical obsession not a political one. It belongs to myth, not history. The poem sings, but it is thought also.
Fawzi Karim
London, 2019
*
POETS MENTIONED
Abu Nuwas, great Iraqi poet, (762–813).
Abu al-Ala al-Maarri, great Syrian poet, (973–1057).
Abu at-Tayyib al Mutanabbi, great Iraqi poet, (915–965).
Adonis, Modern Syrian poet, (1930–).
Badir Shakir al-Sayyab, modem Iraqi poet, (1926–1964).
Mahmood al-Brekan, modem Iraqi poet, (1929–2012).
Salah Abd al-Saboor, modem Egyptian poet, (1931–1981).
Abdul Wahab al-Bayati, modem Iraqi poet, (1926–1999).
Buland al-Haidari, modern Iraqi poet, (1926–1996).
Nazik al-Malaike, modern Iraqi poet, (1923–2007).
Khalil Hawi, modern Lebanese, (1919–1982). Nizar Qabbani, modern Syrian poet, (1923–1998).
Yusuf al-Khal, modern Lebanese poet, (1917–1987).
1
In the Shadow of Gilgamesh
In the Shadow of Gilgamesh
Aiming for the sandbanks,
we float across the Tigris in skiffs of wood and tin.
We set up bivouacs of mats,
plant beans and cucumbers,
and from the bowels of the sandy silt
witness the emergence of a man.
Solid enough, he sports a shield
made from shipwrecked bones
and the leads of fishing nets.
Shards of the moon on waves are mirrors in his cloak,
And the fish rise now
as if they were the echo of his call.
A man who sucks the nectar of our youth,
as indiscriminate as any honey bee.
Like a wave he overwhelms us all,
and we are pulled back with the froth.
At night a fire encloses the fish
Grilling in its basket like
a saint ablaze in his halo.
The flames here catch the sheen
of the wet desires the sand secretes,
And show how we may parley with a god<
br />
squatting there amid the algae
covering the bottom of the Tigris.
And now the tavern road appears
as if the wake of a golden robe
that leaves a sparkling trail behind
The steps of a whore who visits
in the middle of some night.
Has sex with the sexiest,
(fucks the firmest – both in cock and brawn.)
Secretly, just as she comes to us,
She’ll slip away before the dawn;
Gone as clandestinely as she came.
The poet with us knows how to fill his chest
in order now to tune the strings
And capture Ishtar in his poems’ mesh,
trawling for her in the depths.
And with the rust off ancient words
from smoke-exhausted lungs,
He feeds a wound, to suffer all the more,
And manages to camouflage our future
with the paint of legend,
Now when he sings the dawn light shines on his strings,
and the tick of the hours gets stilled.
The poet sings of Gilgamesh:
‘The shepherd who licks the wounds of his flock,
Who violates the virginity of Uruk’s maidens.
Who cloaks the shadow of the highest wall with his own.
Who indeed would be bold enough,
under the sun, to tame such a one but she,
Ishtar, the lady of lip taste, when lip thirsts for lip?
And yet she is the lady of lament,
shepherdess of corpses – in the line of fire,
in any war, fought always for good reason.
In a war, there’s this dream in our eyes
that absolves us
from acknowledging our victims