Mourid Barghouti: Reading at the Prague Writers' Festival

I have no problem

I look at myself:
I have no problem.
I look all right
and, to some girls,
my grey hair might even be attractive;
my eyeglasses are well made,
my body temperature is precisely thirty seven,
my shirt is ironed and my shoes do not hurt.
I have no problem.
My hands are not cuffed,
my tongue has not been silenced yet,
I have not, so far, been sentenced
and I have not been fired from my work;
I am allowed to visit my relatives in jail,
I’m allowed to visit some of their graves in some countries.
I have no problem.
I am not shocked that my friend
has grown a horn on his head.
I like his cleverness in hiding the obvious tail
under his clothes,
I like his calm paws.
He might kill me, but I shall forgive him
for he is my friend;
he can hurt me every now and then.
I have no problem.
The smile of the TV anchor
does not make me ill any more
and I’ve got used to the Khaki stopping my colours
night and day.
That is why
I keep my identification papers on me, even at
the swimming pool.
I have no problem.
Yesterday, my dreams took the night train
and I did not know how to say good bye to them.
I heard the train has crashed
in a barren valley
(only the driver survived).
I thanked God, and took it easy
for I have small nightmares
that I hope will develop into great dreams.
I have no problem.
I look at myself, from the day I was born till now.
In my despair I remember
that there is life after death;
there is life after death
and I have no problem.
But I ask:
Oh my God,
is there life before death?



It’s also fine

It’s also fine to die in our beds
on a clean pillow
and among our friends.
It’s fine to die, once,
our hands crossed on our chests,
empty and pale,
with no scratches, no chains, no banners,
and no petitions.
It’s fine to have a clean death,
with no holes in our shirts,
and no evidence in our ribs.
It’s fine to die
with a white pillow, not the pavement, under our cheek,
with our hands resting in those of our loved ones,
surrounded by desperate doctors and nurses,
with nothing left but a graceful farewell,
paying no attention to history,
leaving this world as it is,
hoping that, someday, someone else
will change it.



The pillow

The pillow said:
at the end of the long day
only I know
the confident man’s confusion,
the nun’s desire,
the slight quiver in the tyrant’s eyelash,
the preacher’s obscenity,
the soul’s longing
for a warm body where flying sparks
become a glowing coal.
Only I know
the grandeur of unnoticed little things;
only I know the loser’s dignity,
the winner’s loneliness
and the stupid coldness one feels
when a wish has been granted.



Old Age

There are some inventions
that do not exist.
Old age is one of them.
Those who go ‘there’
take childhood with them,
hold its dimpled little fingers
in their hands,
tell it their stories.
They take with them their silly little habits,
their tricks to get around restrictions,
their sly, meaningful glances,
the way they blame a friend,
the way they complain,
their impressions of the last conference
or of the coming elections.
(I have seen many of them
on their deathbeds).
They want us to play with them,
they fight against an enemy of a sort,
they doubt ideas and people.
Their hands, when they hear the name
of a cherished person,
joyfully snatch the telephone
or, with lazy, cinematic gestures,
draw their instructions in the air:
“Say I am asleep.”
They issue their familiar orders,
they steal a cigarette from their visitors
and hide it under the pillow,
they discuss with you their future plans,
they misunderstand you,
keep arguing until you
are dismissed from the room.
They take with them
the way they pronounce their Rs,
their desire to be admired,
their style of interrupting your sentences.
They take with them their slippers,
their loved ones,
their razors, their make-up,
and all the things they don’t need
on their last journey.
Even we who love them,
we, who, since birth
have thought life was made up of them,
just as it is of water, air, fire and earth,
we, who at that particular moment,
want to accompany them,
just as we once did to the funfair,
are left behind.
For they, gently, cleverly,
and for reasons only they know,
refuse to take us
with them.



Interpretations

A poet sits in a coffee shop, writing.
The old lady
thinks he is writing a letter to his mother,
the young woman
thinks he is writing a letter to his girlfriend,
the child
thinks he is drawing,
the businessman
thinks he is considering a deal,
the tourist
thinks he is writing a postcard,
the employee
thinks he is calculating his debts.
The secret policeman
walks, slowly, towards him.
 



Read at Prague Monday 8 June, 2009

All poems are translated from Arabic by Professor Radwa Ashour
From Midnight and other poems, ARC publications, 2008
First published as Muntasaf al-Layl, Riad El Rayyes Books, Lebanon, 2005