مجلة السنونو ( العدد الثامن ) - ضيوف السنونو - سعدي يوسف ( بقلم: خالد الحلي ) - النسخة الانكليزية

مجلة السنونو ( العدد الثامن ) - ضيوف السنونو

سعدي يوسف ( بقلم: خالد الحلي ) - النسخة الانكليزية

Saadi Yousef                The Spontaneous Poet Khalid al-Hilli Translated by Raghid Nahhas     The novel is the greatest of the writing arts, but it is not more revealing than poetry   If there are revolutionary novel writers, David Malouf is one of them The Iraqi poet Saadi Yousef has been living in a quiet county area near London since 1999, dedicated to his writings, translations and creative activities, after moving for years among different Arab and European cities, carrying with him his national and humanistic concerns, full of unceasing hope for a better future, liberty and opulence for his nation, people and all humanity. The P.E.N. magazine, issued in London, has recently selected Yousef to be on its advisory board, but his creativity surpassed his local environment at an early stage in his career allowing him to become renowned all over the Arab World and internationally. His first exile was between 1957 and 1959 where he stayed in Syria and Kuwait. The second exile was between 1964 and 1971 and when he returned to Iraq after that, he was hoping he would stay in his homeland forever. Subjected to suffering and many pressures, he left in 1978 never to return. Yousef was born in Abul Khassib, a town in Albassra municipality in southern Iraq, in 1934. After graduating from university, he worked in teaching and cultural journalism. He experienced the reality of danger and imprisonment in his homeland, and that of wars and civil wars in his exile. Yousef published his first book al-Qursan (The pirate) when he was only eighteen in 1952. The book took the form of a long neo-classical Arabic poem. After this, however, he opted for modern metred poetry. His activities diversified soon afterwards to include literary essays, translations, short stories and novels. He published 35 collections of his poetry and ten poetry collections he translated from English into Arabic. His other works include a collection of short stories, a novel, a play and eight books of essays, articles, memoires and critical reviews. The awards he received include the Sultan Ouais Cultural Award, the most prestigious in the Arab World.   Saadi Yousef waited for me at the nearest railway station to his home. We had both arrived half an hour before the agreed time. When I met him, I felt we had never parted company. He greeted me with his usual kindness and courtesy. He reminded me of our first meeting in 1971 and how on the second day of his return from exile I received him in a humble unit where I lived. I was a cultural editor for the Manar newspaper in Baghdad, writing every now and then about the need to release imprisoned literary figures and allowing exiles to return home with guarantees for their safety and freedom. I had before then started to read Yousef’s work with a lot of admiration. Meeting a poet of his calibre was to me a source of ultimate pride. On the bus carrying us to his place, he started explaining to me about the charm of the area he lives in: lakes, canals, a harbour on a river and landscapes shrouded with calmness that encourages contemplation and writing. As we entered his attractive humble abode he pointed to an olive tree he had recently planted and how he had been caring for it on a daily basis. I could not help thinking that this symbol of peace had a lot to do with Yousef’s particular attention to this tree. Yousef introduced me to the details of his apartment passionately. Lovely paintings decorated the walls, some were from an intimate friend of his, of Austrian origins. Our conversation diversified. We had had many common aspirations and concerns pregnant with events and sadness, and many mutual friends spread around the world with contrasting paths and circumstances. In what follows, however, I hope to reveal more of Yousef’s character through his answers to some of my questions.   You have had an enormous amount of published material. How do you plan and manage your day?   I do plan and organize myself well. The early morning is my preferred time for writing, particularly writing poetry. I like to receive the world in the morning. When I am in any city, I like to go out before the shops and cafés open. In the evening I read, listen to music, go to the theatre or movies or fulfil other obligations. My life is devoted to poetry and creativity. If an idea comes to me in the evening, I often note it on a piece of paper and work over it the next morning.   You have one novel, Muthalath ad-Da’ira (The Circle’s Triangle). What was your experience with it?   There is a common belief that the first novel is often an autobiography. The events of my novel take place in five cities which belong to five different countries. These cities are: Basra, Beirut, Nicosia, Paris and Aden. I lived in those cities and was able to read their lands. I, therefore, feel that I have the right to write about them. I needed to fabricate events. This is not easy, particularly that I feel the novel is the greatest of the writing arts. It is more serious than poetry, but not necessarily more revealing. The structure of the novel requires great effort and extensive research. I tried to respect this difficulty. My novel included five chapters, each with ten parts and each part with only five pages. I planned it carefully and followed the plan rigorously. It took me only three months to complete.   It has been ten years since you published your novel. During this period many events unfolded. Are you planning a new project?   I do think about many projects. I have a plan for an enormous poetic work. I will show you the outline which I put a year ago. (He rises and fetches an orderly folder to show me the plan.) I am calling this project “The Odessa”. It is a poetic novel. The work will comprise ten books, each in fifty pages of five parts. Each part comprises ten pages and each page thirty verses. This makes the total verses of the whole work 150 thousand verses.   Don’t you think that this sort of programming affects poetic flow?   It is an enormous work, but my approach is that of constructing an artistic building composed of many units. The thirty verses within one unit will address a particular subject, leaving other units to freely accommodate other ideas and subjects. I was hoping to commence earlier, but the rumbling of the invasion of Iraq paralysed me for some time. When this war started, I was attending a movie festival in Amsterdam by invitation of The International Justice Organization. Upon hearing the news, I was unable to walk for one day. The effects haunted me for some time, but I am now better. I hope to start soon.   Do you see that writing poetry requires some spontaneity?   I am a spontaneous poet. The real poet is born to be one. This condition provides the poet with an instinctive ability to freely receive and filter through his many experiences, reflections or ideas and express them using his creative tools.     The regime of Saddam Hussain opted for obscuring your name and the names of other important poets. It is believed that this has negatively affected the modern Iraqi poetic movement. What do you feel?   I used to meet with young Iraqi citizens in Jordan, some of them high school students, but none had heard of me or others such as Muzaffer Nawab or Fadhel Azzawi. They only new of the regime’s trumpets. They might had heard of my name as a myth only. Yes, the absence of certain names hindered the progress of the Iraqi poetic movement and disturbed its natural development. You might find some Lebanese and foreign influences on Iraqi poetry, but the natural development as initially marked by Badr Shaker Assayab has been mutilated. It does, however, have the power of resurrection.   Do you think that poetry has been in recession due to the increasing influence of the novel?   I believe that there is a general recession in all forms of Arabic art due to decades of censorship, tyranny and subjugation. These are the foundations of the backwardness of any nation. Now we are witnessing the possibility of a complete breakdown. Our nation was protected by a genuine strong cultural consciousness. Now it is a different story. We don’t read enough, we have the lowest rate of book distribution and we are culturally retarded. We cannot express ourselves because our “Big Brother” is unparalleled.   You have been to many poetry festivals. Which one do you consider most important?   One of the latest festivals I attended was a bi-annual international poetry festival near Montpellies in France. It is an important festival attended by poets from all over the world and lasts for two weeks. Another international one is in Mediene in Colombia where the whole city becomes devoted to poetry read in the streets, universities, parks, stations and cafés. Everywhere you get great crowds. That could not happen, in my country Iraq, unless someone like al-Jawahiri was present. Poetry is always effective. Poetry readings are often attended by tens of thousands of people in open theatres or sport stadiums. Most of those who attend are young people.   It is interesting that something like this could happen in a troubled nation such as Colombia.   It is possible that Colombia’s troubles inspire poetry.   You visited Australia and held a successful evening for the Arab community there. Did you have a chance to be acquainted with Australia’s cultural life?   I was able to meet with some Australian poets during some of their poetry reading sessions, but I think that my readings of Australian poetry is not enough. I know David Malouf well. He is basically a poet before becoming a novelist. I met him on several days in Jordan and received him in my home there twice. I read most of his works and translated two of his novels.   What was the basis of your choice of the two novels you translated?   I was particularly attracted to his novel “Imaginary Life” because it tells us about Ophaed, the Roman poet who was exiled by the emperor outside the Roman borders to where present-day Romania is. They spoke Latin there in addition to there local dialect. Ophid, the great poet and the author of “Metamorphosis” had to devise new terminology for everything around him. I found similarities between the state of Ophid and my personal state in exile. I also translated his play “A Child’s Play” and I gave the Arabic version the title “The Terrorist”. It is a play about Italy where the author spends half of his time. I translated it because I consider it a fine example of the art of narration. It also sympathizes with movements of change in society. It is almost a story about the Red Brigades, but you feel a lot of support for David Malouf who arrived there and took the side of those who wanted to change things.   You contributed a lot by your translations from English to Arabic. Do you have a particular agenda and how do you select what to translate?   You can consider my poetry translations as a small encyclopaedia of international poetry, printed in three large volumes over some years. It is somehow a programmed matter because I wanted to open some windows on the world. A more deliberate act could be my translations of African novels. This feat has been neglected despite the similarities between African and Arab societies particularly after independence.   Can you specify the most important problems associated with translations and what makes a translation a good one?   The most important aspect of translation is to have a command of your own mother tongue. It is important to know the translated language well, but knowledge of the target language is vital for expressing the text in the spirit of that language, otherwise it will appear weak and unreadable. The responsibility of the translator is associated with faithfulness to the original text and its impact. For example, “An Imaginary Life” is a holy book in Australian literary culture. When I translated it into Arabic I had to keep in mind both the content and the style, expressing all of this in an Arabic compatible with the grandeur of the original. On the other hand, when I translated  Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”, I had to add vigour to Whitman’s language which was very simple and lacking in surprise. This was necessary to cater for Arabic readership.   Many a critic mentioned that you have given a lot of your poetic spirit to your translations. How do you view this and is this a betrayal of the original text?   I only translate what I select and love. I don’t translate by commission. When a relationship between a certain text and me develops, I translate. It is a slow-developing relationship that ferments for a considerable time. When I translate, I am in love with the text and I give it part of myself, but complete faithfulness to the original should be maintained and this is what you find if you compare my translations to the original. The real test of good translations is that when you are reading them you feel the language flowing as smoothly as the original. You are proficient in English and many of your works have been translated into English. What is your opinion of those translations?   They are good translations, the last of which in USA, published by Graywolf Press, Minnesota, in a large volume. The translation won the PEN prize for translations.   What are your latest translation projects?   (He laughs) I am now translating for myself. I am translating my novel “The Circle’s Triangle” into English. I am also preparing for translating a third novel by David Malouf, “Conversation in Curlew Creek”. It is a strange story of a convict condemned to death and a dialogue between him and the officer that was sent to execute him. They both discover that they were of Irish origins and an interesting conversation about Ireland reveals a richness of history. The convict requests to take a bath to become pure before meeting his creator. He is allowed to go and bathe in a nearby inlet, but disappears suddenly. Malouf’s myth in this story is that Australia has an internal sea where all rebels live in their own city. Selected Poems The following are samples of Yousef’s poetry, translated by Raghid Nahhas. Longing is my Enemy!   You and I have been together for thirty years. We meet like two thieves unaware of all the details of this journey we embark on; train carriages reduce in number as they pass one station after another and the light grows dimmer, but your timbre seat occupying all trains stays put, carrying the furrows of many years, preserving chalk drawings and cameras their names no one remembers anymore, and faces and the trees that now sleep beneath the soil… I glanced at you for a fleeting moment then I ran panting towards the seats in the back carriages, running away from you…   I said: it’s a long way; and took bread and a piece of cheese out of my hessian bag… Then I saw you sharing my bread and cheese! How on earth did you end up with me? How did you swoop down on me as a hawk would? Listen: I have not crossed tens of thousands of miles and roamed tens of cities and frequented thousands of branches so that you rob me… of my treasure and confine me to a corner! Leave this seat now, and disembark! My train will take me faster after this station; Disembark and let me go to where no train shall ever stop again…   Difficult Variations   Peace be upon the hills of Iraq and its two coasts, and the cliff, and the slope Peace be upon the palms… The English village is easily dragging its clouds now as the evening approaches It is warming up, like a cat, in its sleep and preventing nightmares from reaching trees sunk by lakes The evening arrives slowly and orderly (it shall count its seconds once) Are you going to close your eyes? The lofty walnut tree rises off the window at the end of this passageway… The evening arrives slowly and crawls to lull your eyelids: Can you see the impossible palm leaf? Peace be upon the hills of Iraq and its two coasts, and the cliff, and the slope… Did I know that my face, after you, is the roads? I left closed doors and a house for the wind behind Your green waters did not attract me. You left me behind in the desert’s castle. What should I hope you do this evening? You abandoned me in the morning and entered the barracks. You said: ‘War is more beautiful.’ You shall not see my feet after today. I am the street and the tavern singer, I am the blind poet. From the sullen autumn I bring music for every colour and freshness of the roses from the sight of sunset. And I ask about you Ask about you My question is akin to the stung asking what happened to his blood. Peace… I don’t want you to reply… Save your greetings for the dripping water! And peace be upon the hills of Iraq… Upon the feast’s sacrifice and upon Baghdad during the feast; its cafés serving bitter tea, and its hotels hosting faraway inhabitants. The prayer is called for The soup plates have some bone stock and stock from a lizard’s meat… The mosques have been trespassed their doors opened for soldiers, infantry and marines and for flying angels… ……………. ……………. Peace be upon…     The Voice of the Sea   Oh muted voice of the sea a whispering, a hissing, turquoise weeds and songs of a blind sailor. You are my last moan of fever, my gate to peace a palm-leave mat woven by a child’s hand in the night Oh feathers and turtles The start of a journey at a woman’s earrings A light flickering in evergreen trees, east of China Oh my tired voice! Oh muted voice of the sea! Has creation missed us, so we wait for creation? ……… ……… ……… Oh calm voice of the sea A voice I hear creeps through the hut’s reeds baskets full of leaping fish and weeds… and I hear it loud and clear, like a swelter dangling from a roof of grapes I say: How come we can hear you now? Have you got sick of the shape of the shell? The sea is an ocean… But the voice from the shell has returned to the shell! We shall now search for another land for a louder voice Oh calm voice of the sea… ……… ……… ……… Oh present voice of the sea Oh roaring voice of the sea You rise from the bottom of the abyss to the crown of the horizon Oh roaring voice of the sea let the shirts fly with the wind joined fists and banners fly with the wind let the braids of our beloved and those who loved fly with the wind fly with the roaring voice higher than this world higher even than the source of sight Oh roaring voice of the sea!   Hamlet’s Balcony 1  ‘Denmark is a jail…’ Dying in the sight of your father is your only elevation to life The night’s citadel has shut Is this the shell of doomsday? Shades have covered the steps… Horatio shall say: Easy, Oh prince! The night is deeper than our fears, and more dangerous than yesterday’s battles… You know what was not known to the ancients and the wise sailors you hardened your self and sought refuge in it but darkness is forever… Embarrassed, Marcellus shall say: Easy, Oh prince! Was it not you who said: ‘Denmark is a jail’? What do you expect from continuing to ascend? Who, I wonder, shall you meet? Your father? We have already seen him, and he was armed… It is midnight and this marine citadel has collided with its shore and Hamlet is ascending the ladder… 2 Rosencrantz was standing here: It wasn’t a balcony (familiar to people, or as in the books): The sea is an abyss And it was a balcony overlooking the abyss But Rosencrantz could see it as if he was looking at the isthmus (point zero between life and the corner’s hypostasis) Rosencrantz was watching what the sea was spitting out broken spears and ships, sailors and captains arriving here and leaving by dawn or during the nights of wild storms. Oh Rosencrantz! you make a theatre out of any inquisitive matter (and let it be as simple as you wish it to seem) but today, you are under scrutiny my friend: Hamlet’s ship has set anchor Now… And the play hasn’t started yet ……… ……… ……… The play hasn’t started yet Reveal the secret Rosencrantz: Would it then be finished? 3 I am now at the watchtower: The wind enters the sea and the see enters the wind The horizon becomes salt Even the ships seem disturbed in the grim harbour The morning I am hoping for is not in Denmark… The evening shall come and as the night falls, the awl’s hooting shall be wilder than the trench of the citadel and tonight: the royal party… ……… ……… ……… let me celebrate: thou shall be or thou shall not then madness shall come.  Khalid al-Hilli is a writer, journalist and poet of Iraqi origins. He is an adviser to Kalimat who lives in Melbourne, Australia.