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A Secret Sky
Translated from the Arabic by Anne Fairbairn Ginninderra Press
Introduction
When I first studied Wadih Sa'adeh's poetry I enjoyed his work so much I decided I would like to compile a volume of his poems. For many years I have been endeavouring to build a bridge of understanding between Arab countries and Australia and between the Arabic-speaking community in Australia and English speakers. My serious interest in Arabic poetry began in 1980 when I met Dr. Hussam Al Khatibe, Palestinian Professor of Arabic Studies at the university of Damascus. He told me that Arabs are passionate about their language and are by nature poets. He explained that although poets still write classical poetry, using the same forms, metre, rhymes and images that have been used by poets for more than a thousand years, many poets of this century are finding new forms to express more adequately how they feel about the immense changes taking place around them. He recited poems by Syrian poets Nizzar Qabbani and Adonis (Ali Ahmad Sa'id), Iraqi poet Nazik al-Mala'ika, Palestinian poet Fadwa Tuqan and Lebanese poets Khalil Hawi and Unsi al-Haj, leaders of the free verse movement. As a result of expanding contact with the West, a growing sense of the significance of the individual emerged in the work of Arab poets. This was reinforced by the poetry of the Mahjar (migrant) school which consisted of poets who migrated to the Americas. The most influential, of these was Gibran Khalil Gibran (1883-1931) who founded a literary society, Al-Rabitah Al Qalamiyah (The Pen Club) in New York in 1920. After World War II, encounter with western poets, especially T.S. Eliot, had a profound effect on Arabic poetry, both technically, with greater freedom in form and metre and also in content. Poets began to express feelings of loss and even despair as they observed how the West, by championing the tyranny of money, creates an inner wasteland. These feelings were compounded by the gradual erosion of traditional values in the Arab world. Many Lebanese poets, including Said Aql and Salah Labaki, influenced by the French symbolists, found freedom by turning inwards for expression, often using private (some times incomprehensible) symbols. Lebanese poet Yusaf al-Khal, returned home after seven years in the United States, to found Majallat Shi'r (Poetry Review) in Beirut in 1957. This became the most influential forum for innovative poetry. Poets published in this journal continued to use symbols; many also experimented with avantgarde forms by blending classical techniques with dada, surrealist forms and existentialist ideas. This journal encouraged the concept of poetry as a unique expression of personal vision by publishing the radically innovative work of Arab poets, as well as the work of Yeats, Ezra Pound, Robert Frost, Edith Sitwell, T.S. Eliot and French poets such as Mallarme, Jaques Prevert and Paul Eluard, who continued to influence change. The extraordinary richness of the Arabic language provides a medium for developing unlimited innovation and flexibility of form while maintaining a unique poignancy and vividness of imagery; poets can choose from an immense vocabulary for metaphors, allusions and symbols, to give precisely the nuance of meaning required, often so elusive in other languages. Wadih Sa'adeh's poetry conveys the essence of Lebanon's tragic wars. Each poem is as fresh as a water-colour, as though the poet is creating, with a soft brush, images of a half real world, each line a painful wound, each word a splash of blood. The poet's agony is made more intense by his gentleness of expression. The history of the development of poetry in Lebanon has helped to shape Wadih's work, but I believe his poems demonstrate a unique vision drawn from the simplicity and the spiritual harmony he enjoyed in his village and surrounding fields during his childhood, an innocent vision he holds in his heart to this day. In his poetry this vision is poignantly juxtaposed with his painful memories of Lebanon's brutal wars and the suffering of his fellow Lebanese.
Anne Fairbairn
Preface
I was born in a peaceful village called Shabtin, in northern Lebanon. It was a place were the people, fields, trees, rocks, birds and animals were one family. Nature was part of our being. The soil and the people were one. I grew up among farmers who were gentle and dour. I grew up among opposites - the sterility of rocks, the fertility of fields. The fields and rocks sometimes seemed to me to be the secret faces of the people I lived among in that village. I was about twelve years old when I moved to Beirut. Everything was different, and I was filled with a profound feeling of desolation. It was at this time I began to experiment with poetry, perhaps to escape from this feeling. Whatever the reason, poetry became my companion. Does this mean that through poetry one is seeking once more a bond with nature? Lost innocence? Freedom? After travelling to many countries - England, France, Cyprus, Greece, searching for my place in this world, I emigrated to Australia with my family in November, 1988. The war in Lebanon was not the only reason for this. We were seeking social justice, a regard for human rights and freedom. Even so, that lost place remains firmly in my heart, for it is the place of my childhood. I know it is a paradise to which I can never return. When I write poetry, it is to keep this paradise alive in my mind. Poetry is not just an expression of the past, it is an act of creation, a dream of renewal, the only way for me to recreate myself as I would wish to be. In A Secret Sky, I try to give life to those people who have died in a terrible war in Lebanon, or those people who were forced to leave a country which is now only a memory, a people and a place which no longer exist for me. In my book I try to give readers a glimpse of the tragedy of my former homeland. Places like my village do not exist separately from those who lived there; they are a part of our very being, part of ourselves. Wherever I live today, my friends from the past - the fields, the hills, the rocks, the birds, the animals - are all part of me, part of my soul.
Wadih Sa'adeh
Shadows
They glided down towards the sea,drifting from their mountains like soft shadows, in case they woke the grass. Passing over fields, some shadows whispered farewell and slept; others clung to rocks and stretched, dragging the people back. As they moved, exhausted, towards the sea, the sun above them was searching for a needle to stitch them once more, to their shadows.
Leaving their eyes behind while walking, they rely upon past glances. Silence is lying over their bodies, with soft winds of the dead and the spirit of devastated places. If clouds drift into their minds,
it rains in
distant fields.
They walk. When they are weary, they lay down their glances and sleep.
Lilies
Death does not only dance in village squares, it dances near cockscomb, snapdragon and basil. It is stalking near the well
and into
houses. Death dances. In village squares the dead melt into asphalt. Those who stoop to gather flowers are hurled upwards by bullets to become lilies.
The Dead Are Sleeping
They were innocent people. They would caress their children's hair in the dusk, dropping off to sleep.
They were innocent, simple people, sweating during the day and smiling. On their way home they would pause before shop windows, measuring with their eyes the size of children's clothes,
then walk on.
They would take one step in the early breath of dawn to touch the tree trunks. During January frosts, while they were watching, some branches would bear fruit. Their scythes yearned for the fields, the air in the village was waiting for their cries. Suddenly, their wheat became ribs, the breeze and grass, rooted
in their
bodies.
They were innocent, simple people. Each evening the sun slid its silky mantle over their souls.
Dawn Death They open their doors before sunrise. They open the two shutters of their windows so the sunlight can enter. With the breath of dawn flowers drink, life is enjoyed. At daybreak, a beam of sunlight shining through a crack in the door lies across closed eyelids.
Night Visit
They were telling their children about the guardian angel of plants; about a nightingale that had flown there at dawn to sing in the mulberry tree above their window. They were telling them about the grapes they would sell to buy new clothes. About the special surprise the children would find under their pillows at bedtime. But some soldiers arrived, stopped their stories, leaving red splashes on the walls as they departed.
Hunters
Before killing each other, they trained for many years to be partridge hunters; to toss pebbles in the air, marking them with bullets. They trained to pluck the wings of birds to make brooms from the feathers. They tried to grow feathers on their hands, so they would become birds. Then they died, like hunted birds.
Threshold
He was dead but he could feel their fingers on his forehead. They laid his body in the centre of the house on a bed they had hired, like the one he should have bought. They dressed him in clothes like those he had seen in city shops. When they carried him out to be buried, he left something strange on the threshold. After that, whenever they entered the house they shivered without knowing why.
Leaf
They carried him in silence, leaving him in an open place of crosses and gravestones, in a vast, open space with his sleeping friends.
He had said, 'I'll be back, the key is under a flowerpot.' A leaf from the flower was still in his hand.
Mysterious Sky
They found him. His outstretched hand was blue and flat like space beneath a swallow's wing. His mouth was slightly open as though he wished to sing.
Homecoming
He was lying, with half his body under the ceiling, half under the sky. He was surrounded by people when he returned today. They carried him, covered with blood and dust and laid him on the balcony From a cloud, drops of rain were falling on his feet.
Absence
That day under an oak tree in an open square, only two stone seats were unoccupied. These seats were silent, gazing at each other, weeping.
A Tree
He took two steps forward to touch a tree he had planted the day before. Blood flowed from his palm into the sap. Leaves in his mind appeared on the branches. When he tried to step backwards, he remained where he was standing. His feet had become roots.
Words
Words he had spoken were on the chairs, beds, near cupboards and walls. A maid was brought in to tidy the house, to clean the furniture, dishes and walls. They brought paint and new voices. But they still could hear his words.
If
The last thing he saw was the cat, seeing him off at the door. He had locked the door but he returned and unlocked it, so neighbours, could enter as always, if they wished to do so.
His Shadow
His shadow flows down from a faraway village. Perhaps he is thinking of a tree trunk or a river fisherman trying to check his crazy outpourings to a wild love, today as always.
Outpourings from afar. He looks upon his life as a fire which suddenly erupts as he walks. Still, his shadow flows down, stirring a gentle breath of hilltop air, it flows down into a completely unknown village, which is strange even to those living there.
That Day
While they were sweeping away the rubble of his home, he could not remove his limbs or memories from that rubble; it was his life churning into that day's sweepings, again and again.
They were sweeping away his life as though it was snow. People and fields, melted into his memories, like tears, dripping on the furniture, the axes, the oil vat, on the water jar he had filled that morning, from which he would pour water for them to drink.
Companions
He sat on the balcony trying to touch the fingers of the wind playing with his hair. When the wind moved a flower he would say it was a hand. When lightning flashed across the sky he would say it was a glance, a smile that might have left lips to come and rest with him.
He sat on the balcony trying to think of some people
to fill the
empty seats around him.
He Said
He said they were alike, the basil plant and his mother. People could never tell the difference between them. If they said `good morning' to his mother the basil answered. If they greeted the basil his mother answered.
He explained that some veins on her hands were roots of her plants, her palms were two leaves, her eyes were two flowers. Whenever she walked in a neighbourhood, the fragrance of fields emanated from her garments.
He said his father and the tree were twins. If he embraced it, he was embraced by the tree. When looking at him, the tree became green. It turned Yellow if he was ill. If it was shaken by the wind he would shiver.
He explained this as he walked to the door, rolling a cigarette. Then he left.
The Companion
He only went outside on sunny days, so that he had a companion - his shadow. He would look at it over his shoulder to talk to it and smile. He would quickly turn his face towards it on the steps, in case it slipped into a house. He would repeat some spicy gossip to prevent it from growing bored and slipping away. At breakfast he would pour two cups of milk; at lunch two plates of food. He would return home at sunset, sit on a stone and weep until sunrise.
Life
Wasting time, he sketched a vase. He drew a flower in the vase. Perfume rose from the paper. He drew a jug. Having sipped a little water, he poured some over the flower. He drew a room with a bed, then he slept. When he awoke he drew an ocean, a fathomless ocean, which swept him away.
His Face
He sketched his own face and saw that it looked like someone else. He added lines and shading, zigzags, open squares, roads... He ripped it to pieces and disappeared.
Names of the Dead
He opened his hand and counted on his fingers the names of the dead. He used the fingers of both hands. He added to the list the colours around him, the branches of the tree in front of his house, the trees along the road and the leaves of the shrubs.
Before he went to bed he added his own name.
The Conscience of One Who Is Absent After he had said goodbye and left, his shadow, faintly cast by the lamp, moved ahead of him. When he went through the gate, they switched off the lamp. He lost his way. In the morning when the maid opened the window, she saw a shadow sleeping alone on the asphalt.
Drowning
He raised his hand as though he wanted to speak.
With Them
they disappeared beyond the mountain. They left lettuce leaves, drops of oil, hens' feathers and the slow breathing of their own shadows. They carried produce from beyond the mountains, dumping them on the asphalt to sell. They returned home and the feathers they had left there flew away to join them.
The Place of Roses
At dusk we arrived and carried our belongings to a door near the front of the house. In front of the memory of stone and water.
We carried our belongings where we could smell the place of roses, then we dropped off to sleep.
My Mother
She poured the last drops of water from her bucket on the basil. She slept close by. The moon went down and the sun rose. She still slept. Those who used to hear her voice every morning and drink coffee with her, missed hearing her voice. They called her name from their balconies and gardens. They missed hearing her voice. When they came to find her, they watched a drop of water fall slowly from her hand on to the basil.
My Father
Before his face became like a forest, he had cared for thousands of trees. He seemed like the paths he would gaze upon when perched on his ladder. He seemed like the rocks of his house which appeared to be leaning. He was gentle and meek like the grass. He was like the migrating hawks.
He said nothing before his face became like a forest. Some trees turned white like snow thawing on the mountain. Some trees spread their roots and bushes emerged from his soil.
Destination
The clothes-line followed us towards the sea with our washing still hanging on it. Our friends were dying between the fig trees. Dying between thresholds, doors or beneath shelves. We walked, leaving behind on the clothes-line, some washing. On the walls were chunks of our flesh. When we stepped into the sea, fish-scales appeared on our bodies. Some of us stuck to rocks and turned into shells.
The Exhausted People
The exhausted people were sitting in the square listening to the soft winds which may have been peddlers or loiterers who had lost their way.
The exhausted people had their own open square where the paving stones had taken on human qualities; if one of the people were missing, they cried out for him.
The exhausted people were in the open square and their faces grew more brittle each day, their hair, softer in the evening's faint light. When they glanced at one another, their eyes were brittle until they thought of themselves as glass and shattered.
Migration
When they left they did not lock their doors; they left water in the basin for the nightingale and the stray dog that used to visit them. On the dining table, they left bread, a pitcher of water and a tin of sardines.
They said nothing before they left, but their silence was like a covenant with the door, the pitcher and the bread on the table. The road, the only thing to feel their footsteps, could not see them afterwards, however it did eventually. But one day it became numbed by the wheat carried along it from dawn till dusk and from doors it had seen leaving their place in the walls.
The sea recalled that some sardines had flopped into it, swimming on to unknown places. Those who remained in the village said that a stray dog would come each evening and howl in front of their house.
Walking Away
We didn't disturb the drowsy winds, we just walked away accompanied by the salty dawn and the howling of dogs. We had left untouched islands there, angels' coal in the vaults, God's broken trunks and a bereaved eternity. Oil spots on our clothes, walked with us, and the fat of dreams. Some of us carried in our hearts, broken carts, and dead livestock. The howling of the dogs stayed with us until we disappeared Under our feet, on the road, we heard a strange moaning.
Hi, you! I have already arrived like an unusual, exotic fruit. Give me a cigarette. I have amazing tales to tell about kings, battles and urns; about people found by chance by the wind, and souls of fish on the sands. These are tales only for you. Give me a cigarette.
I carry with me many hills I want to sell, hills overlooking oceans where whales are dancing around those who have drowned; overlooking bays were resorts could be built for other enchanted lives. Hills, hills, pay whatever you like and take everything.
We didn't awaken those who were sleeping nor did we utter a word. We only heard the last words of the doors which were squeaking as we walked in or out. We left pictures on the walls, a scent of olives in the corner, loads of tales spread out on tobacco racks and your head, oh Riyadh, aflame with falling stars.
We arrive incomplete on crutches, in the streets.
Wherever we go we leave a part of us behind. Our eyes and feet remain there. Thus, when we walk, the roads will not feel us. If it rains, eyes will shed tears somewhere else. Give me a cigarette. From the smoke, God will appear with wealth, heaven, and splendour. Shawki is my friend but he will soon become a railway track. Before this happens I would like to smoke a cigarette with him. All Sydney's lines pass through his head in Sydenham, and he is about to burst out – 'give me a cigarette.'
Khodr, who threw away his gun in the mountains, has become like a letter with no address. He could be posted from one post office to another but never reach his destination. Out of smoke, the road appears and houses with their owners. Out of smoke', God is born. Give me a cigarette. When I return, I'll send you loads of tobacco from our spreading racks, and baskets of fruit and eggs from hens we have fattened from the grains of our dreams; they lay wealth, which I'll send you. One day we invented veins for silence, we would walk ahead, threading them into the path. We walked in the harsh air, buckling the road and we could see breasts trembling. We could see beneath the bridge, the offal from living creatures and chunks of eyes search for their vision. Listen ! We have seen life shivering beneath a tree and we took off our shirts to cover it. We walked on with bare chests and the air as our companion, bringing us flowers and playing with our hair. It brought us a stare lost by somebody while watching daylight fade.
With us - bracelets. With us - streets. With us - shadows. With us - air and reeds. In our bags is the rustle of photographs, the bandages of longing and the sound of crutches stumping from mountain to mountain. We walked on. In front of our door there was leaf from an almond tree. We looked at it but kept on walking. Anise, his eyes like two clouds over a grove of orange trees, the veins of his fingers like dry pencils, with grains of dreams being pecked from his lips by a bird. Ghassan played his lute all the way until the streets became its notes.
We have nothing except the smell of tobacco and olives that we'd carried with us. We walked ahead lightly so we didn't disturb the dew. We didn't bend a branch nor waken the breeze. We didn't say goodbye to our friend, we didn't utter a word, we simply walked on.
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