Wait for Me by the Edge of the Sea

Yusuf al-Sayigh (1933-2006)

I hear my lover’s voice calling me tonight

wait for my worry

I am going to the water

to pull my shawl over the eyes of sad fish

to fill my cup at the sea’s home

with foam

and with shells for one living in exile.

I beg you, women of Basra,

if there is longing in you that can ripen the pollen between my lips

lean over me

withdraw from my body

because my lover’s house is weariness

his bed is made from the wood of a boat

that the fishermen neglected for centuries

and that the water put to use.

It surfaces in winter,                                                                                       

I set my spirit inside it

sensuous as an unfaithful woman,

sensuous as the sea,

barefoot

wet

soon to be caked with dry salt.

It is your shores when the night goes mad.

“Come, fishermen of my country,

taste my hospitality!                                                                                       

For I am humble-hearted,

and what I carry for my people is light.”

The fishermen said:

“We ran off to the sea and tried it out in rounds,

we fished for fish as blue

as the faces of men drowned

and gathered fruits of doubt.

The ocean is a brother,

and we don’t believe in a betrayal greater than the first.

If this woman lies,

still the ocean is another form of our defeat.”

Fishermen of my country

come moor your skiffs upon my body

come back

the season is a bust.

What can the nets of the defeated catch?

I hear my love’s voice caressing me                                                               

like water on my banks…

“Open your arms, my love, to the dream

let the voice reach

the helpers’ ears

in purity

and wait for me by the edge of the sea,

for I have resolved

to return from my travels.”

Leaving my father’s house to meet you

unveiled

people said:

“She’s lost her mind

Who is she calling out to

by the stones of the sea?”

The fishermen have returned

and the Gulf’s been laid to waste.

A white ghost at the edge of the Gulf of Basra.

The guards there saw it three nights in a row

trembling and wrapped in a shroud

and they were afraid.

The first said:

“I saw it in the first hours of the night                                                

with a sorrow like silver on its eyes

touching my heart.

I was afraid and closed my eyes.”

The second said:

“And I saw it at midnight

an arm’s length away,

staring angrily at me.

My hair stood on end

I fainted and fell on my face.”

As for the third guard, he said:           

“It came to me near dawn

I saw it on the eastern horizon

gesturing for me to come

so I went                                                                                                        

but when I drew near

the rooster crowed,

and the vision vanished.”

“Like the abandoned moon, my lover.

People of Basra,

I am the one who comes before the pollination of the palms,

a king among bees

so keep your windows drawn at night.

I’ve returned from my travels

with gifts made of stone

I’ve painted black lines of kohl under your virgins’ eyes

and hidden the pebbles of my heart

in the pockets of the prettiest.

I’ve brought my case before the ruler:                                                

she made me cry... and I’ve lived in exile.”

Like the sad moon, my lover,

a reed that bruises but does not break

or a lamp in the night that flickers but does not fade.

Happiness comes to him, at his fingertips

as he knocks at your windowpanes.

“People of Basra

What is my heart among you?

Boys in the marketplace singing their sorrow...”

Though we clapped for the tribe, they did not dance

though we howled among them

they did not cry.

But I heard my lover’s call in the night,

and dawn hesitated in my hand.

In my weakness for you,

my king, my language                                                                                    

it all came to light

you expose what I hide for all of Basra to see.

I beg you, women of Basra

do not condemn my going out naked tonight.

My lover is crying,

tears come to him, at his fingertips

as he knocks on your windowpanes

and death comes.

The world goes into exile at his bedside,

but my lover is dying for poetry!

The clock comes to him, at his fingertips

cold

as he knocks at the walls of his coffin

asking permission

but who will permit the poet to doubt

or to undertake forbidden travel abroad?

“We’ve rented the foreigners’ coffin for you

and walked behind you, each carrying his age.

Get the guards’ attention,                                                                   

the burial is about to begin.”

The first said:

“I saw him

His eyes were overflowing with sorrow like silver

touching my heart

and I was afraid.”

Laid out before me, the sea was a field of rainbow fish

keeping vigil by your bed.

I pressed on,

and the cold Basra evening effaced me.

The guard stopped me

searched me

“This is my name, you who guard the house of the dead,                              

let me in......”

The guard scared me:

“Go back, sweetheart.

The sea is enchanted tonight

and ghosts are roaming the shores.

She who passes into the dead moon

will be imprisoned by spirits

and never return.”

“You who guard the house of the dead

my lover’s voice is pain

let me go.”

“I promised you...”

I touch his cough

he’s sick and spitting up blood,

impregnating my body with the barrenness of a woman

the poets slept with

and who never had a child.

to this barren one they described your sadness

and the exile in your vision

I came to you to add my vow,                                                            

a strand of hair the weight of seven

You loved, but the women did not love you

you lowered your eyelid

over a name… so take me

and wait for my worry.

The guard let me in.

Here I am, entering the kingdom of the sea

pressing on

a star follows me

drawing close

hanging low

almost touching the earth

I pleaded with it:

“White star over the Gulf of Basra

I promised you three things:                                                               

exile

the longing of the dead

and the waves of Buwayb.

If you have come to do good, say so!

Soon the rooster will crow

and the dead will be called back to their abodes

or have you come in evil?”

To the ghost over the Gulf of Basra:

return to the sea.

Our city has enough troubles.

We’ve bought a bakery

and blood

for the price of our despair.

On our behalf, priests have sacrificed

as many beads

as we gave lives,                                                                                            

necklaces worn by a woman

with whom thirty poets slept

and who never had a child.

Take me

the moon of my life has entered its winter

and stirred up a fever in me for you

a craving like coffee.

The guard insulted me for you

and my cousins made me scared of you

and the professional passers-by

all said:

“Wife of the poet, your lover is dead

so wash yourself in the sea

because after him, you’ll bear no children.”

They gathered around me

and began to cry

“We’ve rented the foreigners’ coffin for your lover

and walked in our funeral processions

with Basra following close behind

until we neared Jaykur.”                                                                                 

I read your name carved in a stone:

“I read my name on a stone………

on a red brick………

here in the desolate desert……

and how should a person seeing his own grave feel?”

Listen

I hear my love’s voice clinging to the rock,

steeping it in scent.

I hear the seaweed growing through the boat’s wooden planks

I hear the death of the world on his bed—

“O poet, die alone!

Blessings for the fallen who face their souls alone:

they did have to wait for papers attesting they were brave                                         

certifying their graves……”

I looked at him

I saw him

his shrouds were white as seabirds

open around the throat

he was thin and calming like a votive candle

I called out:

“My prince

I promised you three things

if you’ve come to do good, say so.

Soon the rooster will crow

and the dead will be called back to their abodes

or have you come in evil?

Return to the sea

our city has enough troubles.”                                                                        

“People of Basra, I’ve returned to you in sadness

it’s only my sickness

and my bed

and the worries of Ibn al-Rayb

so bend my camel’s knees at Buwayb

and use your spears to mark out a piece of land for me

I’ve come to moisten Basra’s face with my thirst

and pour my darkness over her eyes

so give back some of my youth

give back some of my youth… to me…”

Because of your longing I’m building my tent at Buwayb

and combing my hair

and getting dressed up, my Basran groom

I’m baking

ripening          

playing—

Spirit of a boy, raise up your face over the walls of our city

a white circle

with two eyes shining like candles

an offering

if you return in good health

I will go out naked in front of everyone

and dance

dance

until the anklets on my feet are wet

and I lose my mind

and kohl runs down my cheeks                                                                                  

and my spirit burns, lighting your way

from Jaykur to Basra

A ghost

The guards saw it there three nights in a row

and they were afraid

The second one said:

“He was an arm’s length away

staring angrily at me, my hair stood on end

I fainted and fell on my face.”

I heard the poet asking:

“My homeland

what, then, did I have to do for the vine

that I did not do?

Give water other than my blood, liberal offering of peasants,

which makes their vines grow heavy with grapes?

Use pollen other than my youth                                                                                 

to fertilize the Basran palms,

which dropped down ripe dates to you?

Take pride in a death

truer than my death,

what, homeland?

What, then, should I have done?

Take my things

and wander your graveyards?

Recite an elegy during Friday prayers

for the innocent martyrs?”

My abundant hair is for my angry lover

I undo its plaits

and wrap my body in its shallows.

I beg you, daughters of my father

do not look down on my modesty.                                                                             

I surrendered to the royal guard

with both eyes open, watching

how I was treated in my anger.

While they violated my blood,

I was looking for your face among the faces of the soldiers on my body

and I wished you were among them, my love.

“Royal guards! Violate me

and with you, let my lover come to me.”

“Wife of the poet, your love is dead

so wash yourself in the sea

because after him, you’ll bear no children.”

Who is this approaching from his exile at the edge of the world?                              

Let seven winds blow down on him

stripping off his shirt

like a sword drawn from its sheath.

The angry moon shone down

and poetry began

with a woman’s blood, poetry begins

as a bride, poetry begins

a bed

in which I tie strands of our lover’s black hair in knots

it is a swaddling blanket embroidered with red roses                                                 

and longing

clinging to her placenta, he was not born

it was the very same place

where the blood of two had dried…

And woe to you all

a poet’s blood never grows cold.

A poet is always troubled

like a lighthouse that has lost its ship at sea

searching the eastern horizon

for a pair of black eyes.

Homeland of mine,

send a sail to the poet on the eastern horizon

send a red mast

to blacken the poet’s longing

o sea of the Arab homeland.

Strip from the sails of the seafaring ships                                                                  

the shirts of your slaughtered Fedayeen,

offerings on the line of fire,

and there, before death,

wait for my anger.

I am baking

laced with hatred

golden loaves for the people of heaven

People of heaven:

what should the children of Basra eat when they are hungry?

A pot                                                                                                                          

in which an old woman boils water

stoking a fluffy chick’s hunger.

“Easy, easy,

my child… a little longer…

the pot will soon cook something for you all to eat.

For centuries, water has boiled despite little girls’ impatience.”

Tired angels sleep

while Basra goes to bed hungry,

and still, the old woman’s cry

as she boils water in the pot stokes our hunger

for a soup that never cooks

sand from the beach

and the palms on the banks of Buwayb.

I baked loaves laced with hatred for the people of heaven

and hawked them on the sidewalks of the port                                               

bargaining with traders for my weariness

as I read the prices of olive oil,

Basran dates, and Arab people

on the signboards of Western boats.

With what lie has a generation’s memory been fooled,

into thirst?

The vanquished army’s tanks were thirsty

and twisted on the sand, revolvers shoved down their throats,

the mouths of their guns at the bridge of our nose…

So come! let’s search for my lover’s face

among the limbs of an army defeated.

Who is this knight, walking on the waters of the Jordan,

carrying his head in his hands?

If he is a stranger,                                                                                                       

then let him dismount, and we will put him up in our best houses

or is he is a lover?

I beg you, daughters of my father,

do not touch his wounds

they are the wedding gown

my groom has returned to me from behind the line of fire

they are my witness, homeland of mine.

So bring forth your false testimonies for June

and I will bring forth the corpses of the living defeated

then rise from my shroud

and signal to you

beware of my anger.

As for the third guard, he said:

“He came to me near dawn

I saw him calling me,

so I went

and when I drew close to him

I thought I heard a voice screaming:

‘O Ghost carrying a generation’s sins on your shoulders

beware

this age pursues even those who have been killed

and casts doubt on martyrs.’

What can poets do?

Poetry has fallen

so return to the sea… our city has enough troubles.’”

As for you

come, let’s go to the seers                                                                              

and uncover our destiny:

“O fortuneteller of Basra

I promised you three things:

exile

the longing of the dead

and the waves of Buwayb.”

He told us of the unseen                                                                                 

lifted the curse

and made a seaweed potion

to heal the wombs’ pain.

Arab loins have withered

no son will be born in this house.

They lied.

We have hung a thousand prophets

from the palms of Kufa

and washed our hands

and awaited the season

in tears.

[Yusuf al-Sayigh, Intazirini `inda tukhkum al-bahr (Baghdad, Matba`at al-Adib, 1971) Translated from the Arabic by Emily Drumsta.]