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.]