دعوة: قراءات شعرية بـ لندن الخميس 15 يوليو

Quote: A Monkey at the Windowo I The little boy, playing in bed while his wounded mother cooks, is throwing little words and circles out of the window. She smiles (the whole world lights up) he chatters excitedly - What can he see? There's a monkey at the window - behind the door! But he is falling into darkness. And though he never raises a cry he holds up his claws - this dark stormy boy. II She never taught him how to cry only how to sing. Happy in herself - just as she wished to be - she taught him endless space and vastness and she calls him: Open-hearted. Behind him a mountain of ####phors in front a river a mouthful of night and a train of caravans calling him away. (Where is that thread that fire the skill?) III Running - down an alleyway he splashes cooking oil all over his shorts this boy! He wets himself with laughter running through Eternity - through this alleyway this pack of dogs the conspiracies of fate! IV The solid front door remembers the hand that made it - You are the key - and the creak of the universe — it's your sole secret You lean your dreams and future against it. For its sake you endure the woodworms gnawing through your heart the reek of damp the hammering of enemies and relatives. (Long is the absence of light that paints things awake - Long is the presence of paint!) You come home exhausted — from wherever you've been the wind at your side — just as you wished toyed with by traumas. Once he made necklaces from seashells colouring them with his own fairytales once he made friends with strange frogs - and all the while she's watching him from behind the door /from out the window (when she runs to pick him up he will not raise a cry!) V In the forest the lonely one knows all the voices beckoned by the eyes of loved ones their songs are luring her with their tender fingers and her own translucent solitude. She sits in silence close to every thing brewing tea stirring the porridge. In the garden of a strange home her home she welcomes the pots and pans to the sounds of morning. Scrubbing everything in its proper place one eye on the radio that calls her to those distant sands the desert. But her colour flow like a river so she can sing…. And that boy? ………. …………. In a green forest or a red forest or a desert now who calls him to Eternity? ــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ The literal translation of this poem was made by Hafiz Kheir The final translated version of the poem is by Sarah Maguire ــــــــــــــ http://www.poetrytranslation.org/poems/48/A_Monkey_at_the_Window ــــــــــ أ.أ