|
|
 Re: المجلس الثقافى البريطانى يترجم نص زميلنا القاص عبدالغنى كرم الله (Re: wadalzain)
|
ترجمة النص الى الانجليزية بواسطة المجلس الثقافى البريطانى
My Father’s House Exhibition
why did the city kill its two old poets?
By: Abd ellghani Karam alla
At the doorstep of My Father’s House exhibition, I said to myself with a surprised expression: What a beautiful title the British Council had chosen to its comprehensive and large exhibition “My Father’s House: The Architecture of Cultural Heritage.” Oh, I love our old house, which lives inside me before I live in it. When I think of how much I love my old house, I wonder, how a poem could be written about me centuries before I was even born: Yes, this verse of poetry seems to be about me: No matter how many houses a man lives in, his homesickness and love will ever remain for his first dwelling and beloved woman). If I don’t love my house, why would that simple home become like my shadow….why would I draw it on my books’ footnotes…why I smell the scent of its walls…why would I feeling the warmth of its heart….While toddling towards it, I felt a great blessing…a feeling of maternity, paternity and fraternity blowing my face.
While wandering in the halls of the huge exhibition, I felt that the human family lives in one single house, the Father being Adam and the Mother is Eve…an oval house…. made of clay… it is our mother Earth!!
I will tell you…..with great sorrow and sadness….yet hopeful…. the story of the death of the two old poets…. in the heart of the modern city… the hand of all cities in the East and West strangled the virgin poems…. and the heart of the two old poets stopped beating lively poems…. reciting in the heart of today and when it leaves, when it comes and when bidding farewell to it.
(1)
It has never occurred to me, that the one eyed glass, similar to a lonely eye on the forehead of mythical creatures, which used to scare us at night when we were children… we heard about them in the stories of old people during sleepless nights…on the banks of the Blue Nile…this glass eye, can picture scents, screaming of children, sough of the poor and goodness of clay houses…
The crystal eye which appears in the front part of cameras (of Boushra Al Mutawakel, Wed Abdel Jawad, Hafez Ali, Lamia Qarkash, Tim Hetherington, Tim Loveless, Hazel Thompson and Camille Zakharia), made me feel scared and happy…same as the stick of Moses and the Elixir…the flash lights and in a twinkle, it brings to you a world, worlds in a two-dimensional picture (length and width) and of one thousand dimensions and dimension. With Moses’ stick, the magical eye hits the time course and halts its moving? Wow….Whoever appears smiling in a picture remains smiling forever… What a cheerful person!”
His face remains smiling in his picture even if he died…as if he sees himself there, enjoying eternal paradise; my grandfather is still smiling in his picture hanging on the wall covered with dust…he is still a child in the picture…while he died ten years ago, at the age of ninety! My grandfather was barefooted…was his father reproaching him? (I wish) he did the same as he used to scold me when I used to go barefooted!
My eye roamed in the ancient times…was this Bedouin, who has a strict facial features, due to the soberness of the desert and hardship of life…originating from a poem which stirred a great commotion…hung over the Kaaba of Ibrahim and Souq Okaz, and who was observing with his small sharp eyes, a falcon in the high sky. He was observing that from beneath the lint tent, leaning his side on smooth sands, undulating like a golden sea, where his elbow got sank into it and watching closely the arrogance of the falcon, while quietly spreading its long wings, a slight shake for its winglets and tail…Proficient! Flying closely to clouds, skies and angels…. was this Bedouin dreaming that he will be living there with them, and sleeping beside them, watching the wave of the sea and the ships coming from a far distance…and sees beneath him the queues of cars as if they were swarms of ants, and he goes up to the sky not with an angel or a prophetic flying horse… but rather with the elevator and stairs, amid the modern architecture revolution and cement skyscrapers?
The one eyed camera of Boushra Al Mutawakel made me feel scared, even from my own conscience, as if the picture was a silent preacher, preaching the eye: “Ooh lover, why are you claiming pain while you aren’t even sick? How will you react if you become really sick”… if I became one of the dwellers of these houses built with tires, Nido and Cerelac cans …even the imaginative surrealists such as Berton won’t be able to imagine that a family in “the Happy Yemen” lives under wall built of such things, fending off the ferocity of winds, sun and rain and curiosity of people.
|
|
  
|
|
|
|
wadalzain
فيس بوك
تويتر
انستقرام
يوتيوب
بنتيريست