Crying girls with wine and linen
Washed the straight old body and wrapped up,
And set the doorward feet.
Later for me also under Greek sun
The pendant leaves in green and bitter flakes
Blew out to join the wastage of the world,
And wool, I take it, in the nests of birds.
From the Arabic ofJohn Duncan.
The great brightness of the burning of the stars,
Little frightened love,
Is like your eyes,
When in the heavy dusk
You question the dark blue shadows,
Fearing an evil.
Below the night
The one clear line of dawn;
As it were your head
Where there is one golden hair
Though your hair is very brown.
From the Arabic (School of Ebn-el-Moattaz) (ninth century).
Her hand tinted to gold with henna
Gave me a cup of wine like gold water,
And I said: The moon rise, the sun rise.
From the Arabic of Hefny-bey-Nassif (contemporary).
When she appears the daylight envies her garment,
The wanton daylight envies her garment
To show it to the jealous sun.
And when she walks,
All women tall and tiny
Want her figure and start crying.
Because of your mouth,
Long life to the Agata valley,
Long life to pearls.
Watchers have discovered paradise in your cheeks,
But I am undecided,
For there is a hint of the tops of flames
In their purple shining.
From the Arabic of Ahmed Bey Chawky (contemporary).
Why are your tears so white?
Dear, I have wept so long
That my old tears grow white like my old hair.
Why are your tears so green?
Dear, the waters are wept away
And the green gall is flowing.
Why are your tears so black?
Dear, the weeping is over
And the black flash you loved is breaking.
From the Arabic (School of Ebn-el-Farid) (thirteenth century).
I hide my love,
I will not say her name.
And yet since I confess
I love, her name is told.
You know that if I love
It must be ... Whom?
From the Arabic of Ebn Kalakis Abu El Fath Nasrallah (eleventh century).
Since there is excitement
In suffering for a woman,
Let him burn on.
The dust in a wolf's eyes
Is balm of flowers to the wolf
When a flock of sheep has raised it.
From the Arabic.
Love starts with a little throb in the heart,
And in the end one dies
Like an ill-treated toy.
Love is born in a look or in four words,
The little spark that burnt the whole house.
Love is at first a look,
And then a smile,
And then a word,
And then a promise,
And then a meeting of two among flowers.
From the Arabic.
When she came she said:
You know that your love is granted,
Why is your heart trembling?
And I:
You are bringing joy for my heart
And so my heart is dancing.
From the Arabic of Urak El Hutail.
She seemed so bored,
I wanted to embrace her by surprise;
But then the scalding waters
Fell from her eyes and burnt her roses.
I offered her a cup....
And came to paradise....
Ah, sorrow,
When she rose from the waves of wine
I thought she would have killed me
With the swords of her desolation....
Especially as I had tied her girdle
With the wrong bow.
From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century).
She was beautiful that evening and so gay....
In little games
My hand had slipped her mantle,
I am not sure
About her skirts.
Then in the night's curtain of shadows,
Heavy and discreet,
I asked and she replied:
To-morrow.
Next day I came
Saying, Remember.
Words of a night, she said, to bring the day.
From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century).
Three sweet drivers hold the reins,
And hold the places of my heart.
A great people obeys me,
But these three obey me not.
Am I then a lesser king than love?
From the Arabic of Haroun El Raschid (eighth century).
She is as wise as Hippocrates,
As beautiful as Joseph,
As sweet-voiced as David,
As pure as Mary.
I am as sad as Jacob,
As lonely as Jonah,
As patient as Job,
As unfortunate as Adam.
When I met her again
And saw her nails
Prettily purpled,
I reproached her for making up
When I was not there.
She told me gently
That she was no coquette,
But had wept tears of blood
Because I was not there,
And maybe she had dried her eyes
With her little hands.
I would like to have wept before she wept;
But she wept first
And has the better love.
Her eyes are long eyes,
And her brows are the bows of subtle strong men.
From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century).
Day comes....
And when she sees the withering of the violet garden
And the saffron garden flowering,
The stars escaping on their black horse
And dawn on her white horse arriving,
She is afraid.
Against the sighing of her frightened breasts
She puts her hand;
I see what I have never seen,
Five perfect lines on a crystal leaf
Written with coral pens.
From the Arabic of Ebn Maatuk (seventeenth century).
Her hands are filled with what I lack,
And on her arms are pictures,
Looking like files of ants forsaking the battalions,
Or hail inlaid by broken clouds on green lawns.
She fears the arrows of her proper eyes
And has her hands in armour.
She has stretched her hands in a cup to me,
Begging for my heart.
She has circled me with the black magic of her brows
And shot small arrows at me.
The black curl that lies upon her temple
Is a scorpion pointing his needle at the stars.
Her eyes seem tight, tight shut;
But I believe she is awake.
From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century).
The poets have muddied all the little fountains.
Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house?
O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa,
Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you.
My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand
And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert.
O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa;
And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samna
And in the valley of Motethalem!
Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins
Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away.
Now is the dwelling of Abla
In a valley of men who roar like lions.
It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram.
* * * * *
Abla is a green rush
That feeds beside the water.
But they have taken her to Oneiza
And my tribe feeds in lazy Ghailam valley.
They fixed the going, and the camels
Waked in the night and evilly prepared.
I was afraid when I saw the camels
Standing ready among the tents
And eating grain to make them swift.
I counted forty-two milk camels,
Black as the wings of a black crow.
White and purple are the lilies of the valley,
But Abla is a branch of flowers.
Who will guide me to the dwelling of Abla?
From the Arabic ofAntar(late sixth and early seventh centuries).
Rise and hold up the curved glass,
And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar.
Pour wine for us, whose golden colour
Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron.
Pour us wine to make us generous
And carelessly happy in the old way.
Pour us wine that gives the miser
A sumptuous generosity and disregard.
O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup
When it should have been moving to the right;
And yet the one of us three that you would not serve
Is not the least worthy.
How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek,
And emptied at Damas and emptied at Cacerin!
More cups! more cups! for death will have his day;
His are we and he ours.
* * * * *
By herself she is fearless
And gives her arms to the air,
The limbs of a long camel that has not borne.
She gives the air her breasts,
Unfingered ivory.
She gives the air her long self and her curved self,
And hips so round and heavy that they are tired.
All these noble abundances of girlhood
Make the doors divinely narrow and myself insane.
Columns of marble and ivory in the old way,
And anklets chinking in gold and musical bracelets.
Without her I am a she-camel that has lost,
And howls in the sand at night.
Without her I am as sad as an old mother
Hearing of the death of her many sons.
From the Arabic of Amr Ebn Kultum (seventh century).
Touch my hands with your fingers, yellow wallflower.
Did God use a bluer paint
Painting the sky for the gold sun
Or making the sea about your two black stars?
Treasure the touches of my fingers.
God did not spread his bluest paint
On a hollow sky or a girl's eye,
But on a topaz chain, from you to me.