Lesson From The Kamasutra - Mahmoud Darwish
Wait for her with an azure cup.
Wait for her in the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses.
Wait for her with the patience of a horse trained for mountains.
Wait for her with the distinctive aesthetic knowledge of a prince.
Wait for her with the seven pillows of cloud.
Wait for her with strands of womanly incense wafting.
Wait for her with the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback.
Wait for her and do not rush.
If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her so that she may sit in a garden
at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air
so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her leg
cloud by cloud. And wait for her
Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew from her wait.
Speak to her as a flute would
to a frightened violin string,
As if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive other than the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.
(Translated from the Arabic by Carolyn Forché et. al)
Notes: I was very surprised to encounter such a sensous poem by one of the great poets of exile. Hear Ms. Forché read it here (begins at 3:18).
Big Book Of Poetry
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Late Feast - Adam Zagajewski
Evening, the edge of the city, a whole day
of void, then all at once
the late feast: the Sanskrit of dusk that speaks
in a glowing tongue of joy.
High overhead flow cigarette firelets
no one is smoking.
Sheets of blazing secrets aflame;
what the serenely fading sky tells
can't be remembered or even described.
So what if Pharaoh's armies pursue you,
when eternity is woven
through days of the week like moss
in the chinks of a cabin?
(Translated from the Polish by Renata Gorczynski, Benjamin Ivry, and C.K. Williams)
Big Book Of Poetry
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Evenings Without Adjectives
There are some evenings - these usually happen when one is not wrestling with the fickleness of desires (one's own and others') - when happiness seems to come as easily as words one is reading from a page at the edge of a river or a bay, or as if it were a small gull wheeling in smaller and smaller circles towards the blue-black waters (a proxy for the body, perhaps). Today was another such evening.
My Daily Notes
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