Holiday
Change fills my pockets
and my children are far away.
I have five hundred dinars in my pockets . . .
the shop is nearby.
Its candies are plentiful
but they are too distant.
The five hundred kilometers between us
is longer than the change,
larger than the candy.
They are far away
because the bearded one
with his dark weapon,
whose eyes tracked us for so long,
has stretched the distance,
devouring peace and quiet
and leaving nothing
for me but change.
The Magician
I reached my hand into the hat
but didn’t find a rabbit . . .
I cut the lady right through her
delicate waist—
really sawed her in half!
The audience clapped long and hard
as blood sprayed their faces.
I hadn’t produced a pigeon from thin air
bent a steel bar or swallowed nails—
so why the applause?
But
before the show ended,
I discovered I had become the big rabbit
and the dove who fluttered crazily
out under the lights,
thrown into nothingness:
I, an idea in the magician’s head,
budding and swelling inside his hat.
The Daily Question
When I turn out the lights,
the room turns dark
and warm
as the inside of a wine bottle.
I am alone in bed
making braids for pillows,
hearing nothing but inhale and exhale.
When I turn off that last light,
I slip into the moment
thirty years ago
when placental waters still surrounded me
when skin was my strongest shield
and I didn’t ponder the act of chewing
or sleeping peacefully through the night . . .
before I went out into the first light
the first sound
the first hand that slapped me
to make me cry.
Turning off that last light,
I recollect skin and water
and the heartbeat above my head,
the head that once went out
into the world
and wonders each night
how to turn out the last light
without wishing to be a fetus.
Three Poems
Ali Wajeeh
translated from the Arabic by Muntather Alsawad and Jeffrey Clapp
Listen to "The Magician" read in the original Arabic by Muntather Alsawad:
Translation is a bridge connecting different cultures and communities. The translator serves the cultures and communities on both sides of the translation. But that comes with certain difficulties: for example, in the poem, “Holiday,” the poet uses “500” to indicate both kilometers and money—distance and value—without explicitly stating which. How can this be translated for a community that doesn’t interpret “500” in the same way? This is a small example of the practical challenges inherent in translation. In that same poem, “Holiday,” the original title (“Eid”) has strong religious connotations, denoting the celebration that follows Ramadan and Hajj. This layer of meaning is lost in the English translation.
Along with these challenges comes the difficulty of communicating with poets who live overseas. Most of our poets do not know English, so we cannot share our translations with them. There is a time difference to negotiate, as well as contrasting lifestyles and priorities. Our means of communication may vary: for example, Americans check their email with a frequent flick of an eye, but an Iraqi may check theirs once a day or even weekly.
Like many writers, Iraqi poets are loath to explain the meaning of specific lines, symbols or images. They feel that meaning should be extracted by the reader, whether that reader is a translator or not. This creates an additional responsibility: it is up to us, the translators, to discern and communicate meaning as best we can, on our own! As translators, we try to become one with the poet; at the same time, we become poets ourselves, interpreting the original language as best we can and using our English words to communicate this interpretation to readers who would otherwise be unable to experience a literature written in another culture and a foreign tongue.
Along with these challenges comes the difficulty of communicating with poets who live overseas. Most of our poets do not know English, so we cannot share our translations with them. There is a time difference to negotiate, as well as contrasting lifestyles and priorities. Our means of communication may vary: for example, Americans check their email with a frequent flick of an eye, but an Iraqi may check theirs once a day or even weekly.
Like many writers, Iraqi poets are loath to explain the meaning of specific lines, symbols or images. They feel that meaning should be extracted by the reader, whether that reader is a translator or not. This creates an additional responsibility: it is up to us, the translators, to discern and communicate meaning as best we can, on our own! As translators, we try to become one with the poet; at the same time, we become poets ourselves, interpreting the original language as best we can and using our English words to communicate this interpretation to readers who would otherwise be unable to experience a literature written in another culture and a foreign tongue.
Ali Wajeeh is a poet and journalist from Baghdad who has recently moved to Sulaymaniyah in northern Iraq. He has published two volumes of poetry. He is also the host of an Iraqi television show, where he regularly interviews the most important figures from the world of Iraqi arts and literature. Wajeeh is known for his personal collection of unique Iraqi art and antiquarian books. He has recently begun to paint and is the father of four children.
Muntather Alsawad grew up on a date farm in southern Iraq. He studied literary criticism in college and published articles and stories in Arabic. Since arriving in the US, he has devoted himself to translating Iraqi poetry into English, as well as writing English language poetry of his own. He now lives in Portland, Maine, and works at Portland High School. His translations have appeared in Asymptote, Samovar, Mayday, Last Stanza, AzonaL, and others. One translation (done in collaboration with Jeffrey Clapp) was recently anthologized in Best Literary Translations 2024 (Deep Vellum Press). A book-length collection of their translations, Trying to Beautify the Tears: Iraqi Poets Speak, awaits a publisher!
Jeffrey Clapp grew up on a dairy farm in New Hampshire. He has published poems, stories, and translations in North American Review, Arkansas Review, Dalhousie Review, Sycamore Review, Asymptote, Samovar, and other journals; several have also been reprinted in anthologies. He is a past recipient of the Daniel Morin Poetry Prize from the University of New Hampshire and the Indiana Fiction Prize from Purdue. A Professor Emeritus of English at SUNY Dutchess in Poughkeepsie, New York, he now resides in South Portland, Maine.
