The Blueness of the Evening

Selected Poems of Hassan Najmi

Mbarek Sryfi,Eric Sellin

• Publisher: University of Arkansas Press
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781610756273
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Poésie

This selection of Hassan Najmi's poems, translated by Mbarek Sryfi and Eric Sellin, provides an excellent introduction to the work of one of Morocco's foremost poets and to a school of modern verse emerging in the Arab World. Scenes of late night cityscapes, lonely interiors, awe-inspiring desert wastes, and seaside vistas are found within the exquisitely subtle lyric moods and nuances of Najmi's ars poetica, providing insight into the geographical, political, and linguistic ferment that have made Morocco an exciting hub of creative activity in the twenty-first century.

IV

Umber Winds

Umber Winds

I

Date palms stripped bare—

and arid is the infinite landscape in your eyes.

Suddenly all the oases are clouded with the filth of banners.

The luckiest rose—

the shadow of the bombing in the night protected it.

The grass in search of sunlight.

The stone waiting for the night.

Both evoke tears.

The hills with no name

provide shelter for a death lurking

under the sands of time.

We’ve had enough of mourning.

Let us now shed mercy

on the shattered dead stones.

On the pillow of the wind . . .

we sniffed the scent of death hidden in the grass.

Rustlings of rising haze,

proclaiming the awakening of the blood that remains.

The river that left the bridges in a shambles

proceeded—crystal clear—towards the bed of its repose.

Bridge spans fall into the river

but the bridges of words never collapse.

And the water proudly moves forward to its throne.

Leave the river of blood now.

There is a dew in the eyes

that will never dry.

You can see it—

and the eye is jealous of its own tears.

Ah!

I saw the defenseless open window overlooking the river,

bleeding . . .

late at night.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The bridge is fortunate enough—

half of it collapsed into the water.

The bridge!

Have you visited the broken bridge?

The bridge—

Oh, it still harbors so many glorious days for the days to come!

Oh, it still harbors so much blood for the blood!

II

Leave the windows open.

The invisible airplanes won’t be coming, tonight

we shall be bombarded by our old wounds.

The night of war found no respite.

Frightened, it remained awake with us in the children’s room.

Here I await the dead . . .

and polish the array of copper plaques on the wall.

From Babel to my body,

a single blood fraternizes with death

and dusts off the relics of the soul.

A mother stands by the oriel window.

She is watching over the public square—

perhaps the statue will lose a han...