Modern Iraqi Poetry: Abdulwahhab Al-Bayyati: Poet of Diaspora

Abdulwāhid Lu'lu'a

• Editore: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Anno: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781398459212
• Argomento: Letteratura
• Categoria: Poesia mediorientale

'Abdulwahh?b Al?Bayy?ti was one of the triumvirate of poets who dominated modern Iraqi and Arabic poetry of the mid-1950s. Following the pioneer female poet Nazik Al-Mala'ika, he moved away from the tail-end of the romantic period of Arabic poetry, with its reliance on classical verse style.
These modern poets introduced new subjects, both social and political, employing a more psychological approach. They used direct language, free from the traditional figures of speech, but enriched with cultural connotations.
This is the fifth book of translations by 'Adulw??id Lu'lu'a to be published by Austin Macauley. The first in the 'Modern Iraqi Poetry' series, showcasing the work of Abdulrazz?q ?Abdulw??id, was published in 2018.

Volume I (Beirut, 1971)

A – From: Angels and Devils

1 – Introduction

Love I did not feign, like this flock,

Nor in the market did I sell my tunes.

I did not say this is a meek angel,

Nor that is one of the devils.

I squeezed my wine from spring orchards,

So, let lovers drink from my tavern.

Wine is today, tomorrow is the frost.

The night wind will inter my poems.

2 – Angels and Devils

Like monks’ Talismans are my colours,

And the forest brides are my tunes.

With my valley flowers I clothed them,

And with my orchard leaves.

I dipped them naked in the spring,

And washed them with my blood red tears.

I raise them, necklaces to my enchantress,

The beads are my dīwān poems. (1)

The beads are the poems, that lighten

My forest and brighten my dales.

My dīwān knocks on the door of love,

Like a dream on a lover’s eyelids,

Shaking images in his depths,

Twinkling, like my colours’ glare,

Till sleep fronds turn it over

To my beloved’s arms, to forget me.

Should to my desk-drawer resort

My poetry, for my grief, and be forgotten?

Its bliss is of my passion fire,

Spun by my lips and grief.

Its beloved is of my fancy woven,

Created, by deprivation flame.

Those dark nights are my witness,

Together with my sleepless eyes.

O my reader, whom I do not know,

Stop like a drunkard in a tavern.

If you have not tasted the fruit

Of paradise from a serpent’s fangs,

Drop my book aside from your hands,

I beseech you, in the name of my faith.

I fear what harm to you may bring,

A dream, on my shores its waves weep.

I fear for you, of that rashness,

To which my devil may lead my angel...