Monday, June 04, 2007
(reading) from Junaid Muhammad Junaid's Identity for a Prophetic Body * :
Call it what you want.
Give it any name.
We have gone beyond
those things which
inhabit us,
those names for
green moods that blossom.
Flammable
new meanings are born
out of the silence
that throbbed within us.
Definition and language
would obscure it now and
hold back the solution.
But rising toward the answer
and meaning we see a fragile
strange form, weary, but
trying for, reaching toward
perfection.
Scattered over
the circle of horizons,
adrift,
sailing out with the arrow of the dream
that takes us, aims us
at the secret target,
we pick the goal.
How long have we been on
this secret journey?
How many cycles has the heart yet
to travel through regions
where no grass shines with dew,
no colors shimmer
in the rose of the soul?
O soul that mourns, yearns
there is still in our hearts
a virginal anima
gathering dreams into her heart
dreams of a divine place,
dreams leading to dreams,
while reality points to exile.
All we own is sight,
the vision of what is,
stillness and storm,
unfinished images which dance,
woman trapped by man
old images which the woman
wipes away.
A wall divides material things
from emptiness
but the heart can slip free
to slide over the wall.
We press forward trembling
through barbed wire,
past fragmented places and
past times from which we have
become estranged.
We press forward into exile
that unrelenting exile.
Rising toward definition
and meaning we see
a strange and vulnerable form
fragile but trying to
become perfected.
We ascend our first ladder
that totters, stretches
to the point of silence
leading to violent
exercises inside the mind,
to explosion.
O wick of silence
burn us.
The first kiss kindles the flesh
and we are two lovers
invited to submit to life.
Days, our days,
turn green
they pale
then turn green again.
They live,
die
and live.
Days are bouquets,
flowers curved into wreaths
for the living dance.
We set days on fire
so they kindle
the inner explosions.
We ascend the first ladder.
But who accompanies us
to the land of wonder?
We ignore those who cower
in the dark of madness.
Now in silence
the ladder takes us
beyond immaturity,
beyond our time,
into netted air.
A mood, consciousness
beyond defining
dominates us . . .
This is how we march
toward the explosions.
A vast horizon above
a vast horizon below
both friendly.
But wherever we are
earth resounds with
unfamiliar tales.
The heart listens to
strange tales.
No address confines us.
We are scattered over
four horizons that stretch
even within us.
Hail, O endless space.
Will you teach us the chant
of broken storms, winds,
tearful stars, prayed-for rains?
Will you offer an oracle
confirming our faith
in our only love?
Will you be our ally;
revive us if we die?
Slake our thirst,
with heavenly elixir?
In the blinking of an eye
in the gleam of a glance.
well we find what we seek?
O horizon stretching within,
love alone and only love
is what we seek.
We rise above limits set;
we hold up incandescent signs.
But the question remains
strange
like a fragile form
reaching out
waiting to be perfected,
waiting.
(129-133)
*translated by Lena Jayyusi (first translator) and Diana Der Hovanessian,
The Literature of Modern Arabia, ed. Salma Khadra Jayyusi
(Routledge/Kegan Paul & King Saud University: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, 1988).
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