We publish here an unknown poem by the Iraqi poet Rushdi Al-Amel (1934 – September 19, 1990) that has not been published before, and was not included in his complete poetic works, which were published by Al-Mada publishing house in 2010.
The poet had sent a cassette tape to his friend and relative Damir Al-Ani, who resides in Morocco, containing this poem, in 1989, that is, one year before the poet’s death, in the hands of the late Moroccan poet Muhammad Al-Toubi. Due to some circumstances, this poem remained in his drawers for more than 30 years, until a few days ago he sent it to the poet’s son, Ali.
Rushdi Al-Amel belongs to the post-pioneer stage, along with Saadi Youssef, Youssef Al-Sayegh, Mahmoud Al-Braikan, and Hussein Mardan. The worker’s poetry was distinguished by his political commitment, mixing it with a delicate romantic feeling that did not leave him throughout his short life. As a poet and a human being, we do not find much difference between Rushdie’s first poem, in the early fifties, and the last poem he wrote in the late eighties, so much so that it can be said that Rushdie only wrote one poem, starting with “Songs Without Tears,” published in 1957, until his last poem. The worker was subjected to persecution during the royal era. He was expelled from school in his youth, exiled to Cairo, and then returned to Iraq after the 1958 coup. After the 1963 Baathist coup, he was imprisoned in “Qasr al-Nihaya.” After the 1968 coup, its writing was banned more than once.
Among his poetry collections: “Whispers of Astarte” 1951, “Songs Without Tears” 1956, “The Eyes of Baghdad and the Rain” 1961, “Words Have Doors and Sails” 1971, “You First” 1983, “The Migration of Colors” 1983, and “ Ali’s Garden 1986, and The Stone Road 1988.
The turn
I was overcome with sadness
I tore my sails on the sidewalks of the night
I lie back laughing at everything
Who we were and was
The embers of poetry and revolution in
The date and letters in the flag
And the strings on the guitar
And hoarseness in the singer’s voice and songs
No sorrow suffocates my voice, no volcanoes of anger
All I ever enjoyed were houses made of reeds
Everything that makes me laugh or cry is mirrors and games
Oh, the time when you were lost in the mind of birds. That time has passed
Here I am, my kingdom is silence, and the gate of my sadness is closed
My paths, wherever I turn my face, are impossible
In my blood, a snake cries out to a place that I will never reach
On my lips, the rose withers and the ear cries
So leave me the bouquet of forgetfulness in the burdened basket of my soul
I am not an illusion that has passed you by, and you are not stingy
The roses are tired of the dew, and the branch is tired of the leaves
The horizon narrowed with moving wings
All the clusters were squeezed and the river ran its course
And the orange eyes turned white
The chest becomes dry and the infants do not produce breast milk
And the men lay down from oppression
The snow turned into piles of mud
A mound of sand
However, the earth is not fed up with its dead and still is
The guillotine spins
In the open path, I cast my shadow behind the door and left
The forest and the river are behind me
and the coast
She entered the remote temple
I crouched down on the ground
I touched the cold wood and the chair
Deserted in the confessional corner
I said, Mr. Priest, I prayed without a heart
And I sang without a voice
And I fought without a sword
and death
Once on River Street, in front of a pale-faced woman
I knelt down
Once in a prison torture room
I cried
Once for a child with bulging eyes in the street
I was stolen
Once in the battle, I didn’t know
Who kills whom?
What for
So I ran away
Try me, cut my flesh into pieces
I saw God in my face crying, so I cried
However, whenever a deep grave leaves me, I scream
They dragged me without sin to the court of patience
They tore the shroud of the dead for me and I was resurrected
Here I am, my lord priest, asking for forgiveness
Without sin
My days are bright, and my nights are innocent
Ask the Lord even if it is an inch of land
Hire me where I was born
Here I am, there you are, two faces on the stage
In one of the corners
We walked out between shadow and light, naked
Our ghosts wear silence and hide masks
A game in the clown theater, between the mirrors
Well, we are without land, without face, and without name
No history
The wing of the whirlwind threw us
And we started the game
You are a clever and critical director
You are the play
I am the poet and the poems, the choir and the lover
The singer cries
I am the judge, I am the witness
The accused is absent in every case
The chamberlain kneels: Your Honor
The delegations of justice and the second accused have come
And the sword of justice
Who is the second accused?
It is the public, Your Honor
And here came the prompter
The session begins at midnight: in the name of justice and law
And the symbol through which the Lord rules us
The scene ends with the execution of the witness and the judge
The second accused was detained, and the singer’s guitar was detained
With the flogging of the mad poet and the lovers in the Kingdom of God and the burial of the play
The critic and director are legally required to pay municipal fees
The enforcement agencies must close the case.
You have two faces
A face that gives the eye its innocence
Having fun like kids
And he rests beautiful and final at night
The second
He is filled with boredom
Tell me how to see the rib
The third is in curves
Disappointment and oppression, reflected in rippling laughter
How painful is honesty from both sides?
You have two hearts, one heart for bitter anger
The wind wails over him and the fire calms him down
It is ignited by sparks
The other is like a gentle wave
The moon swims in it
Which one would be far away if I returned to you?
Which one is waiting?
I will continue to divide my path between the two paths
And grant the source of surgery to the hearts
I have two votes
A whispering voice presents official papers
For national guards, for sellers in human flesh markets and for merchants
The other voice, demented, is for the revolution and the revolutionaries
Oh woman
You know me by two faces and you do not see me
You listen to the sounds on my lips but do not hear me
You live in the heartbeat and you do not know me
We are strangers seeking refuge in the cold of the desert
We are fugitives without names
We flee in the nakedness of our steps
Of city masks
This is the time of false love
Leave me at night stations, alone
Waiting for my time
May 1988
