CAPRICIOUS
by May Ziadeh
Grandiose in the deep sky,
the sun said its customary goodbye
to the river, the palm trees,
the sands of this place,
and walked toward the other world.
Then the horizon sent up a sigh
and the heavens were tinged
with lilac and rose
quivering colors where rests azure
and the breath of the zephyr softens.
Cairo was hidden beneath a fine mist,
the trees swirling on the
brown banks of the Nile.
The shadow fell everywhere,
finding no danger
and covered over safely
the plains and the foam.
O Pyramids! Then it is
That, lifting up my thinking head,
I tend to wander upon your strong flanks
The echo of some plaintive voice;
But What! would it be within you
That an orphan mourns his mother?
Is it a hymn, is it a prayer,
Is it a divine moan?
But already the silence returns
Around the big black monument.
A time—my heart trembles, leaps,
Hovering with the evening breeze…
Suddenly the sounds are heard,
O God! But where do they come from?
A sweet harmony blends in…
It is the voice of Alexander.
An echo? Napoleon’s?
Is it the saber that shimmers?
Is it your statue, O Memnon,
Who falls in a moist grave?
Is it the sigh of a soldier
Deceased? A horse that rides?
Is it the cracking of a marble
Who’s been lying there for centuries?
Answer, Monuments! High Pyramids,
Centuries gone, O silent memory!
Are these songs of love
or warlike commands
that your belly purifies?
No, on your desolate coasts
It is no longer the Imperial Eagle
Who marks your sacred lands
Steps of his fiery horse—
Oh! Your flags are barely seen…
And Muhammad Ali is no longer;
All things are English.
These long, floating echoes
tickle my soul
like a breath of a breeze,
a breath of azure, a maternal kiss,
a sad and pure look,
a flash of a subtle flame,
a child’s reaching finger
that caresses my forehead,
a bird chirping, a river whispering,
a friendly smile, a cry from nature
or from the sun, a golden ray…
It was the distant marching band
that played “God Saves The King;”
It was the sure vibration of hearts
valiant and full of faith:
Museums, Beauties, Beloved Fine Arts,
Oceans, rivers, greenery,
immense azure, golden stars
who from heaven is the adornment
to you, my young ones,
to you my young intelligence,
my love and my trust,
To you, my blue and white dreams!
But no more transports.
See you soon, Pyramides,
And you, Lebanon, Beirut,
Dear Antoura, hello!
My Syria, Salvation!
As soon as I can, I’ll go back
to your clear horizons.
—May Ziadeh
pub. Is. Copia
Fleurs de Reve
“Flowers in a Dream”
(1911, Cairo)
May Ziadeh’s poem, “Capricious” published in French in Cairo, Egypt in 1911, trans. Jade Nicole beals
5 notes
·
View notes
Spite-Writing
Those dyslexic of you might've thought that I'd written "Sprite-Writing"-- I didn't, just as much as I didn't write "Sprite-Whiting" and I certainly didn't write "Street-Fighting"--
This has gone off the rails before there were even rails to go off of-- Let me start over--
Hi, I never get it right on the first try. My first impressions are usually embarrassing, humiliating, and worthless to most individuals that I meet, though to the right eye, I suppose you could say that they're humbling experiences.
A humbling first look at me is a look you might give to a person down on their luck, because I'm usually fumbling the bag in one figurative form or another.
The point is, that it doesn't matter. I'm a being that thrives on the second chances that are given out of pity. I know myself in that regard. I never make good first impressions because I think it's good to initialize any relationship with someone's affinity for me as low as humanly-possible.
That's the way it goes, right? You systematically self-destruct to give yourself work to do because you have nothing better to do than habitually ruin relationships for the sole purpose of hopefully being able to build them back up again?
It makes me think I'm toxic, or maybe I'm just feeling particularly-toxic tonight, I think it won't matter after I wake up in the morning and need to write out an excuse as to why I can't come in to work. I have games to play at home, and mental gymnastics runs to do so that I don't fall too hard into my reality-check.
I recently read about a person's four-years of avoided depression catching up at once to them. Can that happen? I feel like with all of the subduing I do mentally-- either through tricks of the mind or through altered-substance-abuse, I think I might be doing more harm than good.
I still haven't found any better way to live, though. I treat this as a gift from God-- if we can trust that the chestnut that lives in that particular tree is sturdy and will hold up to scrutiny from 14-year-olds using 4Chan.
The point is that it doesn't matter. Let's just keep reminding each-other that as we slowly and systematically hurdle our way toward an inevitable doom, that it's important to have fun, say good things, and to hug each-other, especially toward the end bit, there...
Enjoy, the weather is beautiful outside, exquisitely-calm. I'm by no means an arborist, botanist, or botanicalist, but I see the appeal in a loam so still that the only movement in the trees are the critters naturally disturbing their natural environment in only the most natural of ways.
Let's all be like those squirrels and forage our respective nut in our own respective lane, today. I just want to do one good thing a day. I don't want to write filth, anymore.
0 notes