Muzaffar Al-Nawwab , livre ebook

About the Author











The author is an Iraqi citizen. He has a BA Hons in English; Master’s degree from Harvard; PhD in English Literature from Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio. He taught English and comparative literature at seven Arab universities. He has published 60 books on literary topics, 40 of them are translations, English/Arabic/English.
Dedication








To my better half, Mariam, lifelong companion. To our son, Bashar; daughter, Rasha; and granddaughter, Fairouz, for their encouragement and patience.






‘Abdulwā ḥ id Lu’lu’a


Muẓaffar Al-NawwĀ B


Selected Poems
























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Copyright © ‘Abdulwāḥid Lu’lu’a (2019)

The right of ‘Abdulwāḥid Lu’lu’a to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528904476 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528904483 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
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Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements








Special thanks to Ḥāzim Al-Shaikh, who accompanied the poet and
provided his picture.






Introduction



Muẓaffar Al-Nawwāb is the most notoriously popular of modern Iraqi poets. Born in Baghdad, Iraq, in 1934 to a respectable family that was once very rich but lost most of their fortunes during certain economic vicissitudes, the family kept to their literary and artistic preoccupations. In his third year in primary school, Muẓaffar showed early poetic talent. Up until his joining the Department of Arabic in the newly established Faculty of Arts in Baghdad, Muẓaffar developed his poetic talent, starting with composing poems in colloquial Arabic of Iraq, especially the southern accent. After graduation with a BA and in the early ’60s, he began writing poems in standard Arabic, heavily marked with political tones, especially about Palestinian-Arabic concerns. He was soon to be known for his caustic criticism of the entire Arab leaders and politicians, especially those in the Arabian Gulf countries. Because of his characteristically Iraqi fiery temperament in the face of what is wrong, especially when it was anti-Arab or anti-Palestinian, his language did not hesitate in the use of obscene expressions. Asked about this aspect in his political poetry, he answered: “Forgive my grief, wine, anger and severe expressions. Some people may say I am obscene. No problem. Show me a situation which is more obscene than our present situation.” Despite this quality in his political poems, and even his more lyrical poems―which are not free from political tones―and perhaps because of this aspect of his poetry, Muẓaffar became the most popular modern Iraqi, nay Arab, poet in modern times. What is curiously difficult to understand, let alone interpret through any psychiatric, psychological or any philosophic method, is his extreme popularity in the Arab Gulf countries. Although officially his poems were banned in the Gulf, I have actually seen people, young and old, driving their cars along the seashore, late at night, with the windows rolled up and the AC on high, listening to tape recordings of Muẓaffar’s poems—and that was a clever way of avoiding secret government agents.
In 1963, with the Ba ، thists coming to power in Iraq, the poet had to escape to Iran, crossing over from the southern town of Baṣra. The Iranian secret police got hold of him and sent him back to the Iraqi authorities, where he was sentenced to death, only to be saved by an educated member in the new government. Bringing the sentence down to life imprisonment, the poet was thrown into the southern desert prison, and then he was sent to the central prison in Ḥilla, to the southwest of Baghdad, with a number of political prisoners. The poet, with some of his prison mates, managed to dig a tunnel out of the prison into an open area and escaped―a spectacular incident which became a resonant story in Iraq and the neighbouring countries. The poet somehow managed to cross over to the Ahwāz area, where he lived for almost a year among the peasants and poor people. In 1969, a general pardon was issued for political prisoners, and the poet returned to his teaching job, only to be arrested once more; and when another pardon was issued by a government trying to gain popularity among the people, the poet managed to go to Beirut, to settle for some time, then to move to Damascus and some other Arab and European countries. All this time, he never stopped writing poetry, mainly on political subjects, lacerating the entire Arab leaders and politicians, which made him more and more popular in the Arab world.
Although no authorised collection of Muẓaffar’s poems in standard Arabic was ever published, yet nearly all of his poems are found on the Internet for everyone to read and quote. Here, I have chosen 31 poems which I considered translatable and, hopefully, readable in English. The first 14 poems I call mainly lyrical but not really free from political overtones. The other 17 poems I consider mainly political, again not free from a lyrical tone. Most of these poems needed footnotes which will help the non-Arabic reader to understand better and, hopefully, appreciate more.
The last poem, number 31 on my list, entitled The Mariner of Mariners , may sound a little elusive. But I take solace from what once TS Eliot is reported to have said: “Poetry can be grasped before understanding.” Though this is a hot potato to swallow, this comment may help us to grasp this last poem in my selection―at least I hope it will do so.




One: Mainly Lyrical
أميرة
Ameera



Rain laden with memories,
Beings of void,
A seemingly unending fence,
A skylark yearning
Reminded me, Ameera!
Replete with yesterday,
Fragrant like departing winter,
I turn over the past:
Your disappearance behind the pine scent,
Flourishing like early violets,
And like small anecdotes.
A prayer was every limb
Contained in your rosy shirt,
Except the two points of blasphemy,
Which were loosened from their clasps.

With my kisses, I painted designs
Of fishing nets
To catch whatever you breathe.

I don’t deny that some of my body nets
Were rather immature.
Do you remember how in Bāb Toma 1
We inscribed the names of all companions,
And yesterday, under the smoke
And the clamour of vehicles,
There were names over our names;
A new generation that almost effaced us.

But we inscribed on the stone of time
The beautiful will of love.

Our prayers were on an earth we sanctify;
The prayers of the others were not for the sake of God,
But for the sake of the prayer-mat.
Years passed sadly;
Nothing but a wall remained in Bāb Toma ,
Without names worthy of Bāb Toma.
Everything is worn out,
People do not speak, though they seem they do.
They laugh, though they do not do.

Your voice came mellow,
As if a shine has passed on a wheat field
After years of rain.
Why should your body,
Being the damascene honey,
Flinch when desired by Iraqi bread
So freshly warm?

When you ask where from I got my yeast,
Yet I have all this kindness
In my grievous body,
I say: “Iraq, my lady.
It is the homeland of yeast.”

Rain devoid of memories,
What need is an umbrella,
When winter has bought all seasons?

I see balls of snow being hurled by children,
I desire to aim one at you, gently.

How many stories lie under that snow,
And how much love lies behind that snow,
As the warmth of your love abates, Ameera!


سلِّفيني
Lend Me



Young years melted in the lull of the river,
I did not reserve a paper boat for these mornings
Of starched shirts.

How it wounds the soul
With the edge of this thick starch!
I was wounded… Why?
Why do you add a little wound?
Why do you add a drop of dew,
To an overflowing cup,
For serving the cup-companions?

Take me to the almonds centre,
The terminal of squeezing,
The healthy Bedouin lilies,
The cradle of tulips.

I squeeze them by my hands in the cold hour
And doze as if I were the milk.

As if the oars are frail,
I hold on to the lightning…
I bare my thighs to the fog
And forget them.
Oh, it is you!
It is their clarity and the drizzle,
The moisture in the quince
Is you, and you, and you,
Like a forest which misled a nightingale.

You are the mirrors
Which collect perfumes and other angles.
Your face has just peeped out of clarity
And compiled in the centre of the heart,
Every intention.
And forgive me, God,
The close of the mouth
Is God’s neglect among sins.
A breast fixed like a daisy,
Overflowing like setting on a campaign,
And a cosy entrance to the tavern, gently.
A kingdom for meditation
Above the pious recluse.

I am tired, lend me my robe
And your hair clasp,
To gather my grief with the filth of past years,
With a cup of extra two lips
To gather my winter
And fix my drunkenness in this road.
I like the road,
But I am annoyed by a closed door of a tavern
And by the windows of the Security Building.

No one stayed awake last night, but us.
I’m still watching these windows
For no reason but that I want to ur