The Garden of Bright Waters Part 7

PERTURBATION AT DAWN

Day comes....

And when she sees the withering of the violet garden And the saffron garden flowering, The stars escaping on their black horse And dawn on her white horse arriving, She is afraid.

Against the sighing of her frightened b.r.e.a.s.t.s She puts her hand; I see what I have never seen, Five perfect lines on a crystal leaf Written with coral pens.

_From the Arabic of Ebn Maatuk (seventeenth century)._

THE RESURRECTION OF THE TATTOOED GIRL

Her hands are filled with what I lack, And on her arms are pictures, Looking like files of ants forsaking the battalions, Or hail inlaid by broken clouds on green lawns.

She fears the arrows of her proper eyes And has her hands in armour.

She has stretched her hands in a cup to me, Begging for my heart.

She has circled me with the black magic of her brows And shot small arrows at me.

The black curl that lies upon her temple Is a scorpion pointing his needle at the stars.

Her eyes seem tight, tight shut; But I believe she is awake.

_From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._

MOALLAKA

The poets have muddied all the little fountains.

Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house?

O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa, Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you.

My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert.

O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa; And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samna And in the valley of Motethalem!

Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away.

Now is the dwelling of Abla In a valley of men who roar like lions.

It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram.

Abla is a green rush That feeds beside the water.

But they have taken her to Oneiza And my tribe feeds in lazy Ghailam valley.

They fixed the going, and the camels Waked in the night and evilly prepared.

I was afraid when I saw the camels Standing ready among the tents And eating grain to make them swift.

I counted forty-two milk camels, Black as the wings of a black crow.

White and purple are the lilies of the valley, But Abla is a branch of flowers.

Who will guide me to the dwelling of Abla?

_From the Arabic of Antar (late sixth and early seventh centuries)._

MOALLAKA

Rise and hold up the curved gla.s.s, And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar.

Pour wine for us, whose golden colour Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron.

Pour us wine to make us generous And carelessly happy in the old way.

Pour us wine that gives the miser A sumptuous generosity and disregard.

O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup When it should have been moving to the right; And yet the one of us three that you would not serve Is not the least worthy.

How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek, And emptied at Damas and emptied at Cacerin!

More cups! more cups! for death will have his day; His are we and he ours.

By herself she is fearless And gives her arms to the air, The limbs of a long camel that has not borne.

She gives the air her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Unfingered ivory.

She gives the air her long self and her curved self, And hips so round and heavy that they are tired.

All these n.o.ble abundances of girlhood Make the doors divinely narrow and myself insane.

Columns of marble and ivory in the old way, And anklets c.h.i.n.king in gold and musical bracelets.

Without her I am a she-camel that has lost, And howls in the sand at night.

Without her I am as sad as an old mother Hearing of the death of her many sons.

_From the Arabic of Amr Ebn Kultum (seventh century)._