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Kajal Ahmad
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Kajal Ahmad Born in Kirkuk in Iraqi Kurdistan in 1967,
Kajal Ahmad began publishing her remarkable poetry at the age
of 21, and she has gained a considerable reputation for her
brave, poignant and challenging poetry. Her work has been
translated into Arabic, Turkish, Norwegian and now, for the
first time, into English.
The Letter
On a simple sheet of paper,
the moon sent these simple lines
to the sun's house:
‘After all these years
of waiting for you,
I feel too shy to ask:
Why don't you marry me?'
And the sun, by way of
one of the stars, replied:
‘After all these years
of hiding from you,
I don't want to tell you:
I don't dare.'
_______________________________
Birds
According to the latest classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird
which is why, across the torn, yellowing pages
of history, they are nomads spotted by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And even when
there's nowhere left, no refuge for their pain,
they turn to the illusion of travelling
between the warm and the cold climes
of their homeland. So naturally,
I don't think it strange that Kurds can fly.
They go from country to country
and still never realise their dreams of settling,
of forming a colony. They build no nests
and not even on their final landing
do they visit Mewlana to enquire of his health,
or bow down to the dust in the gentle wind, like Nali.*
Notes* Refers to a famous line from Nali, 17th century poet:
I sacrifice myself to your dust - you gentle wind!
Messenger familiar with all of Sharazoor!
_______________________________
Rain
It sparks lightning
and broadcasts thunder.
It cancels drought
in the calendar’s leaves.
It weeps for all the trees that stand
and for all the stones that sit.
It may give life
but it drowns
my will to live.
I have tried on every legend like a cloak
and rain is the one cloak
that never fits.
_______________________________
Directions
Whenever he was in the mountains,
wherever he took off his shoes,
they would always point towards his city
but he never thought that this might mean
his homeland would be liberated.
Now that he’s in his city,
wherever he leaves his shoes,
they point towards lands beyond his
but he never dreams that the day
might come when, without seeing
the mirage that exile always sees,
without any direction from his shoes,
he will travel through the heart of his country,
store myth in his grandmother’s wooden chest
and, in the cellar of a happy house,
close many colourful doors on it
like the doors in his childhood stories.
_______________________________
Watch the video: Mimi Khalvati and Mina Swara read 'The Lonely Earth' by Kajal Ahmad
The Lonely Earth
Neither do the white bodies of the universe
say good morning to her
nor do the handmade stars
give her a kiss.
Earth,
where so many roses, fine sentiments are buried,
could die for want of a glance, a scent,
This dusty ball is lonely,
so very lonely,
as she sees the moon's patched clothing
and knows that the sun's a big thief
who burns with the many beams he has taken
for himself
and who looks at the moon and the earth
like lodgers.
_______________________________
Listen to The Fruit Seller's Philosophy read by Choman Hardi in Kurdish
The Fruit Seller's Philosophy
My friend! You were like an apricot.
At the first bite,
I spat out the core and crux.
*
My old flame! Sometimes
you're a tangerine,
undressing so spontaneously,
and sometimes you're an apple,
edible
with or without the peel.
*
Neighbour!
You're like a fruit knife.
There's never a time
when you're not
at our dinner table.
But forgive me if I say -
you're a waste of time.
*
Dear homeland, you're like a lemon.
When you are named,
the world's mouth waters
but I get all goosepimply.
*
You, stranger!
I'm sure you're a watermelon.
I won't know what you're really like
till I go through you like a knife.
_______________________________
Kinder than Miriam
Marys of my country! When death becomes a necessity,
let us mothers face it first and not our children.
Our nation is as lonely
as Father Adam was
before the fertile
arrival of Mother Eve.
Our nation is lonely
and I am lonely.
Boredom has grown
like a fungus in my heart
but I haven't wearied.
My laughter was once
like warm bread in the mouth,
now it curls at the edges.
Ah, poets, I have been
like a pregnant woman
but I haven't miscarried my poems
nor has poetry miscarried me.
Jesus, when are you coming?
I am standing on the Sirat*,
about to fall from the bridge.
I have cried so much
in the house of love and poetry
that the pool of my tears
is covered in algae.
With or without poetry, I'm waiting.
Waiting to cross, waiting for you.
Talking to no avail and who knows
if it's all about me or the earth?
After a wave of nausea,
You fell from the wound of my mouth.
You were a sheet of light.
After your birth
words bled and never stopped.
Blood made me a poet,
the mad poet Miriam.
Before you were born, I came
and built a bridge myself
between the land of my heart
and the sky of your skull.
(The bleeding still goes on -
will it be for ever?) At that time,
the cross hadn't found you yet.
It searched for you everywhere.
Had I known it would be unkind,
right there at your birth,
I would have told you to return
to the safe womb of your mother.
Had I known they would call you
the Son of God, I would never
have let you come in the first place.
How can God be the father of my son
if I have never spent a single night
in his embrace? And if I have,
why call me the Virgin Mother?
*
Tell me, light of my eyes!
who do you think is the purer,
me or Miriam?
Who is more in love?
Is the wound in my heart
deeper than hers?
It's not for me to say
but you, light of my eyes,
loving singer, Jesus, tell me!
Don't call me Miriam
or you'll hurt my pride
and my heart will break.
Surely, as a mother, I am kinder.
Miriam and I differ in this:
were I unable to purchase
your life with my own.
I'd rather go blind and keep
my eyes eternally open.
If I couldn't be crucified
in your stead, how could I sit by,
complacently in a corner?
And in this, too, we differ:
unlike her, I couldn't give you away,
not to anyone, not even to God -
my heart wouldn't let me.
God is no mother whose heart
burns with pity and who grieves
over losing a child.
Motherhood is a grave sorrow
and I become a mother
while I was still a virgin.
Since I gave birth to Christ
and you doubt my virginity,
raise your knives, I don't care.
Jesus of sand ... Jesus, father ...
What am I here for,
if not to expose the world's lies?
I won't wait for you to die.
Just this once, my only child,
instead of holding your grey
and grieving guitar,
embrace your mother's corpse.
I'll die first, I'll make sure of that.
I won't live to see the day
that your death lies in my lap.
Notes*Sirat: the bridge mentioned in the Qur'an which must be crossed to reach heaven.
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The original version of these poems are written in Kurdish. The literal translation of these poems were made by Choman Hardi. The final translated versions of the poems are by Mimi Khalvati.
Courtesy of Poetry Translation Centre
