Mohammad Ahmad
12-06-2014, 02:57 PM
The very educated Iraqi poetess, Farah Dos
I might blame myself because I didn't read to her only in the last days.
I was familiar with her writings when I was suddenly surfing on the skies of Internet; there I noticed her noticeable name was published in many of biggest forums and websites.
I would apologize not to her only but rather to the busy time I have had, which consumed all of my ability, as well as the general troubles, which come latter to our society.
A woman of word and verse:
Really I felt myself was admired on her and on her poetry, the poetry of a woman, which never have we had since centuries.
As I heard or read that she was approved of to be a student on the college of medicine, but some domestic troubles stand against her not to complete her study and rather she went on writing from that time.
A woman of prestige might not be neglected:
She is familiar when to begin and when to stop, furthermore she is very experienced into how shining, revising, and moreover versifying her poems to be into a glimmering atmosphere, illuminating the dark place covered the datum around.
This shining style of writing is less acquainted to many poets, thus the verse can be read into two different ways.
What can I say more?
It is likely to say or asking a question, why do most poets have never been acquainted by people but only after their death.
Thus, I prefer to write a biography of such poet while he is still alive and for this reason, I am going to translate some of her poems.
Cheers until satisfaction is to her!
Translating the poem
I can't be present \ Farah Dos
In spite of my insistent temper,
I can't be present
When I am on visiting to thee;
Something spurs me the whishing for birth,
for a child yet I don't bear …
He watches my room!
When it disclaims to my bed—
and the sparrow I want in my imagination—
when it denies to my dresses that revealing your perfume
A child by its feeble hands gathers my things,
To be a firewood, as he toys with
What a horror is it that surrounds me?
Once I am being late on visiting you!
Oh, if there was only an advantage!
There is no round table to sit around!
Only a chair and I sat where he points
I am who settling here among letter's scattering
Bothered to wait for the vacant unoccupied seats
While I am signing on the list of absence,
the drowsiness overcomes on my vitality
It will be never roused by the noisy of asphalt
The child turned old and was going to study
It is similar to a breast its nipple turning for back
The hall and things being stuck on nails
Half of them being naked,
leaving their feet on the bed
When the nightingales chant over the cracking colors,
neither you nor doves will wait me
The place of party likely is as a head of a choked bird
Excuse, if you arrange the presence on its consequence
Or to hold the sessions in the side of masks
The masked-jokers, who are sticky to the picture,
stain the ball by the concept
So that the deaf one will laugh,
as well as the bereaved mother before sleeping…
I can't be present where their statues are erected
Likely are as doll going to cry
And I am between your crazy fingers,
as a kiss of a pop-eyed
Politicians laugh pretending fearing upon us
Cooperating to wash the eye by the raider's rag
Thus, the poet is forgiven because he was absent
---------
أنا القابعة هنا في شتات الحرف
تزعجني المقاعد التي تتسع
I am who settling here among letter's scattering
Bothered to wait the vacant unoccupied seats
________________________________________
لا أستطيع الحضور / فرح دوسكي
*على الرغم من لجاجتي
" " "
لا استطيعُ الحضور
*وأنا ذاهبةٌ إليكَ
تجرفني رغبة طفل لم انجبه
يراقبُ غرفتي
وهي تتنصلُ عن سريري وعصفور مخيلتي
تتنصلُ عن فساتيني التي تشي برائحتك..
طفلٌ بيديه الواهنتين يحطبُ اشيائي
يا له من رعبٍ يؤخرني عنك َ
آآآآه ....لو ثمة نافذة..
ليس ثمة طاولة*
لكنه الكرسي، جلستْ حيثُ أشار
أنا القابعة هنا في شتات الحرف
تزعجني المقاعد التي تتسع
وانا أوقعُ على الغيابِ ثم انقلبَ..
النعاسُ حيويتي*
لا يوقظهُ ضجيجَ الإسفلت
الطفلُ بات كهلا وهو ذاهبٌ إلى الدرسِ
كنهد... حلمِتهُ للوراءِ..
القاعةُ والأشياءُ تتشبثُ بالمساميرِ
نصفُها عاريةً تركتْ اقدامها في السرير..
حين تشدو البلابلُ على صراخ الالوان*
لـــــ ... أنتَ والحمامُ بانتظاري
المحفلُ سيكون كرأسِ طائرٍ مختنقْ..
*عذراً..
إن علقتُ الحضورَ على المؤخرات ِ
وربطتُ الجلساتِ بخاصرةِ الاقنعة
المُهرِّجونَ المقَنعُونَ من داخل اللوحةِ
يصبغونَ الكرةَ بالفكرةِ
ليضحك الاصمْ والشعور والأم الثكلى قبلَ النوم..
* لا أستطيع...
تحت تماثيلهم، الدميةُ تبكي
وأنا بين اصابعك المجنونةِ قبلةً جاحظةَ العيينين..
*الساسةُ يضحكون خوفًا علينا
فنمسحُ العينَ بخرقةِ الوطنِ المحتل
عذراً ..للشاعرِ في الغياب...
I might blame myself because I didn't read to her only in the last days.
I was familiar with her writings when I was suddenly surfing on the skies of Internet; there I noticed her noticeable name was published in many of biggest forums and websites.
I would apologize not to her only but rather to the busy time I have had, which consumed all of my ability, as well as the general troubles, which come latter to our society.
A woman of word and verse:
Really I felt myself was admired on her and on her poetry, the poetry of a woman, which never have we had since centuries.
As I heard or read that she was approved of to be a student on the college of medicine, but some domestic troubles stand against her not to complete her study and rather she went on writing from that time.
A woman of prestige might not be neglected:
She is familiar when to begin and when to stop, furthermore she is very experienced into how shining, revising, and moreover versifying her poems to be into a glimmering atmosphere, illuminating the dark place covered the datum around.
This shining style of writing is less acquainted to many poets, thus the verse can be read into two different ways.
What can I say more?
It is likely to say or asking a question, why do most poets have never been acquainted by people but only after their death.
Thus, I prefer to write a biography of such poet while he is still alive and for this reason, I am going to translate some of her poems.
Cheers until satisfaction is to her!
Translating the poem
I can't be present \ Farah Dos
In spite of my insistent temper,
I can't be present
When I am on visiting to thee;
Something spurs me the whishing for birth,
for a child yet I don't bear …
He watches my room!
When it disclaims to my bed—
and the sparrow I want in my imagination—
when it denies to my dresses that revealing your perfume
A child by its feeble hands gathers my things,
To be a firewood, as he toys with
What a horror is it that surrounds me?
Once I am being late on visiting you!
Oh, if there was only an advantage!
There is no round table to sit around!
Only a chair and I sat where he points
I am who settling here among letter's scattering
Bothered to wait for the vacant unoccupied seats
While I am signing on the list of absence,
the drowsiness overcomes on my vitality
It will be never roused by the noisy of asphalt
The child turned old and was going to study
It is similar to a breast its nipple turning for back
The hall and things being stuck on nails
Half of them being naked,
leaving their feet on the bed
When the nightingales chant over the cracking colors,
neither you nor doves will wait me
The place of party likely is as a head of a choked bird
Excuse, if you arrange the presence on its consequence
Or to hold the sessions in the side of masks
The masked-jokers, who are sticky to the picture,
stain the ball by the concept
So that the deaf one will laugh,
as well as the bereaved mother before sleeping…
I can't be present where their statues are erected
Likely are as doll going to cry
And I am between your crazy fingers,
as a kiss of a pop-eyed
Politicians laugh pretending fearing upon us
Cooperating to wash the eye by the raider's rag
Thus, the poet is forgiven because he was absent
---------
أنا القابعة هنا في شتات الحرف
تزعجني المقاعد التي تتسع
I am who settling here among letter's scattering
Bothered to wait the vacant unoccupied seats
________________________________________
لا أستطيع الحضور / فرح دوسكي
*على الرغم من لجاجتي
" " "
لا استطيعُ الحضور
*وأنا ذاهبةٌ إليكَ
تجرفني رغبة طفل لم انجبه
يراقبُ غرفتي
وهي تتنصلُ عن سريري وعصفور مخيلتي
تتنصلُ عن فساتيني التي تشي برائحتك..
طفلٌ بيديه الواهنتين يحطبُ اشيائي
يا له من رعبٍ يؤخرني عنك َ
آآآآه ....لو ثمة نافذة..
ليس ثمة طاولة*
لكنه الكرسي، جلستْ حيثُ أشار
أنا القابعة هنا في شتات الحرف
تزعجني المقاعد التي تتسع
وانا أوقعُ على الغيابِ ثم انقلبَ..
النعاسُ حيويتي*
لا يوقظهُ ضجيجَ الإسفلت
الطفلُ بات كهلا وهو ذاهبٌ إلى الدرسِ
كنهد... حلمِتهُ للوراءِ..
القاعةُ والأشياءُ تتشبثُ بالمساميرِ
نصفُها عاريةً تركتْ اقدامها في السرير..
حين تشدو البلابلُ على صراخ الالوان*
لـــــ ... أنتَ والحمامُ بانتظاري
المحفلُ سيكون كرأسِ طائرٍ مختنقْ..
*عذراً..
إن علقتُ الحضورَ على المؤخرات ِ
وربطتُ الجلساتِ بخاصرةِ الاقنعة
المُهرِّجونَ المقَنعُونَ من داخل اللوحةِ
يصبغونَ الكرةَ بالفكرةِ
ليضحك الاصمْ والشعور والأم الثكلى قبلَ النوم..
* لا أستطيع...
تحت تماثيلهم، الدميةُ تبكي
وأنا بين اصابعك المجنونةِ قبلةً جاحظةَ العيينين..
*الساسةُ يضحكون خوفًا علينا
فنمسحُ العينَ بخرقةِ الوطنِ المحتل
عذراً ..للشاعرِ في الغياب...