Project Description
Fawzi Kerim
Fawzi Kerim is a poet born in Baghdad in 1945. In 1968 he graduated from the University of Baghdad and published his first poetry book Haith Tebda’ al-Ashia’a (Where Things Begin). He migrated to Beirut in 1969, where he published his second collection Arfa’au Ydi Ihtijajan (I Raise My Hand in Protest). He returned to Baghdad and published his third collection Junun min al-Hajar (Madness of Stone), and two books of non-fiction, one on exile and the other on the Iraqi author, Admon Sabri. In 1978, he migrated to London where he still lives. In exile, he published three more books of poetry. His Selected Poems was published in 1995 in Cairo. In 2000 his Complete Poetry was published in Damascus by Dar al-Mada. In addition to his regular writing for newspapers on classical music and on painting, he edits his own quarterly al-lahdha al-Shi’iria (Poetic Moment).
Translated from Arabic by Lily Al-Tai
Pastures are bedewed this Sunday
I will drink straight from the bottle
A piece of cheese is enough
enough a spark in your pipe
to keep you warm
No café this Sunday
I will drink out of the bottle
till my shirt dampens
while the dawn spreads
Frightened by my footsteps will be
the squirrel
Through the mists of dawn — a door opens
I enter “Who are you?”
the doorman asks
“I am he who writes in metaphysical verse” I reply.
Thereupon, the dewy leaves are swept
around me.
This Sunday, I deserted the house
crossing the crucial boundaries
between dreams and awareness
I deserted the house
crossing paths to reach a myth
no one else has crossed but me.
I drink out of the bottle
my hands fatigued
resisting a desire to roam in the pastures
for dawn is imminent
Through the mists of dawn — a door opens
I enter “Who are you?” the doorman asks
“I am he who writes metaphysical verse” I reply.
Like a cotton fountain
embittered, muffled silence,
My feet so flickering
vanish almost in my footsteps.
Waves of water
Propellers of palm on the banks
How to answer your call?
I will drink out of the bottle
till my breath smells bloodied
and spirit is cured
from the flesh.
I will toast to this ill-fated land
vanishing from the sight of days a house in Karch.
A friend melting in a pool of acid.
Another, like a scarecrow shepherds
the mine fields
What splinters and skulls
shanks
the mire giving them a dense presence
Sight of abating spirit
endless
Is this the resurrection of the lame or
is dawn imminent?
A piece of cheese is enough
enough a spark in your pipe
to keep you warm
No café this Sunday
I shall return home
and listen to the radio.