msells, translation from Ibn al`Arabi's Turjuman
al-Ashwaq
Poem #45
Where Are They Gone?
Dec 03, Jan 04
Those held deep in my heart,
where are they gone?
You saw their phantom. Have you
seen their true form?
How often I've been searching
asking among them
To be secure with them
never with them secure
Could be my happiness is strung
between the far-from and near.
May my eyes rest peaceful
in them. May I ask after them no more.
Poem #49
In the Ruined Lodges of my Body is a Garden
Dec 2003, revised 18 Dec 2003
Who will find her
henna on the fingers
honey on the tongue
find her for me?
One of those girls,
curve of the breast,
soft to the touch, virginal
beauty.
Full moons on a bough flowering.
Those like her will never fade.
In the ruins of my body there is a garden
with a dove high in a moringa tree.
She dies longing and melts in desire from what
wrecked her that was what wrecked me,
Mourns a friend and blames time
that struck her down with what struck me.
Those who were near are gone, home lost,
How time has changed its used to be.
Who will find me she who finds in my pain
her pleasure. I hold no cards for what might please her.
Poem #51
Nightwalker
translated Nov-Dec 2003, revised 18 Dec 2003
first drafts on way to Ibn `Arabi S in Berkeley, 11 November 1996
For a nightwalker at Dhat al-Ada
and Mazimayn, at Lightning Rock,
Carvelands, and Abraqayn
There are swords flashing in the flash
of smiles and pouches of musk
forbidden to the senses.
Fight them
and theyll unsheath the swords from their glances.
Meet them in peace
and they'll loose the knots that bind you.
We took and they took equal pleasure
a kingdom for the loved, a kingdom for the lover.
Poem #53
Like a Doubled Consonant
translated Nov-Dec 2003, revised 18 Dec 2003
first drafts on way to Ibn `Arabi Symposium in Berkeley, 11 November 1996
When we embrace farewell
we cling to one another and intertwine
like a doubled consonant.
Though our shapes are two
we can be perceived
as oned alone
I am thinned to a shadow. He
is light. Were it not for my moan
you couldn't see me.
Without him, I die longing. With him,
no cure. With or without, the longing!
I find him and find what I didn't foresee; the cure,
the disease, same fever in another form.
We come close. His image flares
and burns more proud.
The greater the beauty, the higher the fever.
measure for measure, a harmony decreed.