Welcome to My Poetry Site
The Darkness
I am the darkness
I have one body, diminished in its lust
And the accolade of adulthood cracks the lodestone within me
I am re-inflated by the trumpet's blast
So that I invite the abyss into my face
And escape from life's frivolities
I tumble, eyes swerving into eyes
And I among them, sprawled like the grass
I am a man from the shadow of milk
I am the reverse of the back of the reverse
What comes after what's gone up in smoke?
Grief does not dictate sorrow
And this is not my concern
I say:
It's not my concern to rent out stanzas as mantraps
It's not up to me to teach spring how to hope eternal
It's none of my business that there isn't enough wood in my crutch
Weighted down as it is, like me, with longing
Round each corner I see a ghost with my likeness. My ghost.
In every jogged footfall to the city is a step towards me
Evening pays its tribute of anger
And my blood becomes a partridge, in whose veins is perfected the art of escape
Oh, ghost of mine!
How many hands have you inside me?
How many souls must you have to be at peace?
How many faces of the tribe shall I raise a glass with?
I am not the stranger
Not the slain one
Will dust die from choking on smoke?
Does death acknowledge darkness?
Am I as I am?
Over the threshold of darkness, I raise up an ensign
I raise a trellis over my body's wall
Lest I should vanish
Obaida Kotainy
Translated by: Dr Gilbert Ramsay
I have one body, diminished in its lust
And the accolade of adulthood cracks the lodestone within me
I am re-inflated by the trumpet's blast
So that I invite the abyss into my face
And escape from life's frivolities
I tumble, eyes swerving into eyes
And I among them, sprawled like the grass
I am a man from the shadow of milk
I am the reverse of the back of the reverse
What comes after what's gone up in smoke?
Grief does not dictate sorrow
And this is not my concern
I say:
It's not my concern to rent out stanzas as mantraps
It's not up to me to teach spring how to hope eternal
It's none of my business that there isn't enough wood in my crutch
Weighted down as it is, like me, with longing
Round each corner I see a ghost with my likeness. My ghost.
In every jogged footfall to the city is a step towards me
Evening pays its tribute of anger
And my blood becomes a partridge, in whose veins is perfected the art of escape
Oh, ghost of mine!
How many hands have you inside me?
How many souls must you have to be at peace?
How many faces of the tribe shall I raise a glass with?
I am not the stranger
Not the slain one
Will dust die from choking on smoke?
Does death acknowledge darkness?
Am I as I am?
Over the threshold of darkness, I raise up an ensign
I raise a trellis over my body's wall
Lest I should vanish
Obaida Kotainy
Translated by: Dr Gilbert Ramsay
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
The Darkness
The Darkness
