بقلم: ÊÑÌãÉ: ÛÓÜÇä äÇãÞ -
15-11-2015 áÇ ÓóãÇÁó ÃÎÑì ÃóÑúÖóÊúäí
No Other Heaven Pleased Me
ÞÕíÏÉ ááÔÇÚÑÉ: Ìäí áæíÓ
Poem by: Jenny Lewis
ÊÑÌãÉ: ÛÓÜÇä äÇãÞ*
Translated by: Gassan Namiq
ãÑÇÌÚÉ: Ú. ÇáÕÇÆÛ
Edited by: A. Al-Sayegh
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ÃÓãÇÁó Ýí íæãíÇÊ ÇáÍÑæÈ – ÈíÊ ÚíÓì¡ Ïáí ÚÈÇÓ¡
ÇáÝáæÌÉ – ßáåÇ ÈÚíÏÉ æíÕÚÈ ÇáæÕæá ÅáíåÇ.
æÍÏóåõ ÇáÞóãóÑ¡ åæ ÈæÕáÊí. ÃäÍäí Úáíå ãõÌóÐøöÝÇð
ÈíäãÇ ÇáãÓÇÝÉ ÈíääÇ ÊÊÕáøÈõ æÊÝÊÑ.
* ãÊÑÌã æÃÓÊÇÐ ÌÇãÚí ÚÑÇÞí ãÞíã Ýí ØÑÇÈáÓ – áíÈíÇ.
No other heaven pleased me
Poem by: Jenny Lewis
Sometimes I stroke my own hair, imagining
my father’s hand laid against the contours
of the warm earth or palm up towards the sun
cupping a hazelnut smooth as a face, its flesh
safe inside its shell until I break it open to find
nothing; the distances have been too great
across broken, unreconnoitred ground; pushing
forward and falling back, going over and over
the same stretch searching for a river, a riverbed,
tracks of a railway or even a mule, anything
that’s been that way before instead of just
names in war diaries – Beit Aisa, Deli Abbas,
Falujah – all far away and hard to get to with
only the moon as compass, bent at her sculling
as space between us stiffens and cools
"Ìäí áæíÓ" ÔÇÚÑÉ æßÇÊÈÉ ãÓÑÍíÉ æßÇÊÈÉ ÃÛÇäí ãä ÈÑíØÇäíÇ. ÊÑßÒ Úáì ÇáÊÚÇæä Ýí ãÇ Èíä Ýäæä ÇáÔÚÑ æÇáãæÓíÞì æÇáÑÞÕ æÇáÝäæä ÇáÈÕÑíÉ. ÊÚãá Ýí ÊÏÑíÓ ÇáÔÚÑ ÈÌÇãÚÉ ÃæßÓÝæÑÏ.
áåÇ ÇáÚÏíÏ ãä ÇáãÌãæÚÇÊ ÇáÔÚÑíÉ.
ÞÕíÏÉ "áÇ ÓãÇÁ ÃÎÑì ÃÑÖÊäí" ÇáÊí äÞÏã ÊÑÌãÊåÇ ÇáÚÑÈíÉ åäÇ äõÔÑÊú Ýí "The Oxford Magazine" ÚÇã 2013. æÙåÑÊ ãÚ ãÌãæÚÉ ãä ÇáÞÕÇÆÏ ÇáÃÎÑì æÊÑÌãÇÊåÇ ÇáÚÑÈíÉ Ýí ßÊÇÈ ááÔÇÚÑÉ ÈÚäæÇä Taking Mesopotamia ÕÏÑ Ýí ãÇäÔÓÊÑ ÈÈÑíØÇäíÇ Úä ÏÇÑ ßÇÑßÇäíÊ ÇáãÍÏæÏÉ ÚÇã 2014.
ÞãÊõ ÈÊÑÌãÉ ÇáÞÕíÏÉ ãä ÇááÛÉ ÇáÅäßáíÒíÉ Åáì ÇááÛÉ ÇáÚÑÈíÉ. ÈíäãÇ ÞÇã ÇáÃÎ ÇáÔÇÚÑ "Ú. ÇáÕÇÆÛ" ÈãÑÇÌÚÉ ÇáÊÑÌãÉ ãÔßæÑÇð.
ÙåÑÊ ÇáÞÕíÏÉ Ýí ÇáßÊÇÈ ÇáãÐßæÑ ÈäÕøåÇ ÇáÅäßáíÒí ÇáÃÕáí æÈÇáÊÑÌãÉ ÇáÚÑÈíÉ ÇáÊí ÞÏãäÇåÇ ÃÚáÇå.
