My voice rings out, this time, from
It rings out from the house of my mother and
In Sham.
The geography of my body changes.
The cells of my blood become green.
My alphabet is green.
In Sham.
A new mouth emerges for my mouthA new voice emerges for my
And my
Become a tribe2I return to
Riding on the backs of
Riding the two most beautiful horses in the
The horse of passion.
The horse of poetry.
I return after sixty
To search for my umbilical cord,
For the Damascene barber who circumcised me,
For the midwife who tossed me in the basin under the
And received a gold lira from my father,
She left our
On that day in March of
Her hands stained with the blood of the poem…3I return to the womb in which I was formed . . .
To the first book I read in it . . .
To the first woman who taught
The geography of love . . .
And the geography of women . . .4I
After my limbs have been strewn across all the
And my cough has been scattered in all the
After my mother’s sheets scented with laurel soapI have found no other bed to sleep on . . .
And after the “bride” of oil and
That she would roll up for
No longer does any other "bride" in the world please
And after the quince jam she would make with her own handsI am no longer enthusiastic about breakfast in the
And after the blackberry drink that she would
No other wine intoxicates me . . .5I enter the courtyard of the Umayyad
And greet everyone in
Corner to . . .
Tile to . . .
Dove to . . . doveI wander in the gardens of Kufi
And pluck beautiful flowers of God’s
And hear with my eye the voice of the
And the music of agate prayer beadsA state of revelation and rapture overtakes me,
So I climb the steps of the first minaret that encounters
Calling:“Come to the jasmine”“Come to the
Returning to
Stained by the rains of my
Returning to fill my
With nuts, green plums, and green
Returning to my oyster
Returning to my birth
For the fountains of
Are no compensation for the Fountain CaféAnd Les Halles in
Is no compensation for the Friday
And Buckingham Palace in
Is no compensation for Azem
And the pigeons of San Marco in
Are no more blessed than the doves in the Umayyad
And Napoleon’s tomb in Les
Is no more glorious than the tomb of Salah al-Din Al-Ayyubi…7I wander in the narrow alleys of Damascus.
Behind the windows, honeyed eyes
And greet me . . .
The stars wear their gold
And greet
And the pigeons alight from their
And greet
And the clean Shami cats come
Who were born with us . . .
Grew up with us . . .
And married with us . . .
To greet me . . .8I immerse myself in the Buzurriya
Set a sail in a cloud of
Clouds of
And cinnamon . . .
And camomile . . .
I perform ablutions in rose water once.
And in the water of passion many times . . .
And I forget—while in the Souq al-‘Attarine—All the concoctions of Nina Ricci . . .
And Coco Chanel . . .
What are you doing to me Damascus?
How have you changed my culture?
My aesthetic taste?
For I have been made to forget the ringing of cups of
The piano concerto of Rachmaninoff . . .
How do the gardens of Sham transform me?
For I have become the first conductor in the
That leads an orchestra from a willow tree!!9I have come to you . . .
From the history of the Damascene
That condenses the history of perfume . . .
From the memory of
That condenses the history of poetry . . .
I have come to you . . .
From the blossoms of bitter orange . . .
And the dahlia . . .
And the narcissus . . .
And the "nice boy" . . .
That first taught me drawing . . .
I have come to you . . .
From the laughter of Shami
That first taught me music . . .
And the beginning of
From the spouts of our
That first taught me
And from my mother’s prayer
That first taught
The path to God . . .10I open the drawers of
One . . . then anotherI remember my father . . .
Coming out of his workshop on Mu’awiya AlleyI remember the horse-drawn carts . . .
And the sellers of prickly pears . . .
And the cafés of
That nearly—after five flasks of ‘araq—Fall into the riverI remember the colored
As they dance on the door of Hammam
As if they were celebrating their national holiday.
I remember the Damascene
With their copper
And their ceilings decorated with glazed
And their interior
That remind you of descriptions of heaven . .
The Damascene
Is beyond the architectural
The design of our homes . . .
Is based on an emotional
For every house leans . . . on the hip of
And every balcony . . .
Extends its hand to another facing
Damascene houses are loving houses . . .
They greet one another in the morning . . .
And exchange visits . . .
Secretly—at night . .
When I was a diplomat in
Thirty years
My mother would send letters at the beginning of
Inside each letter . . .
A bundle of tarragon . . .
And when the English suspected my
They took them to the
And turned them over to Scotland
And explosives experts.
And when they grew weary of me . . . and my
They would ask:
Tell us, by god . . .
What is the name of this magical herb that has made us dizzy?
Is it a talisman?
Medicine?
A secret code?
What is it called in English?
I said to them:
It’s difficult for me to explain…For tarragon is a language that only the gardens of Sham
It is our sacred herb . . .
Our perfumed
And if your great poet Shakespeare had known of
His plays would have been better . . .
In brief . . .
My mother is a wonderful woman . . . she loves me greatly . . .
And whenever she missed
She would send me a bunch of tarragon . . .
Because for her, tarragon is the emotional
To the words: my darling . . .
And when the English didn’t understand one word of my poetic argument . . .
They gave me back my tarragon and closed the investigation . .
From Khan Asad
Abu Khalil al-Qabbani emerges . . .
In his damask robe . . .
And his brocaded turban . . .
And his eyes haunted with questions . . .
Like
He attempts to present an avant-garde
But they demand Karagoz’s tent . . .
He tries to present a text from
They ask him about the news of al-Zir . . .
He tries to find a single female
To sing with him . . .“Oh That of Sham”They load up their Ottoman rifles,
And fire into every rose
That sings professionally . . .
He tries to find a single
To repeat after him:“Oh bird of birds, oh dove”They unsheathe their
And slaughter all the descendents of doves . . .
And all the descendents of women . . .
After a hundred years . . .
Damascus apologized to Abu Khalil
And they erected a magnificent theater in his name.14I put on the jubbah of Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-ArabiI descend from the peak of Mt.
Carrying for the children of the city . . .
And sesame halawa . . .
And for its women . . .
Necklaces of turquoise . . .
And poems of love . . .
I enter . . .
A long tunnel of
Gillyflowers . . .
Hibiscus . . .
Clustered jasmine . . .
And I enter the questions of perfume . . .
And my schoolbag is lost from
And the copper lunch case . . .
In which I used to carry my food . . .
And the blue
That my mother used to hang on my
So People of
He among you who finds me . . .let him return me to Umm
And God’s reward will be hisI am your green sparrow . . .
People of
So he among you who finds me . . .let him feed me a grain of wheat . . .
I am your Damascene rose . . .
People of
So he among you who finds me . . .let him place me in the first vase . . .
I am your mad poet . . .
People of
So he among you who sees me . . .let him take a souvenir photograph of
Before I recover from my enchanting insanity . . .
I am your fugitive moon . . .
People of
So he among you who sees me . . .
Let him donate to me a bed . . . and a wool blanket . . .
Because I haven’t slept for centuries
