The Poet’s Song – Poetry by Adonis with Photography by Miro Simko

 

Black and White photo by Miro Simko
Black and White photo by Miro Simko

Miro Simko

Miro Simko is a photographer from Presov, Slevokia.  She is works mainly in black and white and does landscape and fine art photography.  From her website she explains,

Black and white photography is all about textures, lines, shapes, shades of gray and the contrast between light and darkness.  Color images often hide these aspects under the ‘layer’ of color.”

Adonis

Ali Ahmad Said Esber is a Syrian poet who writes under the name Adonis.  He currently resides in Paris.  He attended school in Lybia and has edited several literary journals.  He has also taught at Sorbonne, Damascus University, and the Lebanese University.  In addition he has won “the first ever International Nâzim Hikmet Poetry Award, the Norwegian Academy for Literature and Freedom of Expression’s Bjørnson Prize, the Highest Award of the International Poem Biennial in Brussels, and the Syria-Lebanon Best Poet Award.” (poetryfoundation.org)  For more of his poetry see my other post.

Song

By Adonis b. 1930

Translated By Khaled Mattawa

from “Elegy for the First Century

Bells on our eyelashes
and the death throes of words,
and I among fields of speech,
a knight on a horse made of dirt.
My lungs are my poetry, my eyes a book,
and I, under the skin of words,
on the beaming banks of foam,
a poet who sang  and died
leaving this singed elegy
before the faces of poets,
for birds at the edge of sky.

Poetry Source

 

To see more photography by Miro Simko go here, and here, and her website.

 

 

Celebrating Childhood

Celebrating Childhood

BY ADONIS

TRANSLATED BY KHALED MATTAWA

Even the wind wants
to become a cart
pulled by butterflies.

I remember madness
leaning for the first time
on the mind’s pillow.
I was talking to my body then
and my body was an idea
I wrote in red.

Red is the sun’s most beautiful throne
and all the other colors
worship on red rugs.

Night is another candle.
In every branch, an arm,
a message carried in space
echoed by the body of the wind.

The sun insists on dressing itself in fog
when it meets me:
Am I being scolded by the light?

Oh, my past days—
they used to walk in their sleep
and I used to lean on them.

Love and dreams are two parentheses.
Between them I place my body
and discover the world.

Many times
I saw the air fly with two grass feet
and the road dance with feet made of air.

My wishes are flowers
staining my days.

I was wounded early,
and early I learned
that wounds made me.

I still follow the child
who still walks inside me.

Now he stands at a staircase made of light
searching for a corner to rest in
and to read the face of night again.

If the moon were a house,
my feet would refuse to touch its doorstep.

They are taken by dust
carrying me to the air of seasons.

I walk,
one hand in the air,
the other caressing tresses
that I imagine.

A star is also
a pebble in the field of space.

He alone
who is joined to the horizon
can build new roads.

A moon, an old man,
his seat is night
and light is his walking stick.

What shall I say to the body I abandoned
in the rubble of the house
in which I was born?
No one can narrate my childhood
except those stars that flicker above it
and that leave footprints
on the evening’s path.

My childhood is still
being born in the palms of a light
whose name I do not know
and who names me.

Out of that river he made a mirror
and asked it about his sorrow.
He made rain out of his grief
and imitated the clouds.

Your childhood is a village.
You will never cross its boundaries
no matter how far you go.

His days are lakes,
his memories floating bodies.

You who are descending
from the mountains of the past,
how can you climb them again,
and why?

Time is a door
I cannot open.
My magic is worn,
my chants asleep.

I was born in a village,
small and secretive like a womb.
I never left it.
I love the ocean not the shores.

Image Credits: Boy with a Dog, Two Boys Singing, A Childhood Idyll, Girls Lightened by the Sun

Poem