Six poems by Selim Temo
Translated from the Kurdish by
Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse and Zêdan Xelef
now, somewhere
now i am somewhere unable to endure even my silence
a pinioned crane that manages flight
that drives my useless days
i don’t waver even in strong winds
rivers rise against me
streets shriek
in my pocket some broken marbles
the voice does not return from the gorge
no echo reaches the blind sky
i am a hunchbacked mountain collapsing in a distant plain
i rot in a book with no pages, no letters
where i have fallen, no hand reaches for mine
when they cut the flowers, the houses bowed their heads
when the trees’ backs were broken, the wind fled the streets
in burning cheeks, the hint of oppression
there came a voice that swept everything from the face of our homeland
i thought it was happiness the retrieval and revival of our language
but no
no
pain speaks this language
loss and grief splatter from each word
here in exile it tightens around my neck
so, nothing, this language is nothing
it does not echo through London’s streets
it bows down to civilization
but we will dance shoulder to shoulder
ferment each word with fear
like a sulking child who runs off and then forgets her way home
we will bloom like red-hearted roses
where a tarnished lake flows beside time’s waist
i am ready now, Kurdi
i have swept the centuries’ waning patience from the brain of dreams
i am making my insides a home for those stuffed with sorrow
i am waking the dead woman who is asleep only in time
with the raised voice of a bold man, the one with four kidneys, from the songs
now i am somewhere unable to endure even my silence
a pinioned crane that manages flight
that drives my useless days
i don’t waver even in strong winds
rivers rise against me
streets shriek
in my pocket some broken marbles
the voice does not return from the gorge
no echo reaches the blind sky
i am a hunchbacked mountain collapsing in a distant plain
i rot in a book with no pages, no letters
where i have fallen, no hand reaches for mine
when they cut the flowers, the houses bowed their heads
when the trees’ backs were broken, the wind fled the streets
in burning cheeks, the hint of oppression
there came a voice that swept everything from the face of our homeland
i thought it was happiness the retrieval and revival of our language
but no
no
pain speaks this language
loss and grief splatter from each word
here in exile it tightens around my neck
so, nothing, this language is nothing
it does not echo through London’s streets
it bows down to civilization
but we will dance shoulder to shoulder
ferment each word with fear
like a sulking child who runs off and then forgets her way home
we will bloom like red-hearted roses
where a tarnished lake flows beside time’s waist
i am ready now, Kurdi
i have swept the centuries’ waning patience from the brain of dreams
i am making my insides a home for those stuffed with sorrow
i am waking the dead woman who is asleep only in time
with the raised voice of a bold man, the one with four kidneys, from the songs
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niha li deverekê
niha li deverekê me ku tehemûla bêdengiya min jî nake weke qulingeke bêbask difire dajo rojên bikêrnehatî nikarim bileqim bi bê re jî çem li min radibin kolan diqîrin di berîkên min de çend xarên şikestî weke dengek ji geliyekî venegere olan nade esmanê kor ez ev çiyayê piştxûz li taxeke dûr paldayî dirizim di pirtûka bêrûpel û bêherf de ku ketî me; kes nahewîne tiliyên min jî gava gul birrîn malan serî tewandin dar ku xûz bûn, ba ji kolanan reviya di hinarokan de leylan da tehma bindestiyê ku dengek hat her çi hebû malişt ji rûyê welêt min digot qey şadî ye veger û vejîna zimanê xwe lê ka ka zimanê êşê ye ev ziman xesirîn û şîn dipengize ji her peyvekê va ye ku li dûriyê xwe girtiye li çemestûyê min naxwe tine ev ziman, tine olan nade li kolanên Londonê xwe li ber şaristaniyê ditewîne lê em ê têkevine milên hev da bimeye her peyv bi fikarekê weke zarokeke xeyidî ji bîr bike deriyê vegerê em ê biteqin bi rengê guleke dilsor ku biherike goleke zengarî di navtenga demê de ez êdî amade me ey Kurdî min malişt mêjiyê xewnê ji tengesebra sedsalan weke hemû xemxwaran bihewînim di hundirê xwe de hişyar bikim miriyekê di demê de raketî bi dengê hewara mêrxasê çargurçik ê stranekê |
day laborers darker
day laborers darker than themselves: Veracruz Veracruz
memory tenses in the sun
the deep sleep of a walnut tree
foul-breathed sailors: Veracruz Veracruz
he whose hand resembles a watersnake
comes to split the night
then the raven’s wing
this, the mistake of my life: Veracruz Veracruz
i see what i can’t from where i stand
it’s the season of seasons for fish
beauty is buried at the bottom of a well
night’s bliss is in night’s breast: Veracruz Veracruz
in my bag a dagger a bottle a letter
skeleton ships at dawn
will take me from Veracruz
toward Veracruz
day laborers darker than themselves: Veracruz Veracruz
memory tenses in the sun
the deep sleep of a walnut tree
foul-breathed sailors: Veracruz Veracruz
he whose hand resembles a watersnake
comes to split the night
then the raven’s wing
this, the mistake of my life: Veracruz Veracruz
i see what i can’t from where i stand
it’s the season of seasons for fish
beauty is buried at the bottom of a well
night’s bliss is in night’s breast: Veracruz Veracruz
in my bag a dagger a bottle a letter
skeleton ships at dawn
will take me from Veracruz
toward Veracruz
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rêncberên reştir
rêncberên reştir ji xwe: Veracruz Veracruz * bîranîn ditengije li berojan xewa kûr a dargûzekê deryagerên devgenî: Veracruz Veracruz destê kê bişibe marmarokan radibe şevê diterikîne li dûr e baskê qijakê ev e şaşiya jiyana min: Veracruz Veracruz dibînim tiştên ji min ve nexuya demsal demsala masiyan e gorra delaliyê li bin bîrê şev xweş e di paşila şevê da: Veracruz Veracruz di tûrê min da xencer, şûşe û name meytê keştiyan li ber berbangê wê min bibin ji Veracruz ber bi Veracruzê ve |
in Roboski
in Roboski,
they live with their sons’ pictures, my son
they take them everywhere, clutched to their chests
they take them to their gardens, like new-ripe fruit
they sleep on cold, sunken bosoms
don’t you forget the daydreams’ shadows
that gave sorrowful young men identity at dusk
they were children, my heart, just kids
they shivered like the shadows of walnut trees
in Roboski
there are fathers, my son,
broken as the branches of flowering trees
just mention a child’s name
and they run to the graveyard
don’t you forget the voices left in the courtyard
that were a sip of their spirits, dawn partridges
they were children, my boy, little lambs
they glittered like distant gorges
in Roboski,
they live with their sons’ pictures, my son
they take them everywhere, clutched to their chests
they take them to their gardens, like new-ripe fruit
they sleep on cold, sunken bosoms
don’t you forget the daydreams’ shadows
that gave sorrowful young men identity at dusk
they were children, my heart, just kids
they shivered like the shadows of walnut trees
in Roboski
there are fathers, my son,
broken as the branches of flowering trees
just mention a child’s name
and they run to the graveyard
don’t you forget the voices left in the courtyard
that were a sip of their spirits, dawn partridges
they were children, my boy, little lambs
they glittered like distant gorges
|
li Roboskê
li Roboskê, bi wêneyên kurên xwe re dijîn kurê min didin ber sîngên xwe li nava welatan digerînin dibine nava baxçeyan, weke fêkiyên nûgihaştî û di paxilên sar û bêpêsîr de radizînin nebî tu ji bîr bikî siya xewnerojkan ku nasnameya xortên hezîn bû li ber êvarê ku zarok bûn dilê min, ku karik bûn mîna siya daregûzan dilebitîn li Roboskê bavin hene kurê min mîna guliyên daregulan şikestî çawa tu navê zarokekî hildî ber bi goristanê ve dibezînin nebî tu ji bîr bikî dengên li eywana mayî ku çengek ji giyanê wan e ji bo kewa berbangê ku zarok bûn lawo, ku berxik bûn mîna geliyên dûr diteyisîn |
vae victis iv: siblinghood
under the mulberry tree, the hive of dreams,
the tale of Zeynika Zêrîn: a sister and seven brothers,
twelve cousins, all men, elderly parents,
a door of planetree, painted with blue and dusk
“in the distance, birds in flight,” the fall a season,
a whirlwind passing through words,
the horizon resurrected, St John’s-wort on the threshing floor,
the churner full of frothed buttermilk, the cascading lies of aunts,
what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with siblings was
their hands were small, their feet bare
a bite of bread, cornbread, was always going stale
eczema in patches on the scalp was always flaring up
indigence became a toy that always got lost
and lowing inside her head, a punctured balloon
and always the cracked land made pregnant by Fall rains,
dark clouds coming for us like murdered uncles
and next to the cradle a newlywed bride in her henna
those who never left or returned questioned distance
but what a joy it was, what a joy childhood in father’s house was
a sister made of raindrops, six brothers made of forest
they paused in my heart, they greeted April
my hand, brother to theirs, fluttered toward night
kidnapped women were always arriving with convicted murderers
each one, with their story, sitting beside their wounds
the night, a candle’s wick, was always passing, always burning
every head resting on a shoulder; sleepy, curly, tongue-tied
with honeycombed candies, local lokums
what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with siblings was
Selîmo, the time has come, tighten your belt,
you appealed to childhood, but only on your behalf
to keep your siblings from drifting apart
they got old and now exalt their children’s childhood
each one’s white haired and at his dusk, you, too, are no youth
you left behind a son, your heartbreak is in the growing distance
every day, he daydreamed, yearning for a snowflake
you have no land, no childhood
oh, what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with your child was
under the mulberry tree, the hive of dreams,
the tale of Zeynika Zêrîn: a sister and seven brothers,
twelve cousins, all men, elderly parents,
a door of planetree, painted with blue and dusk
“in the distance, birds in flight,” the fall a season,
a whirlwind passing through words,
the horizon resurrected, St John’s-wort on the threshing floor,
the churner full of frothed buttermilk, the cascading lies of aunts,
what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with siblings was
their hands were small, their feet bare
a bite of bread, cornbread, was always going stale
eczema in patches on the scalp was always flaring up
indigence became a toy that always got lost
and lowing inside her head, a punctured balloon
and always the cracked land made pregnant by Fall rains,
dark clouds coming for us like murdered uncles
and next to the cradle a newlywed bride in her henna
those who never left or returned questioned distance
but what a joy it was, what a joy childhood in father’s house was
a sister made of raindrops, six brothers made of forest
they paused in my heart, they greeted April
my hand, brother to theirs, fluttered toward night
kidnapped women were always arriving with convicted murderers
each one, with their story, sitting beside their wounds
the night, a candle’s wick, was always passing, always burning
every head resting on a shoulder; sleepy, curly, tongue-tied
with honeycombed candies, local lokums
what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with siblings was
Selîmo, the time has come, tighten your belt,
you appealed to childhood, but only on your behalf
to keep your siblings from drifting apart
they got old and now exalt their children’s childhood
each one’s white haired and at his dusk, you, too, are no youth
you left behind a son, your heartbreak is in the growing distance
every day, he daydreamed, yearning for a snowflake
you have no land, no childhood
oh, what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with your child was
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vae victis iv: biraxweyî
li binê dara tûyê kewara xewnan çîroka Zeynika Zêrîn: xwîşkek û heft bira danzdeh pismam, dayîk û bavê kal deriyê ji dara çinarê, boyaxa şîn û xumam “çûk ji dûr ve difiriyan”, Payîz demsalek bû dihat di nava peyvan re derbas dibû bablîsok divejiya aso, digindirî botaf li bênderan meşka dewkulî, derewên xaltiyan, sûlav çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li gel biraxweyan destên wan biçûk bûn, lingên wan tazî gepek nan li kêlekê hişk dibû; nanê garis deqên bîrovê di nava por de dikuliya xizanî bû leyîstok her car wenda dibû dioriya ji nava serê xwe nepoxa qelişî axa terikî bi baranên Payîzî avis dibû ewrên tarî dihatin weke xalên kuştî li ber darê dergûşê bûkek tevî hinneya xwe ji dûriyê dipirsîn yên nehatî û neçûyî lê çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li mala bavê xwîşkek ji peşka baranê, şeş bira ji daristanan li dilê min disekinîn, silav didane Nîsanê destê min ku birayê wan bû, difirfirîn ber bi êvarê ve jinên revandî dihatin bi mehkûmên mêrkuj re her yek tevî çîroka xwe rûdinişt li ser birînên xwe disojiya şev bi fitîla qendîlê re û dibihurî her serî li ser milekî; xewar, xingalokî, metel di hiş de şekirên qulqulî, liqûmê şêxîslamî çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li gel biraxweyan Selîmo nava xwe bişidîne, ew wext hat tê doza zarokatiyê bikî, bi tenê peşka xwe ku nepeşkile di nava biraxweyan de wekhevî lê êdî çûn û mezin dikin zarokatiya zarokên xwe her yek por spî û xumam e, tu jî ne xort î te kurek hişt li pey xwe, li dûriya kesera xwe her roj diponijî bi hesreta wê çilka berfê ne warek te heye, ne zarokatiyek te ax çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li gel kurê xwe! |
the scarecrow in the sesame
the wind is my soul
my spine a Latin cross
i’ve sent the birds into a sulk
my frayed hat never waves back
i am alone in the sesame
fallow and sown; dead neighbors
no one comes for company
but humming time and my emptiness
night belongs to itself
day to anyone
there is no hiding from fire
the fourth hymn
my grandmother finishes her six-day fast
the moon is grinning at the rose bushes
those sayings that took flight along with childhood
river gulls, fairy tales, and anguish
the arriving spring has gone
red snow perches on the mountainside
it’s time to go
my father let out a deep sigh
the stars sing the thorns lullabies
those promises that withered in the gardens
hazy fields of yellow stubble, songs and wishes
the blossoming boy has gone
a werewolf climbs out of the bride’s wedding chest
it’s time to go
my mother lost her red, see through scarf
the night cheers the morning up
those seasonal complaints that ached
the sweet sleep, love and the door
the welcoming rain has gone away
the boogeyman was just a myth
the fear of survival did not survive
it’s time to go
the wind is my soul
my spine a Latin cross
i’ve sent the birds into a sulk
my frayed hat never waves back
i am alone in the sesame
fallow and sown; dead neighbors
no one comes for company
but humming time and my emptiness
night belongs to itself
day to anyone
there is no hiding from fire
the fourth hymn
my grandmother finishes her six-day fast
the moon is grinning at the rose bushes
those sayings that took flight along with childhood
river gulls, fairy tales, and anguish
the arriving spring has gone
red snow perches on the mountainside
it’s time to go
my father let out a deep sigh
the stars sing the thorns lullabies
those promises that withered in the gardens
hazy fields of yellow stubble, songs and wishes
the blossoming boy has gone
a werewolf climbs out of the bride’s wedding chest
it’s time to go
my mother lost her red, see through scarf
the night cheers the morning up
those seasonal complaints that ached
the sweet sleep, love and the door
the welcoming rain has gone away
the boogeyman was just a myth
the fear of survival did not survive
it’s time to go
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qewlê çarem
şeşekên dapîrê xelas bûn heyv ji daregulan re dibişire ew gotinên bi zarokatiyê re firiyan qaqlîbazên çeman, çîrok û keser derbas bû hatina Biharê berfa sor li quntara çiyê venişt wextê çûyînê ye nalîna hinavî ya bavo danî stêrk ji keleman re dilorînin ew sozên li baxçeyan pûç bûn pirêzeyên xumamî, stran û hêvî derbas bû balixbûna kurî gurê manco derket ji sebeta bûkaniyê wextê çûyînê ye temeziya sor a dayê wenda bû şev ji spêdê re xweş dike ew lomeyên demsalî ku ariyan xewa şêrîn, evîn û derî çû derbas bû silava baranê reşê şevê derew derket tirsa mayînê nema wextê çûyînê ye |
