Adele Ne Jame – I
Ashrafieyh, East Beirut
1.
Late afternoon– an outsider but not
exactly, you walk these streets— seeing
as she did, the shining light between
trellises of wild roses and the drift of
flimsy balconies along the winding hills—
St. Michel’s high cross like a scar—
and how the powdery night falls over it all—
Ashrafieyh– the very name sings
like the moving night sky—
You say it to yourself again
let the sound of it settle
like home in the heart –that world
moon grass and Mount Sannine—
and the wild ibis, migrant bird.
2.
Say the story starts here with a girl
who urgently called after her brother
from their balcony when the sky was dark silver
leaning halfway over it
and waving her arms wildly—
like sailors do when they finally see land birds
after a long spell on the open water—
Not hearing, maybe not wanting to
the boy kept walking— and with a swagger,
jacket slung over one shoulder,
a boy ready to be a man—
a day’s rough beard grown out,
dreamy Valentino eyes and round cheeks
that she would kiss—as her mother did—
holding his face in her two hands—
and kissing again until he pulled away,
her words khallili yakun ya Rhabb
an Arabic blessing following him
but he kept on walking— heading west
towards the lights of the seaport
or maybe he stopped first at Kaffullah—
Palm of God, a small cafe where
Delore played the oud tenderly they say,
the sound— like warm honey.
And surely he carried his mother’s scented scarf
of almond blossoms in his pocket,
as much good luck as a man could need—.
3.
The girl, if she were telling it,
would bring up the wild roses again—
how they were wilting on the kitchen table
and how her mother called to her that night—
habibti – toss the flowers out,
save the Beaujolais, and use the china
with the blue roses in the morning—
she would say how lovely
her mother was –hair loosely undone
going off to bathe the young ones and
hushing them to sleep in a cloud of blue flannel
and that she did not toss the roses out—
She left them drooping over
the edge of the blue glass
shadowing the yellow kerosene light,
imagining Mount Sannine in summer–
(such a young girl–barely twelve)
or the cocoon growers and
silk spinners in the high Chouf,
tending their Mulberry trees
and dying pools, and how the water
shone there—red earth to sky
trees and clouds floating together
with omens, amorphous creatures
hovering over her in breathless dreams.
4.
That night as I saw it in my sleep
the neighbor lady slammed the door open
and came rushing into the house yelling
in a frenzy– mother flew down the stairs and
into the street—I ran hard to catch up –
I kept running, sweating and shaking and running—
Then I heard—before I saw—grown boys fighting
in the streets–Christian against Muslim –
or the other way around–ma baaref—
Grown boys from the neighborhood—
gone crazy— . Then I saw mother’s face
in the confusion of the mob—
her eyes locked instantly on the one
who with all his body-might lurched forward
and threw a dagger at Saleem—
in that same second— she lunged with all her force
in front of it and was struck by the blade instead—.
The mob of grown boys–they scattered
as if an acid bomb smoking white ammonia
had exploded at their feet—
and the girl, before she knew it,
began living her first and last sorrow.
Saleem in floundering grief –
his arms flailing the open air—
made the men holding him back
lose their breath and cry out–
The girl, not believing, dropped to her knees
draping her body over her mother’s
madly imploring –
as if she could stop this thing.
But the web of her mother’s loosened hair
swarmed in a dark tangle of
blood roses around her. Warm
and sweet smelling, it soaked their skirts
and seeped into the broken concrete and
around the roots of the wild lavender,
around the roots of olive trees—
The blood of the whole lost Levant,
a Red Sea of blood. And the nameless stars
in the heavens kept on burning and burning
and tumbling across the night sky.
The people of the neighborhood used to say
those two boys were blessed at birth when
their mothers named them both Saleem,
meaning healthy, safe.
Saleem, sweet lover of peace.
5.
And now so far into the future here you are
on your own— this unlikely summer night
wandering these streets – strange it seems
to be headed to a dinner party
a few blocks away—
Leila, Adib, Mona, the others
no doubt all gathered on the balcony
at sunset, dust filtering through the falling light,
drinking wine, lighting cigarettes—
perhaps rummaging through the newspapers
and feeling edgy— calmly the way people do here—
A flotilla is headed for Gaza—another ship
set to sail on Sunday—the Saint Miriam,
a crew of women only on board—
those heavily pregnant, even singers and nuns,
the whole region apt to ignite again.
But somehow you too have picked up
the knack of nonchalant worrying,
at least for the moment— with your bottle of
Beaujolais and half kilo of honeyed
sweets in your sack. You pass one iron lamp post
after another hung with moons of light,
try to imagine saturation bombing ,
the white fire of artillery shells—
spent millions of them buried in the rubble of
collapsed buildings here and there.
Then quietly what you have been dreading
all along without knowing it –
an exquisite foreboding
comes over you— like a dark omen
mixed with the rich smell of earth after
a drenching rain—for the first time you think
your time here has passed –-
storms from the Mediterranean will sweep through —
clearing this oppressive haze along with
the last blooms of summer. You will be missing
the winter light flooding the far hills
above the city, even the exhaust of diesel fuel
mixed with salt air,–and the sleek Glossy Ibis,
congregations of them,
cobalt blue, necks outstretched in flight—
a revered, holy bird— in hieroglyphs
signifying the soul, shining and resplendent
heading out on the next strong wind—
some few perhaps returning, others not.
*khallili yakun ya Rhabb: may the lord keep you safe
for Adele Messrony 1893-1969
1.
Late afternoon– an outsider but not
exactly, you walk these streets— seeing
as she did, the shining light between
trellises of wild roses and the drift of
flimsy balconies along the winding hills—
St. Michel’s high cross like a scar—
and how the powdery night falls over it all—
Ashrafieyh– the very name sings
like the moving night sky—
You say it to yourself again
let the sound of it settle
like home in the heart –that world
moon grass and Mount Sannine—
and the wild ibis, migrant bird.
2.
Say the story starts here with a girl
who urgently called after her brother
from their balcony when the sky was dark silver
leaning halfway over it
and waving her arms wildly—
like sailors do when they finally see land birds
after a long spell on the open water—
Not hearing, maybe not wanting to
the boy kept walking— and with a swagger,
jacket slung over one shoulder,
a boy ready to be a man—
a day’s rough beard grown out,
dreamy Valentino eyes and round cheeks
that she would kiss—as her mother did—
holding his face in her two hands—
and kissing again until he pulled away,
her words khallili yakun ya Rhabb
an Arabic blessing following him
but he kept on walking— heading west
towards the lights of the seaport
or maybe he stopped first at Kaffullah—
Palm of God, a small cafe where
Delore played the oud tenderly they say,
the sound— like warm honey.
And surely he carried his mother’s scented scarf
of almond blossoms in his pocket,
as much good luck as a man could need—.
3.
The girl, if she were telling it,
would bring up the wild roses again—
how they were wilting on the kitchen table
and how her mother called to her that night—
habibti – toss the flowers out,
save the Beaujolais, and use the china
with the blue roses in the morning—
she would say how lovely
her mother was –hair loosely undone
going off to bathe the young ones and
hushing them to sleep in a cloud of blue flannel
and that she did not toss the roses out—
She left them drooping over
the edge of the blue glass
shadowing the yellow kerosene light,
imagining Mount Sannine in summer–
(such a young girl–barely twelve)
or the cocoon growers and
silk spinners in the high Chouf,
tending their Mulberry trees
and dying pools, and how the water
shone there—red earth to sky
trees and clouds floating together
with omens, amorphous creatures
hovering over her in breathless dreams.
4.
That night as I saw it in my sleep
the neighbor lady slammed the door open
and came rushing into the house yelling
in a frenzy– mother flew down the stairs and
into the street—I ran hard to catch up –
I kept running, sweating and shaking and running—
Then I heard—before I saw—grown boys fighting
in the streets–Christian against Muslim –
or the other way around–ma baaref—
Grown boys from the neighborhood—
gone crazy— . Then I saw mother’s face
in the confusion of the mob—
her eyes locked instantly on the one
who with all his body-might lurched forward
and threw a dagger at Saleem—
in that same second— she lunged with all her force
in front of it and was struck by the blade instead—.
The mob of grown boys–they scattered
as if an acid bomb smoking white ammonia
had exploded at their feet—
and the girl, before she knew it,
began living her first and last sorrow.
Saleem in floundering grief –
his arms flailing the open air—
made the men holding him back
lose their breath and cry out–
The girl, not believing, dropped to her knees
draping her body over her mother’s
madly imploring –
as if she could stop this thing.
But the web of her mother’s loosened hair
swarmed in a dark tangle of
blood roses around her. Warm
and sweet smelling, it soaked their skirts
and seeped into the broken concrete and
around the roots of the wild lavender,
around the roots of olive trees—
The blood of the whole lost Levant,
a Red Sea of blood. And the nameless stars
in the heavens kept on burning and burning
and tumbling across the night sky.
The people of the neighborhood used to say
those two boys were blessed at birth when
their mothers named them both Saleem,
meaning healthy, safe.
Saleem, sweet lover of peace.
5.
And now so far into the future here you are
on your own— this unlikely summer night
wandering these streets – strange it seems
to be headed to a dinner party
a few blocks away—
Leila, Adib, Mona, the others
no doubt all gathered on the balcony
at sunset, dust filtering through the falling light,
drinking wine, lighting cigarettes—
perhaps rummaging through the newspapers
and feeling edgy— calmly the way people do here—
A flotilla is headed for Gaza—another ship
set to sail on Sunday—the Saint Miriam,
a crew of women only on board—
those heavily pregnant, even singers and nuns,
the whole region apt to ignite again.
But somehow you too have picked up
the knack of nonchalant worrying,
at least for the moment— with your bottle of
Beaujolais and half kilo of honeyed
sweets in your sack. You pass one iron lamp post
after another hung with moons of light,
try to imagine saturation bombing ,
the white fire of artillery shells—
spent millions of them buried in the rubble of
collapsed buildings here and there.
Then quietly what you have been dreading
all along without knowing it –
an exquisite foreboding
comes over you— like a dark omen
mixed with the rich smell of earth after
a drenching rain—for the first time you think
your time here has passed –-
storms from the Mediterranean will sweep through —
clearing this oppressive haze along with
the last blooms of summer. You will be missing
the winter light flooding the far hills
above the city, even the exhaust of diesel fuel
mixed with salt air,–and the sleek Glossy Ibis,
congregations of them,
cobalt blue, necks outstretched in flight—
a revered, holy bird— in hieroglyphs
signifying the soul, shining and resplendent
heading out on the next strong wind—
some few perhaps returning, others not.
*khallili yakun ya Rhabb: may the lord keep you safe
