Moussa Hawamdeh /Palestina
موسى حوامدة / فلسطين

أُعد للنهار مائدةَ الذكرى

المدينةُ عادتْ لموتِها السريري ونعشها الحجري، المسافاتُ صارتْ بعيدةً، بينما أسفي غابةٌ تنمو، تعلو فيها أشجار الأسى، ثمارها مرةٌ وحنظلها سيد عتيد، وهنا يقبع في صدري حزن مثخن بالغياب، نائم مثل كاهن بوذي يتكور من الطوى والتعبد،بينما يذرفُ الصديدُ قطراتِه على وجه المدى، تُعلق أيقونةُ الصمت في جدار العزلة، يسقط غصن طري في فم عصفور مبلل بالمطر، تذوي المواقد، تجف حبات الكستناء، تفرغ الكؤوس، بينما شموع الليالي تخبو حتى تنطفئ
يا ابنةَ الحيْرة والبهجة أين ملائكة النأي؟
أجدُها تُعاودُ مهماتِها الشرسة في تجويف الرعشة من سحر الإنبهار، تصنع تابوت الكلمات، من نحت الزمن الجائم فوق قلاع الدهشة
المفازاتُ اتسعت وازداد عناء جلجامش، بينما الخديعةُ لم تطاوع أجاممنون، ولم تقبل بريسيس الانعتاق من اخيليوس، ولم يحقق زيوس وعده ،ولم يخترق الحصان طروادة المستعصية على العائدين من غبار الاساطير.
تذكرتُكِ وأنا نائم ،
حلمت بالكون يشرق من بين أصابعك، رأيت أفروديت تضئ بالتاج الأنثوي وحين مددت يدي لألمس وشاحَها الذهبي، اختفت يدي في ضباب الوقت المتلاشي في بخار العاج.
نسيتك عند روحي،
هناك أقمت لك عرشا مسيَّجا بالتذكر، مددتُ بساطا من خيلاء الشعر، مطوقا بجدران المغزى المكتنز في جوهر الفراق ،المغلف بطلاء الوجد المزين بنشوة الريح.
نمت وحيدا مثل زيتونة يتيمة في سفح جبل شرقي، ولما أفقتُ وجدت الزيت يتصبب من فؤاد الشجرة، بينما الأوراق تلوح مبشرة بظل ما يزال يرسم على الطين وجهَ جميلة كانت تبتسم لظلال الكلمات وهي تعد مباهج العمر.
نمتُ، أفقتُ، وكانت السماء بعيدة تشير لغيوم عابرة تحمل خصبا لم يمكث فوق رأس التاويل، ستمطر، قالت النشوة ،لكن رذاذ الشوق صلى صلاة الاستسقاء وهطلت ذكرى لم تبتعد
أدنو من شفة الأصيل، أبوح للمدى بغواية الكلمات، أجرح بستان الإنتظار، وأعد للنهار مائدة الذكرى

Biografia
°°°°°°°°°°
Moussa Hawamdeh / Palestina
موسى حوامدة / فلسطين

من مواليد فلسطين 1959
درس الثانوية في مدينة الخليل
التحق بالجامعة الاردنية للدراسة في كلية الاداب
عام 1982 بدا نشر قصائده في ملحق الدستور الثقافي بداية الثمانينات حينما كان طالبا ونشر اول مجموعة شعرية بعنوان \' شغب\' [عام 1988في عمان]
منع من السفر والعمل حتى بدا عهد الديمقراطية في الاردن فالتحق بالعمل في صحيفة الشعب ثم الدستور
ثم عمل مدير تحرير في العرب اليوم
نشر في عام 1998مجموعته الشعرية الثانية \'تزدادين سماء وبساتين\' وهي قصائد حب مكتوبة في اواخر الثمانينات
اصدر مجموعته الشعرية الثالثة \'شجري أعلى\' [1999عن المؤسسة العربية للدراسات والنشر في بيروت]
صدر له مؤخرا عن المؤسسة العربية للدراسات والنشر الكتاب الشعري
الرابع / اسفار موسى العهد الاخير
المجموعة الشعرية الخامسة بعنوان: أحسن الى الحمامة القتيلة. كما ستعيد دار ميريت للنشر في القاهرة طباعة \'شجري اعلى\' هذا العام
ولديه ثلاثة كتب نثرية في الادب الساخر منها \'حكايات السموع\' الذي [2000 عن دار الشروق في رام الله وعمان]. وترجمت منه ليلى الطائي ملتون لمجلة بانيبال الانكليزية في العدد الاخير الذي كرس للادب الفلسطيني الحديث

hawamdeh87@hotmail.com

Dr Omnia Amin analyses the work of Mousa Hawamdeh, a poet who gives his own rendition of mythology and religious ideology.
Hawamdeh and a bitter confession

Mousa Hawamdeh is a poet who is devoted to rewriting a mythical and religious heritage through the personal experience. The individualistic interpretation of life is never divorced from the long history of the human existential battle of self-assertion and understanding of what appears to be an incomprehensible universe. His poetry stars with the poets own self and expands to include the others and expands again reshape the past. His aim is not to create a harmonious fusion of past and present but to evaluate an ideological heritage, especially in regard to religious ideologies which he feels need to be reincorporated in modern terminology to befit the experience of modern age.
Hawamdeh works and lives an Amman and following poems are taken from his collection entitled [the books of Mousa published by Arabic establishment in Beirut]

1-The book of sin

Sins
I didn’t attend my fathers wedding
Therefore I let the farce
Start its chapter.

On 25th February
1959
I came into the world
And found my sins
Before me!

Its injustice not to know
How I grew up
Without the earth loosing
Any it filth

On 25th February the sun didn’t halt
For a second
To see the fuel
That exceeds her needs!

Not a single star
Smiled at my birth!

My coming didn’t surprise my mother
Nor my father the sleeping houses moved not
The gas lamps didn’t shiver
Only ….the thread of life
Was swinging desiring the dark
Why do new boys cry?
While the earth
Is full of humans?

Why do survivors cry?
As the realize
They have no friends
Before birth?

If dust was the clay of beings
Why then did I cry?
On 25th February!

Every second
A night is born
And dawn is dies!
Every night death is born
And life dies…

Recklessness
When minds were distributed
My father chose recklessness
And when livelihood was distributed
He chose minimum
And when contentment came
He turned his face.
And left me behind!

2-My enemy

I was born out of cloud
I descended to earth lightly…
As I couldn’t see
The wind slapped me
The sun extracted me
The valleys pulled me
I became heavy in order not to fly
I exalted lest I melt
I held my self together lest I fall,
Thunder denied fathering me
Earth became my enemy
How then.how can I return to
The womb of my cloud?
I see that I’m my own enemy
I see my self
Stinger in my country
Imprisoned by my bonds
Free in poems that didn’t utter me as
Song in praises that weren’t sung
Letters in letters that wrote me not
…
…
I see myself
I renew the rails of my prison guard,
Away
Away on Helens shores
I bury my secret
And draw on water
Clytemnestras face
I curse Paris
And envy him
…
…
I see my self
Like songs
Following me Homer:
Lead me blind one
My lyre
Broke
Blame me not Agamemnon
Seduction draws me
And my country
…Is far away
***
I see myself!
,

I imagine that I’m Achilles
Distributing my love among lovers
I circle round the cup of courage
Between the Hellenistic
I remove the poison
The poison cuts me in half with yearning
***
I see my self
The friend of my enemy
The enemy of my friend
I’m free of my bonds
The prisoner of my slaves **
I see my self
The enemy of my enemy
My own enemy
I see
Myself
….

3-He remained high above

The house
It remains as it were
A witness of disappointment
And empty of single celebration
Expelling darkness

The door
I remained unopened since my
Grandfather died
Not because he hid the key
Or ordered us not to
But because we couldn’t find a suitable place
For the family grave.

Windows
Painted blue since my elder brother failed in high school
That was in 1967
When we painted the windows blue
In anticipation of air raids
But tanks invaded us
Through the doors.

The yard
Is wide enough for my beloveds
Is wide enough for my friends
But they all let
And it remained lonesome.

Nation
Before the body was found
found
A swarm of flies gathered
To listen to the music came from the village
No flute
No windpipe
No clarinet
The insects alone
Were playing on the corpses of the defeated .

My father
Remained silent
Maybe he was thinking
How to convince my mother of his manhood
After he handed his only rifle
To the military truck!

The mayor
Encouraged people for the revolution
A suitable opportunity
To improve the image of mayors
After the men raised white flags!

The enemy’s plane
It threw something on top of us
We covered our heads
And left bodies to scatter
…
Nothing exploded
It seems that bombs were too expensive!

[Battle]
The battle in which my cousin died
Was quite matching
[The defense army] with all its artillery
And my cousin alone
On the other side!

A picture
We weren’t defeated in 1967
We withdrew a little
So our enemy’s true picture could be revealed.

Welcome
The only street in town
Narrowed so the occupiers couldn’t pass
Our hearts are wide
So welcome!

Prayer
My mother
didn’t pray that night
Maybe she realized that
God wasn’t innocent!

Dungeons
The tanks dungeon
That was dug before battle
Was changed by children
Into a place for prostitution!

The minaret
The only thing
That remained high up
While even sky
Bent down its head!

Wisdom
Our neighbor said:
Don’t fear of Jews
They are cowards
They wont do anything
Except occupy the West Bank

Help
Where are the Arabs?
Cried the blind man in town
The imam replied:
Say where are Muslims
You infidel!

Going seaward
Translated by ali khalil
Going seaward
The wind roared [against the sun’s door]
Near a wave silently moaning
I saw my uncovered corpse walking
I looked skyward
Sea colors penetrate the skies
Vacuum from afar stares
Witnessing my lamented soul fly away
Forsaking its home, refusing to stay
Soaring high, looking for a new course

Oh, what a great distance
Oh, the mother’s painful existence
The mother that brought the vine, and the clouds
The sister, in the dough she immersed her hands
At the throne’s door, shadow-casting trees grew
Ripe with the wisdom they imbue
What an imprudent father
In forgetfulness awaits the aging tutor
Muttering to dust: ‘I’m made from you and you’re made from me.
Why do we differ now? We were friends, to whom are you taking me?
We used to be one,
Before the sky touched the shoulder of the disobedient
And grill the sun in its midst, and curve the crescent
We used to be close friends; don’t betray me now
My glove, leave me now
Allow me to witness the cave dwellers’ awakening
To show them the money for their future trading’

Heading towards the towering mountain
On top of the wind’s stallion
Unperturbed I did depart
The sun to my right
Words befriended me
Beneath my wings a sleeping sea
Time obscured my undoing
Day, dawn, dusk, are my silver rings
Carrying with me 99 aliases for God
And wishing for the figure to be round
And for my verses to be the conclusion
But I knew that life is not worth living
Then I was mysteriously wrapped
With a cloth from a dusty bark
Or an empty wood
The flames of knowledge were lit by God
It opened up my eyes
Women were preventing their men
From eating the apples
Feeding it in secret to strangers
I craved for almond
But towards lust I did not tread
I tasted no fruits and I didn’t touch their poison
I doubled up with hunger
And saw a long line for departure
“Go down… There!”
I’ve never touched the orchards’ fruits, you see
My hands never caressed the heavenly tree
Never tasted insubordination
Incarcerated with my starvation
My ribs my witness
My skin my witness
My guts my witness
Women reiterated:
“Who ate our apples, then, stranger?”
I was told, and I obeyed
I obeyed, and I was damned
I was damned, and I became known
I became known, and I was shunned
I threw my body next to the sea
On the sand, I saw footprints
Coffins, and skeletons
Silk hankies and axes
Bottles, jewels, statues of gold and ceramic
A guitar thrown at the sun’s doorway
Carved on it:
“Specially made for the wind’s illegal sons.”
I took the guitar
Saw snakes slithering from the desert
I took a bow
I kissed the earth
I kneeled to the crow
I played a little
Mountains shook
The skies hymned
Tall trees wept
Playing the guitar was the last deed
Of those shunned from above
Shunned from the seaside

Man

Oh man, who taught you to speak?
Who gave you the bible and your churches?
Oh man,
God
He did not choose you just to make money
Shed blood
And destroy liberty

Man is now incarcerated
Detained by the authorities
He was selling people marbles from heaven
And Moses’ enchanted staff

Cloud

Trapped in the sea
No sun to lift it in vapor
No wind to spread it across the sky
No thunder to sweep its heart
No lightning to shatter its core
No shadow to bring down its water
And it stays in its thirst
My country

Shadows

Pursuing the light
The spellbound opened his arms
And the shadow of the crestfallen moaned

My shadow is high
And the sun’s shadows are eagles
I want to control the fire
So my horrorstruck army would fall

The lord laughed
The priest laughed
And the father became
With a suppressive heart
And a button-less shirt


I am a descendant of the wind,
The rain is my address…

By Musa Hawamdeh

Before the idea hit against the earth
Before the smell of the clay emanates
I wandered through the snitching market
Holding the weight of my loss
Killing my soul
I am both Eve and Adam
Cain and Abel
I am the breed of the sin
and the alliance between iris and ambrosial house …

I might be here or there
I might be in the pine or in the cedar juice
I might be in the alluvial Nile or in the bed of Thames
I might be a feather in the wing of a crow
Or a buried atom from a Chinese mine
I might be an African fruit or a tree trunk in Panama
I might be the darkness that covers the North Pole
Or a sunny day over the Pacific Ocean
May be I am an ancestor of the Tartars
Or of a Roman killer …

I might be from a Jewish family
Or a Buddhist
Or a Red Indian
Or a Hindu priest …

Who can determine that the tears of the eyes won\'t ever change?
Or the autumn wind won\'t air all year long ?

Who can ascertain that the cemetery soil never dwelled in the clouds before Socrates birth?
Or assure the heat that cooked the Pharaoh\'s body
is not the same of which frivolled my child\'s face?

I might be a successor of different nations and many men
I might have Russian grandmothers or Spanish aunts
I am sure that water of life revolves through the valleys and the desires
Between silk and pantings…

Surely my language is not my body
And the birds\' voices are not strange to the movement of the wind and rain
I am not the present
Nor the future

I might have been a bird that came from the Persian time…
Or a cross from Constantine era
A sword in Khalid\'s hand
Or a glass in Khayyam\'
Who can guide me to myself?
My heart is full of the world\'s echo
My steps lead me to the first hearth…

I dare not curse Mars
I haven’t a desire to examine the path of Venus
I don’t have a desire to stop the magnet wind
from blowing over the bones of my ancestors…

I have a gleam from the God of War
A firebrand from Prometheus fire
I have verses of the Holy Koran
Verses of David
Hymns of Bolos
Excerpts from Buddha
Words from Abdul Bahaa
For I know nothing of the places of orbit or the sundown of creation
I began to get used to revelations
And to manifest the obvious in my mirrors…

I know all those who don’t know me:
My brother who has no relationship with me and never heard of my name
My sister from Caucasian
My aunt from Greece
And perhaps the Turks have tattooed my voice
Or the sea has tamed my savagery
A French farmer might have descended from me
Or trickery politician in Italy
I might have come from the land of Los Angeles
Or from Athena\'s clay
Who knows the history of my body before 2ooo years ago
Who have the roc’s egg in his hand?
Who can lead me to myself?
I may be not me
And not even you
I may be am here or there
You maybe from me whereas I am from Mars
I don’t deny my relationship with Zeus\' soul
But I don’t confess that he has any blood in my veins
I am not challenging the veracity of river
I am not hiding the sea in my cupboard
For I am a descendant of the wind,
And the rain is my address…

سلالتي الريح وعنواني المطر

Le vent est ma lignée, et la pluie mon adresse

Musa hawamdeh

Traduction:
Madany Guesseri

Avant que l’idée ne se heurte à la terre,
Avant que ne s’exhale l’odeur de la vase.
Je me suis promené au marché des calomnies,
Portant ma perte,
Me donnant la mort.
Je suis Adam et Eve,
Je suis aussi Cain et Abel
Descendant du péché originel
Et de l’union de l’iris avec la famille des exquis.

Je suis peut-être là, ou là-bas,
Je suis peut-être dans la sève d’un pin ou d’un cèdre.
Je suis peut-être une plume dans l’aile d’un corbeau,
Ou une particule enterrée dans les cendres d’un gisement de charbon chinois
Je suis peut-être une portion d’un fruit africain, ou d’un tronc d’arbre au Panana.
Je suis peut-être une obscurité qui enveloppe le Pole Nord
Ou peut-être un jour qui s’élève sur l’océan pacifique.
Je suis peut-être de la lignée mongole
Ou le descendant d’un tueur romain.

Oui, je suis peut-être d’une famille juive
Ou d’une famille bouddhique
Ou un rebut des peaux rouges
Ou une trace d’un Prêtre indien.

Qui croirait que les larmes aux yeux n’ont point changé,
Et que le vent d’automne ne traverse pas toutes les journées de l’année

Qui prouverait que la terre du cimetière n’a point habité les nuages de l’hiver du siècle ayant précédé la naissance de Socrate ?
Qui croirait que la chaleur qui a cuit le corps du pharaon Tahutmus n’est pas bien celle qui gate le visage de ma petite fille ?

J’appartiens peut-être à beaucoup de nations, et à tant d’hommes
J’ai peut-être des grands-mères russes et des tantes espagnoles.

Je suis certain que les eaux primordiales tournent entre cours d’eau et désirs charnels,
Je suis sur que ma langue n’est pas mon corps,
Que le son des oiseaux n’est pas étranger au mouvement du vent et de la pluie
Je ne suis pas l’Aujourd’hui,
Je ne suis pas le Demain.
J’ai été peut-être un oiseau au temps des perses
Ou une Croix au temps de Constantin
Ou un glaive aux mains de Saladin
Qui me dirait qui je suis ?
Mon cœur est rempli de palpitation universelle
Mes pas m’acheminent à la demeure du feu primordial
Je ne suis point capable d’injurier l’étoile de Mars
Je n’ai point envie de désapprouver la trajectoire de l’étoile du Valentin
Je n’insiste point pour arrêter le souffle magnétique sur les ossements des ancêtres

Je porte en moi un éclat de l’arme du dieu Mars
Une lueur du feu de Prométhée
Je porte de versets de Coran
Des Psaumes de David
Des cantiques de Paule
Des chants sacres de Bouddha
Des paroles de Bahaâ
Je ne connais point le levant du zodiaque, ni le coucher de la création
J’ai commence à m’habituer à l’étonnement
Et à me transfigurer dans le miroir !!!

Je connais celui qui ne me connaît point,
Mon frère auquel ne me lie aucun lien, et qui n’a jamais entendu mon nom
Ma sœur est caucasienne
Ma tante est de Grèce
Les Turcs ont peut-être marqué ma voix
La mer a peut-être raffiné ma sauvagerie
J’ai peut-être donné naissance à un cultivateur français
Ou à un imposteur politicien en Italie.
Je suis peut-être venu