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Sabahudin Hadžialić

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Soheil Najm, Baghdad, Iraq

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... was born in Baghdad; Iraq in 1956. An internationally known poet and translator, he is author of Breaking the Phrase (Beirut, 1994),  I Am Your Carpenter, Oh Light (Damascus, 2002) and No paradise outside the Window (Baghdad, 2008).  Translator into Arabic of The Gospel According to Jesus Christ by Jose Saramago and The Serpent and the Lily by Nikos Kazantzakis. Soheil was the editor of Gilgamesh, Iraq’s cultural magazine in English and now the editor of the journal (Foreign Culture) in Arabic. Contact: soheilnajm@yahoo.com 



VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33, 
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5.6.2012. - IRAQ LITERARY REVIEW No 2. SPRING 2012
(Managing editor - our author Soheil Najm)  


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                        Dnevnik suštine

           Odsjaji vremena nemaju granica, kao ni prostora. Poezija Soheil Najma, pjesnika iz Iraka, patnjom uobličena i vjerom u sudbinu označena, snagom sopstvene nakane me podsjeća na creatia poetica s pocetka devedesetih na prostorima Balkana. Kada su, iako zatomljene, dok su topovi pucali, muze poezije pjevale. Snagom plača bitka koji nestaje da bi se ponovo rodio u stihovima pjesnika ovdašnjih. No, ovaj pjesnik iz Bagdada, realno razložan u svojim namjerama da suštinom omeđi svoju opstojnost, uspijeva u jednom zaintrigirati čitaoca:
            U neposrednoj iskrenoj borbi da pokaže kako nada postoji. Krhka, ali postoji: „uzeli biste nam i pravo da živimo u zabludi/ dok tama pretvara strah u nepremostivi zid.“ Ovjekovječena zabludom ljudskog ludila koji životinjsko u sebi postavlja na pijadestal svakodnevnice i života svakoga od nas. Njegov stih je poetičan u svojoj namjeri, ali je itekako „subverzivan“ u svojoj suštini. Kada kažem „subverzivan“, prije svega mislim na razbijanje kanona estetike, ali i etike prosječnosti unutar pjesničke refleksije.
             Ovdje se radi o POEZIJI par excellance koja može biti samo uzorom, jer ovo je kao kada bi pop-art s kraja šesdesetih i početka sedamdesetih prošloga vijeka/stoljeća susreo hip-hop kulturu devedesetih. I kada bi iz toga susreta nastao pjesnik socijalnog osvještenja Whitmanovog ali i bezobrazluka svakodnevnice Bukovskog. Ali, ipak to jeste Najm. Njim samim. Posebnim. Koji zaslužuje biti sa nama ovdje i sada. Itekako!

 
Riječ urednika
Sabahudin Hadžialić


                                Diary of the essence

         Reflections  of the time do not have limits, as well as the space. Poetry of Soheil Najma, a poet from Iraq, shaped through the suffering and marked with faith in destiny, with the power of his own intentions reminds me on creatica poetica  from the beginning of the nineties in the Balkans. When, though suppressed, while the guns were fired, muse of poetry sung. With the power of the being which cries and disappears to be born again in verse of local poets. But this poet from Baghdad, really reasonable in his intent to bound, with the essence; his existence, thrives in an one thing to intrigue the reader:
              In the sincere struggle to show that there is hope. Fragile, but there is: “you would have stripped us of your denial/ as darkness turns terror to a wall.” Perpetuated with the fallacy of human madness, which animal in itself place on the pedestal of everyday life and the life of every one of us. His verse is poetic in its intent, but it is very "subversive" in its essence. When I say "subversive", such as thinking about breaking the canons of aesthetics, and ethics, within the mediocrity of poetic reflection.
           Here, it is about POETRY par excellence that can only be a role model, because this is like when a pop-art from the late sixties and early seventies of the last century meets hip-hop culture of the nineties. And when you get out of that meeting as a poet of social awareness like  Whitman’s, but also the insolence of everyday Bukovski. Yet, it is Najm. By himself. Special one. Whom deserves to be with us here and now. Very much!


Editor's word
Sabahudin Hadzialic


                                                        Ekskluzivno za DIOGEN pro kultura magazin
                                                                                      Prevod pjesama sa engleskog jezika:
                                                                                             Anya Reich

                   At the end of the day

 
The boys took their toys

and drew the curtain over the defects of the houses.

At the end of the day,

we saw the moon come out of hiding

rising up, looking like a rotten pear.

At the end of the day,

the cats gathered their litter away from the streets

to make room for the dogs.

At the end of the day,

there is not enough time

to hunt for what was left of the shiny ropes

or to lead the butterflies to our homes.

At the end of the day,

the shadows became the same

We rushed to gather our fleeing steps

calling come on,

the strangers are multiplying at night

and those who stray will be left homeless

in the open air.

 
At the end of the day,

the apprehension of loneliness will come

carrying eternal deadlines in our dreams.

At the end of the day,

the minaret became tired of birds' droppings

not saved by the passing clouds.


......



At the end of the day,

we will whisper to the bats

take all of this night

and all that we have seen and touched

we will be satisfied with the light of a distant star

that fascinates our souls,

sending us to sleep.

11/11/2009 Baghdad



 

                     The Bird of Possibility

 

'Since he did not give us wings , why did he prompt us to fly?'

Saint Francis

 (A novel by Nikos Kazantzakis)

 

They crossed the distance

so it was not a coincidence that the bird smelt their bones

between the soul and the impossible.

The tainted white is their crown

their maps, eaten by the past,

were fixed

on their faces

with nails of sorrow.

From where will they be taken by the giddiness

and where will it lead them?

Will they answer to the wind's hunger,

Or the earth will gather their screams

with its eternal carpet bag?

Here the bird pecks at the remainder of a dream

hidden in the midst of the dust.

 

We asked suddenly:

where are our gardens

O, madness?

There is a terrified tear

rolled to become a fossilized wail

in the immortal darkness.

 

As if the memory of the bird is searching inside for a theory of a hidden smile

in the open air

the bell extinguished its ringing

leaving nothing but dumb hymns

uttered by the bird at a distance

from the last echoes.

 

Tell us you exist

in order to live

O, hope.

 

The bird flew on a heap of ashes

alerted by a rain of smoke

washing  away the hatred.

 

As if

the ends collect themselves to crawl without limbs.

They wrapped themselves unwillingly with what they did not want,

the grass of memories grew amongst their ribs

flowers of bullets and splinters.

The time had curdled

a night cannot catch up with it, nor a day.

 

 

The bird grasps the chance with its claws

but it soon dissolves.

If you were with us

you would have stripped us of your denial

as darkness turns terror to a wall.

If you were

If..........if you were

Were you?

 

The grain of sand says

while running under

their dreams

perhaps the enigma untangles

to become feasible

extending its hands

to the utmost.

Hardening in the depression of the nightmare,

perhaps

every corpse

just watch the last of the clouds

dragging its bloody tail

and becoming distant

declaring a lost sunset

pulling children's laughs

out of its joy

and hanging it as slaughtered wishes.

 

The bird is burning without ashes

or tongue

or a silent song

tracking its shadow.

 

Perhaps they got out of their cemeteries

without heads

or prayers to keep away from them

the denial and the denier.

The bird had seen them

their limbs are falling

in the valleys of  inattention

and there are no arms imploring

only thorny questions

in the corners of the eyes.

 

The bird placed its broken wing

on

a thread of groaning

suspended

from a swing

that leaps between the darkness

and light

while the sun was

a plastic game

shaken by a hand of a murdered child

buried

under the soil.

 




                        A balcony hit by the wind

 

O past

is it the night that you are following the trail of

or is it the lost song?

Each time your bell rings

I resign my soul to grief.

 

From which corner do you diffuse your beam tonight,

from which vision will you stream?

Disguised pictures and falsehood

descend from your world of illusion

on the wound

to hurtit.

As if I was retreating to my eternal bewilderment

to track your

shadow,

gasping after my madness

my disappointment is folded under your wing,

am I carrying my exile in you?

when you are dragging me to the distant place

or am I the same as you, a drop of a tear

falling in a barren well?

 

Your night swept passed

a pack of wolfs spring out of its doors

while the strings of music time is cut

like an exhausted storm

over burdening me.

 

In the  depth of remote alienation

your night passed

howling from the intensity of isolation

as it stands on a wind stricken balcony.

Out of which giddiness do you come to hide

your death?

Out of which defeated world do you happen to come?

Complete with your bitter pit and visions

you scattered my dream

and placed me in solitude

in the furthest grain of sand

singing your eternal night

my insignia is my language

and your dispersed photos in the ashes.







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                         Na kraju dana  


Dečaci su pokupili svoje igračke

i navukli zavesu preko ruševina

njihovih domova.

Na kraju dana,

ugledali smo mesec kako se iskrada

poprimajući oblik trule kruške.

Na kraju dana,

mačke su pokupile svoje đubre

sa ulica

da ustupe mesto psima.

Na kraju dana,

nema se vremena

da lunjamo trazeći ostatke sjajnih konopaca

ili da jurimo leptire sve do kućnog praga.

Na kraju dana,

senke se stapaju

sa našim užurbanim koracima

čuje se dozivanje,

noc rađa mnoštvo stranaca

a oni koji zastrane zanoćit će

van doma svoga,

pod vedrim nebom.

 

Na kraju dana,

pomisao na samoću

boji naše snove vekovnim strahom od smrti.

Na kraju dana,

i minaret se zasiti od ptičijeg otpada

spasa mu nema ni od promičućih oblaka.

……….....
 

Na kraju dana,

šaputaćemo na na uvo slepim miševima

uzmite ovu noć

i sve što smo videli, sve što smo dotakli

dosta nam je samo da gledamo

odsjaj udaljene zvezde,

koja obasjava naše duše,

uspavljujući nas.

11/11/2009 Bagdad


                               Ptica zvana nada

 

‘Zašto nam nije dao krila, zašto nam je dao želju da letimo?”

Sveti Francis

(Roman Niksa Kazancakisa)

 

Prešli su dugi put

te nije bilo slučajno što je  ptica

namirisala njihove kosti

leteći između duše i nemogućeg.

Njihova kruna – umrljano belilo

njihove mape – izjedene proslošću,

prikovane

na njihovim licima

zakivcima tuge.

Iz kakvih li daljina

dolazi taj njihov nestalni duh

i gde li će ih odvesti ?

Da li će se povesti za pustoši vetrova,

ili će zemlja upiti  njihove krike

i zatomiti ih u svojom pokrivaču ?

Ovde ta ptica se hrani

ostacima

jednog sna

skrivenog u sred prašine.

 

Upitasmo se iznebuha:

gde su naši vrtovi

O, ludosti ?

Suza ispunjna užasom

skliznu

i pretvori se u okamenjeni zid

besmrtne tame.

 

Kao da je sećanje na pticu unutrašnje preispitivanje za teoriju skirvenog osmeha

a napolju

zvono je utihnulo

ostavivši za sobom tišinu  neme pesme

kojom se priča oglasila u daljini

posledni odjek.

 

Kaži nam da postojiš

da bi živeli

O, nado.

 

Ptica je nadletala gomilu pepela

primamljena kišom dima

želeći iz dubine duše da mržnja nestane.

 

Kao da se krajevi skupljaju i gmižu

Bez udova.

Obmotavaju se, iz puste navike

želja je odavno usahla,

među njihovim rebrima

raste trava sećanja

cveće od metaka i krhotina.

Vreme se zgrušalo

ni noć, ni dan da stignu trku sa vremenom.

 

Svojim kandžama prica ugrabi priliku

ali ubrzo napusti svoj plen.

Da ste sa nama

uzeli biste nam i pravo da živimo u zabludi

dok tama pretvara strah u nepremostivi zid.

Da ste

Ako…da ste tu

Gde ste?

 

Zrno peska kaže

dok se kotrlja

niz njihove snove

a možda se to engma raspetljava

da postane izvediva

pružajući svoje ruke

ka krajnjem.

Okamenjujući se u bespuću

noćne more,

svaki leš

možda

samo gleda oblake koji zamiču

vukući svoj krvati rep

nestajući

najavljujući izgubljeni zalazak sunca

čupajući dečiji smeh

iz njihovih radosti

i beseći ih kao zaklane želje.

 

Ptica sagoreva, bez pepela

ili jezika

ili neotpevane pesme

prateći svoju senku.

Možda su obezglavljeni

ustali sa groblja

bez molitvi koje  teraju od njih samih

poricanje i odricanje.

Ptica ih je ugledala

udovi im se raspadaju

u dolinama nemara

tamo nema ruku koje preklinju

samo ima mučnih pitanja

koja izviru iz uglova očiju.

 

Ptica je spustila svoje polomljeno krilo

na

nit koja se povija pod teretom

obesena

o ljuljašku

koja se njiše između tame

i svetla

dok je sunce

samo jedan plastična igračka

prodrmana rukom ubijenog deteta

zatrpanog

pod hrpom zemlje






                       Balkon pometen vetrom

 

O proslošti

da li pratiš trag noći

ili

je to izgubljena pesma?

Svaki put kada zvono zazvoni

moja duša se preda tuzi.

 

Iz kog ugla noćas dolazi

tvoj zrak,

iz koje vizije ćeš poteći?

Prerušene slike i laži

spuštaju se

iz tvog iluzornog sveta

na ranu, da je razjape.

Kao da sam se povlačio iz mog večnog

cuđenja

da pratim tvoju

senku,

grabeći dah mojim ludilom

moje razočaranje se ugnjezdilo

ispod tvog krila,

ja nosim moje izgnanstvo u tebi ?

kada me ti vučeš u to daleko

mesto

ili sam ja isti kao i ti, samo jedna suza

 

u presušenom bunaru ?

 

Tvoja noć je protutnjala

čopor vukova je jurnuo kroz vrata tame

muzika prodire u talasima, vreme je presečeno

i prisiska me

poput bure na izdisaju.

 

 

Tvoja noć ističe

u ponorima udaljene otuđenosti

razdirući krici tvoje usamljenosti odzvanjaju

na balkonu šibanom vetrom.

Kakva te je to zanemoćalost naterala da

sakriješ svoju smrt ?

Iz kakvog si to potlačenog sveta

došao?

Zajedno za tvojom otrovnom propašću i vizijama

ti si rasuo moje snove

i okovao me u samoću

kao najudaljenije zrno peska

pevajući kroz beskrajnu noć

moj jezik su moji simboli

a tvoj jezik su fotografije rasute po pepelu.






  سهيل نجم

قصائد

 

في آخر النهار

 

في آخر النهار

أخذ الصبية ألعابهم

وأنزلوا الستارة على عورة البيوت.

في آخر النهار

رأينا القمر يطلع من مخبأه

ويعلو ويعلو لكأنه

أجاصة تالفة.

في آخر النهار

لملمت القطط صغارها من الشوارع

لتفرغ المكان للكلاب.

في آخر النهار

لم يعد لنا متسع من الوقت

لنصطاد ما تبقى من حبال الضياء

أو نقود الفراشات إلى بيتنا.

في آخر النهار

تساوت الظلال

فهرعنا نجمع خطانا الهاربة

أن هلمّي

فالغرباء يتكاثرون في الليل

والذين يضلون لا مأوى لهم

سوى العراء.

في آخر النهار

ستجيء هواجس الوحشة

حاملة مواعيد يدقها الأبد

في أحلامنا.

 في آخر النهار

تعبت المئذنة من ذروق الطيور

ولم تنجدها السحب العابرة.

..................

.................

في آخر النهار

سنهمس للخفافيش

خذي كل هذا الليل،

وكل ما مر بأيدينا وأبصارنا

سنكتفي بضياء نجمة بعيدة

يسحر أرواحنا نورها

فننام.                            
                            11/11/2009

 

 

مادام لم يمنحنا الأجنحة لماذا يدفعنا إلى الطيران؟...

كازنتزاكي

(رواية القديس فرانسيس)

 

هُمْ عَبروا المسافة

فليسَ مصادفة أن يشمَّ

الطائِرُ عظامَهم،

بين الروح

والمستحيلْ.

البياضُ الأسودُ تاجُهم

وخرائطهُم،

التي أكَلها الماضي،

مثبتة

على وجوهِهم

بمساميرَ من الحزن.

 

من أينَ يأخذهُم الدوارُ

وسيقودهُم

إلى أين؟

هل سَيلبونَ جوع الرياح

أم ستلمُّ الأرضُ

صَرخاتهم

في خُرجِها الأبدي؟

 

ها هو الطائر ينقرُ بقايا حُلم

كانَ قد تًخفى

في ثنايا الغُبار.

 

بَغتة  سألناهُ:

أينَ حدائِقُنا

أيُّها الجُنون؟

 

ثمّة  دمعة  مذعورة

تدحرجتْ لتتحجرَ نواحاً

في أبدية العُتمة.

 

كأن ذاكرة  الطائر  تبحثُ في الجوفِ

عن فرضيةٍ لابتسامةٍ دفينةٍ

في العراءْ،

أطفأتِ الأجراسُ رنينَها

ولم تُبق  إلا ترانيمَ

خرساءَ

يرددها الطائرُ

على مبعدةٍ من آخر

الأصداءْ.

 

قُل لنا أنَكَ موجود،ٌ

كي نَحيا

 أيها الأمل.

 

حلّق الطائرُ على ركام  الرمادِ،

متنبهاً

لمطر  من الدخان  راحَ

يغسلُ الضغينة.

 

كأنَّ

النهاياتَ تُلملم نفسَها لتحبو بلا أطرافْ.

تَدثروا بما لم يَشأ وا

ونَمتْ أعشابُ الذكرياتِ بين ضُلوعِهم

ورداً من الرصاص  والشظاياْ.

 

كانَ الوقتُ رائباً

لا ليلَ يدركهُ ولا نَهارْ.

 

يَقبضُ الطائرُ بمخالبهِ على الفرصةِ

لكنها سُرعانَ ما تسيلْ.

لو كنتَ معنا

 لجردْتَنا من نُكرانكَ،

فالظلمةُ تحيلُ الخوفَ إلى جدارْ.

لو ....كنتَ...

للوللو للللووووووووووو ...  كنتَ...

فهل كنتَ؟

 

تقولُ حبة  الرمل،

وهيَ تنداحُ تحتَ

أحلامَهم،

رُبتما تَرتخي الأَحاجي

إلى مُمكن

يمدُّ يديه

نحوَ الأقاصي.

متخشبةً في كآبة الكابوس،

رُبتما

قامتْ كلُّ جثةٍ

بالفُرجةِ على آخرِ الغيمِ

يجرُّ ذيلهُ الدامي

وينأى،

معلنة  غروباً ضائعاً

يجرُّ الضحكاتَ الطفولية 

من فرحِها

ويعلَّقها أُمنياتٍ ذبيحة .

 

الطائرُ يحترقُ بلا رمادٍ

أو لسان

أو أُغنيةٍ صامتةٍ

تقتفي ظِلهْ.

 

لعلّهمْ خَرجوا من مدافِنِهم

بلا رؤوس

أو صلواتٍ تُبعد عَنهم

الناكرَ والنكيرْ.

كانَ الطيرُ قد أبصرهمْ

تسّاقطُ أعضاؤهم

في وديان  الغفلةِ

ولا أذرعَ تتوسلُ الدعاءَ

غير أسئلةٍ شوكيةٍ

في زَوايا العيونْ.

 

حطَّ الطائرُ جناحَهُ المكسورَ

على

خيطٍ من أنينٍ

كانَ قد تدلّى

من أُرجوحةٍ تقفزُ بين الظُلمةِ

والضوءِ،

بَينما

كانتِ الشمسُ

لعبة  صوتٍ لدائنيةٍ

ترجُّها كفُّ طفلٍ قتيلٍ

دُسَّ

تَحتَ التُرابْ.

 

   

أيها الماضي

أهو الليل الذي تقتفي أثره

أم هي الأغنية الضائعة؟

كلما رنت

أجراسك

أسلمتُ روحي للأسى.

من أي زاوية تبث شعاعك الليلة،

ومن أي رؤيا سوف تسيل؟

صور مموهة وأباطيل

تهبط من عالمك الوهمي

على الجرح

فتنكأه .

كأني مرتدٍ لحيرتي الأبدية وأقتفي

ظلك،

ألهث وراء جنوني

وخيبتي مطوية تحت جنحك،

هل أنا حامل منفاي فيك

وأنت تجرني إلى المنأى،

أم أنا، مثلك، قطرة دمع

تهبط في بئر عقيم؟

مر ليلك جارف

أبوابه تتدفق منها قطعان ذئاب

بينما موسيقى الزمن تتقطع

أوتارها

مثلما عاصفة منهكة

تضع أثقالها

على كاهلي.

 

في عمق غربة سحيقة،

مر ليلك،

 يعوي، من شدة عزلته،

وهو واقف على شرفة تلطمها الريح.

من أي دوار صرت تخفي

موتك؟

من أي عالم مهزوم

صرت تأتي؟

 

مكتملاً بهوتك وأطيافك المُّرّة

بعثرت حلمي

ووضعتني،

منفرداً،

 في أقصى حبة رمل

أغني ليلك الأبدي

شارتي لغتي

وصورك المبثوثة في الرماد.








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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara. 
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić

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Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;  
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Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić, 
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili 
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina   

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