The Garden Of Bright Waters | Page 7

is dancing.
From the Arabic of Urak El Hutail.
THE GREAT OFFENCE
She seemed so bored,?I wanted to embrace her by surprise;?But then the scalding waters?Fell from her eyes and burnt her roses.
I offered her a cup....
And came to paradise....
Ah, sorrow,?When she rose from the waves of wine?I thought she would have killed me?With the swords of her desolation....
Especially as I had tied her girdle?With the wrong bow.
_From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century)._
AN ESCAPE
She was beautiful that evening and so gay....
In little games?My hand had slipped her mantle,?I am not sure?About her skirts.
Then in the night's curtain of shadows,?Heavy and discreet,?I asked and she replied:?To-morrow.
Next day I came?Saying, Remember.
Words of a night, she said, to bring the day.
_From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century)._
THREE QUEENS
Three sweet drivers hold the reins,?And hold the places of my heart.?A great people obeys me,?But these three obey me not.?Am I then a lesser king than love?
_From the Arabic of Haroun El Raschid (eighth century)._
HER NAILS
She is as wise as Hippocrates,?As beautiful as Joseph,?As sweet-voiced as David,?As pure as Mary.
I am as sad as Jacob,?As lonely as Jonah,?As patient as Job,?As unfortunate as Adam.
When I met her again?And saw her nails?Prettily purpled,?I reproached her for making up?When I was not there.
She told me gently?That she was no coquette,?But had wept tears of blood?Because I was not there,?And maybe she had dried her eyes?With her little hands.
I would like to have wept before she wept;?But she wept first?And has the better love.?Her eyes are long eyes,?And her brows are the bows of subtle strong men.
_From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._
PERTURBATION AT DAWN
Day comes....
And when she sees the withering of the violet garden?And the saffron garden flowering,?The stars escaping on their black horse?And dawn on her white horse arriving,?She is afraid.
Against the sighing of her frightened breasts?She puts her hand;?I see what I have never seen,?Five perfect lines on a crystal leaf?Written with coral pens.
_From the Arabic of Ebn Maatuk (seventeenth century)._
THE RESURRECTION OF THE TATTOOED GIRL
Her hands are filled with what I lack,?And on her arms are pictures,?Looking like files of ants forsaking the battalions,?Or hail inlaid by broken clouds on green lawns.
She fears the arrows of her proper eyes?And has her hands in armour.
She has stretched her hands in a cup to me,?Begging for my heart.?She has circled me with the black magic of her brows?And shot small arrows at me.
The black curl that lies upon her temple?Is a scorpion pointing his needle at the stars.
Her eyes seem tight, tight shut;?But I believe she is awake.
_From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._
MOALLAKA
The poets have muddied all the little fountains.
Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house?
O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa,?Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you.
My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand?And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert.
O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa;?And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samna?And in the valley of Motethalem!
Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins?Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away.
Now is the dwelling of Abla?In a valley of men who roar like lions.?It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram.

Abla is a green rush?That feeds beside the water.
But they have taken her to Oneiza?And my tribe feeds in lazy Ghailam valley.
They fixed the going, and the camels?Waked in the night and evilly prepared.
I was afraid when I saw the camels?Standing ready among the tents?And eating grain to make them swift.
I counted forty-two milk camels,?Black as the wings of a black crow.
White and purple are the lilies of the valley,?But Abla is a branch of flowers.
Who will guide me to the dwelling of Abla?
_From the Arabic of Antar (late sixth and early seventh centuries)._
MOALLAKA
Rise and hold up the curved glass,?And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar.
Pour wine for us, whose golden colour?Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron.
Pour us wine to make us generous?And carelessly happy in the old way.
Pour us wine that gives the miser?A sumptuous generosity and disregard.
O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup?When it should have been moving to the right;?And yet the one of us three that you would not serve?Is not the least worthy.
How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek,?And emptied at Damas and emptied at Cacerin!
More cups! more cups! for death will have his day;?His are we and he ours.

By herself she is fearless?And gives her arms to the air,?The limbs of a long camel that has not borne.
She gives the air her breasts,?Unfingered ivory.
She gives the air her long self and her curved self,?And hips so round and heavy that they are tired.
All these noble abundances of