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"لاعب النرد" يجلب
الدموع في عيون هونج كونج
ندوة – هونج كونج 13 أغسطس 2008
قام الشاعر المصري سيد جودة بترجمة قصيدة "لاعب النرد"
آخر قصائد محمود درويش للغة الإنجليزية وقراءتها في أمسية شعرية أقيمت
في هونج كونج مساء الأربعاء 13 أغسطس. انفعل الحاضرون الذين كانوا
يشكلون جنسيات مختلفة مع القصيدة وأعربوا عن بالغ حزنهم وأسفهم لنبأ
رحيل الشاعر الكبير. هذا وقد طلب الشاعر الإنجليزي مارتن إلكسندر
المحرر بمجلة "أدب آسيا" الربع سنوية من جودة إعطاءه نسخة من الترجمة
لنشرها في عدد سبتمبر القادم. من جهة أخرى فإن بعض أعمال محمود درويش
ستقرأ باللغات العربية والصينية والإنجليزية والفرنسية في الصالون
الأدبي الشهري الذي يعقده جودة في هونج كونج آخر خميس من كل شهر.
وإليكم مقتطفات من قصيدة "لاعب النرد" مترجمة للغة الإنجليزية كما
ترجمها سيد جودة:
The Dice Player
(Excerpts)
Mahmoud
Darwish - Palestine
Translated by Sayed Gouda - Egypt / Hong Kong
Who am I to say to you
What I say to you?
I’m not a stone
Polished by water
To become a face
Nor am I a stick of cane
With holes made by the wind
To become a flute ….
I’m a dice player
I win sometimes
I lose sometimes
I’m like you
Or a little bit less than you
I was born beside the well
Beside the three lonely trees
As lonely as nuns
I was born with no celebration or midwife
I was given my name just by chance
I belonged to a family
By chance
I inherited
their features, habits,
And sickness.
I could have not existed
My father could have not married my mother
By chance
I could have been like my sister
Who screamed and died
Not knowing
That she had lived only one hour
Not knowing who gave her birth.
Who am I to say to you
What I say to you
At the door of the church?
I’m nothing but a dice throw
Between predator and prey
I gained more awareness
Not to be happy with my moonlit night
But to witness the massacre
I survived by chance:
I was smaller than a military target
And bigger than a bee
Flying among the flowers over the fence
I worried a lot about my brothers and my father
I worried about a time made of glass
I worried about my cat and my rabbit
About a charming moon over the high minaret of the
mosque.
I could have not been a swallow
If the wind had wished it so
The wind is the traveller’s luck
I went north, east, west
But the south was too hard for me
Too far from me
Because the south is my country
I became a metaphor of a swallow
Floating over my debris
In the spring, in the autumn
Baptizing my feathers with the clouds of the lake
Prolonging my greeting
Unto the Nassiri who never dies
Because in him is the spirit of God
And God is the prophets’ luck
It is my fortune that I am the neighbor of Godhead
….
It is my misfortune that the cross
Is the eternal ladder to our tomorrow!
Who am I to say to you
What I say to you
Who am I?
I could have not been inspired
Inspiration is the luck of the lonely souls
“The poem is a dice throw”
On a board of darkness
That may or may not glow
Words fall
Like feathers on the sand
I did not plan the poem
I only obeyed its rhythm
To life I say: slow down, wait for me
Till in my cup drunkenness has dried
There are flowers in the garden, flowers to all
The air cannot escape the flower
Wait
for me
So that the nightingales don’t escape me
And I don’t break the rhythm
The singers stretch the cords of their lutes in the
square
Ready for the song of farewell
Slow down
Long live life!
It is the traveller’s luck that hope
Is the twin of despair
Or its spontaneous poetry
When the sky looks grey
And I see a flower appear all of a sudden
From the cracks of a wall
I don’t say: the sky is grey
I contemplate the flower
And say: What a day!
To two of my friends I say
At the gate of night:
If we have to dream
Let it be like us, simple
Like: we have a dinner together after two days
The three of us
Celebrating the truth of the prophecy in our dream
That none of the three of us is lost
For the last two days
Let us celebrate the sonata of the moon
And the kindness of death saw us together, happy
And so it lowered its gaze!
I don’t say: life farther away is real
With places of fantasy
But I say: life here is possible
And by chance, the land became a holy land
Not because its lakes, its heights, its
trees
Are similar to the gardens in Heaven
But because there was a prophet who walked there
And prayed on a rock and it cried
And the mountain fell in fear of God,
Unconscious
And by chance the hill slopes of a country
Became a museum of nonsense
Because thousands of soldiers died there
From both sides in defence of the two killers
Who said: Go!
And they waited for the spoils in two silky tents on
both sides –
How often soldiers die without knowing until now
Who was the victorious one!
And by chance some storytellers lived and said:
If the others beat the others
Our human history would have different headlines
O green land, O apple - ‘I love you when
you are green’
Moving in a wave of light and water, green
Your night is green
Your dawn is green
Plant me tenderly …
Like the tenderness of a mother’s hand
In a handful of air
I’m one of your seeds, green
This poem is not written by one poet
It could have not been lyrical
Who am I to say to you
What I say to you?
I could have not been me
I could have not been here
My plane could have crashed
In the morning
It is my fortune that I sleep till mid-day
So I went to the airport late
I could have not seen
Lebanon and
Cairo
The Louvre and the enchanting cities
If I was one to walk slowly, my shadow could have
been cut from the wakeful cedar by a bullet
If I was one to walk fast, I could have been torn
into pieces
To become a fleeting thought
If I was one to dream too much, I could have
lost my memory.
It is my fortune that I sleep alone
So that I listen to the voice of my body
And believe my talent in discovering pain
And call the physician
Ten minutes before I die
Ten minutes, enough to live, by chance
And disappoint the void
Who am I to disappoint the void?
Who am I?
Who am I?
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