Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Desert Storm

Gilgamesh confronting the Storm

This mythic Face Off 

These Face off have been going on since antiquity in our region

Important note: This is a liberal translation of an epic poem by late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.

It was written over 30 years ago; way before Desert Storm on Iraq in 1991, as if a premonition.

And No, the Eagle does not represent a symbol to any State or tribe, religion, or any culture.

Excellent poets perceive invariants in human history and rephrase them in indelible images.

 

Epic story of Storm attacking Old Eagle

Waiting for the storm to hit

How could anyone cope with a storm?

What could you do in a desert storm?

 

Where is the storm?

It is on the horizon, hesitating;

A tramp at the hotel entrance.

 

Old eagle, maybe the last of his species,

Lonely, quiet, waiting for the storm;

A chauffeur waiting for his master.

 

Old eagle is tired of tasting occasional serene clouds;

An old chef tasting the remains of a banquet.

 

Queen storm is taking her time in front of the mirror.

Old eagle is ready to chase out the storm up front.

 

What could he do with a worn out beak?

A Decrepit beak and deformed from frequent shattering to pieces on rocks.

How could old eagle hurry to meet the storm?

A tottering bicycle crossing river bed?

 

For years, the white feathers of Eagle have been dirty;

Dirtier than an old waiter’s apron.

 

A gentle breeze nudging old eagle from rock to rock,

From plain to plain;

A bored old soldier in a camp

Anxious for his last battle, confronting a fly.

 

A soothing breeze floated over old eagle;

He fluttered, a youth touched by the first girl.

Old eagle heaves a sigh; he is reminiscing youth

 

Strong wings spanning the valley, glittering with sweat.

Tiny birds, out of breath, trailing valiantly behind,

Mobs running after the King’s horse,

 

Chants hoarse, hallelujah feeble.

Old eagle is dozing, in the scorching sun;

Epoch stretching out.

 

Suddenly, the universe blackened;

The world is still;

So still that the silence created religions out of fear;

 

Old eagle’s tail is waving.

Old eagle is hopping in circle;

A baby lamb welcoming its mother.

 

The storm thundered and hastened;

An ice skater showing off.

 

Old eagle is whispering an old victory song;

An eagle fallen off mountain tops,

A bride with no pendants and no cries.

 

Old eagle opened his old beak and retreated

In respect of his old master and teacher.

 

Old eagle is spinning amid his broken plumes,

His shouts clacking like rifle bullets

A mass of blood proudly lecturing

On the art of thirsting and ripping apart enemies.

 

The storm danced around old eagle and sneaked away.

Old eagle is mad; he is jumping cat-like;

A frightened baby stumbling for the door knob;

A drunkard coming back in the bar

Kicked out a hundred times and coming back.

 

Old eagle is wailing like a baby.

The storm lost steam on the sea-shore,

Medals and crowns scattered.

The bludgeoned face of a boxer;

A drunk washing his face.

 

Mighty storm is aching:

It recollects that a tiny creature fought to death.

Mighty storm is sprawled on the beach:

A monstrous tent shrinking to a headgear;

Tears dropping in eagle’s shape.

Note: After approving another half a dozen of my poems I sent this unpoetic voice site the following poem: https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2010/09/12/puny-avatar-why-in-the-name-of-god/

It was approved and then immediately the site “suspended” me without providing reasons.

It is to be noted that the site never presented any constraints beforehand for joining or the kind of poems “satisfactory” to their “ideology”.

Nelson Chip: Tagger (February 5, 2009)

 

            I got the idea of this article out of a chapter in the French book “Like a drifting eagled” by the Lebanese author Alexandre Najjar. 

Nelson Chip is a tagger; that is how he describes his profession.  Nelson cannot help it; he always carries a painting “bomb” to tag his graffiti on anything drab, ugly, plain boring; he tags on crumbling walls, graying train carriages, dirty metro subways but never on private properties, telephone booths, private cars, or window shops. Nelson is not a drug addict or a drunkard; he works alone and by night fall; he likes his privacy and solitude. Nelson tags works of art, messages of peace, of hope, expressive words in order to cheer up what he judges to be drab and uninspiring; many gangs try to emulate his artistic calligraphy design by tagging their war names for narcissistic exhibition. 

            Larry Chip is his brother; he also paints.  The ID plaque on his combat uniform states “CDR-Larry Chip-Combat Artist”.  The Navy Art Gallery dispatched Larry to Kuwait during Desert Storm war against Iraq in 1992.  Larry’s job was to draw soldiers and immortalize the G.I.  He then painted over 30 of these portraits for the exhibit in his honor.  During the war, Larry was distinguished and received recognition by painting graffiti on missiles and bomb shells destined for the Iraqi civilians.

            Two brothers, two artists; Nelson is serving jail terms for carrying a painting bomb in his bag; he is charged of “voluntary defacing, degrading, deterioration of public properties and monuments”.  Nelson is no longer permitted shaving foam; he said: “My hands itch when I carry a painting bomb; I have to relieve my idea, to express my revolt; I have then this irrepressible desire to paint”   Larry returned home a War Hero; the famous and glamorous are flocking to watch his artistic “chef d’oeuvre” in Washington, DC.

            Two brothers, two artists “painters”; Nelson’s art are still emulated by the little people to express their frustrated emotions and miserable living.  Larry’s graffiti disintegrated; only the hate mongers are emulating his art: the Zionists painted blasphemous graffiti on missiles and shells targeted to Palestinian babies in Gaza.


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

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