Hasan the Cup Maker (2)

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Noon Meem Rashid Poetry

( 2 Votes )

Hasan the Cup Maker (2)

O Born of Time,
The ecstasy of that sensual night
how far can I forget?
Was it the vigor in the wine or the tremor in my hand
that a wine-cup slipped that night and shattered .....
You were not surprised!
For on the windowpanes of your home
there had been many cracks before ......
You were not surprised!

O Born of Time,
Now that I have returned from Baghdad
to my wine-cups, to my clay pits,
I ponder  ......
I ponder: You were like a mirror in front of me
In the street, on the balcony, at the head of the ermine bed sometimes
You were like a mirror in front of me,
In which I could see nothing
except for my own reflection
Except for the horror of my soul wrenching isolation!
I am writing a note to you
and the mirror is in my hand
And I can't see anything in it
except for just one reflection!
I am writing a note to you
but do I even know to write?
On the slate of this mirror with the showers of my tears
why shouldn't I compose?

O Born of Time,
Will the ecstasy of that sensual night
bring me back again?
What is time, are you aware?
Time is a moth that crawls
on the walls, on the mirrors,
on the cups, on the goblets,
on my bowls and decanters, on my clay pits,
since eternity.
Like the crawling time some day
perhaps Hasan the love-scald cup-maker will return as well!

Now that I have returned O Born of Time,
I contemplate:
That on the roof of my hut what the spider of my wanting
weaves, could it be that I am that web?
This murky hut in which I lay and wonder
That of my ancestors, crushed by poverty,
this is the sole remnant
This is the tale of their art, their towering achievement
Now that I have returned, that unfortunate woman
looks at me
and stares at me at length
There isn't anything in my hut really ......
Playful moments of a simple love-story
In the drudging banality of the day and night sometimes
we play
Sometimes we cry together, sometimes we sing
and laugh together sometimes
Nothing but an excuse for life to go on ......
Words have a limit, O Born of Time, as does understanding
Love has a limit, as does youth
Tears have a limit, as does smiling
Nothing but an excuse for life to go on ......
(Of the pains of insufficiency,
of loneliness, is there a limit anywhere or not?)

In my hut are
many scents
that always crawl around me
Linger like the aroma of that one night ......
Clinging to the walls and doors is the scent of homeland's dust
Scents of my destitution, aloofness,
memories, longings as well
Even then there is nothing in this hut ......
My hut is gloomy, dirty, disheveled
But sometimes from the trees afar I hear bird-songs
And savor  the fragrance of fig and olive gardens
And I arise to life
And I say: yes now I've come out bathed!
Otherwise there is no bed in this hut, no perfume
and no fan
The Love that you seek
I can't afford to befriend!

You will mock, O Born of Time, isn't it strange?
That I am the Hatim* of passion
And a worshipper of worldly desires as well
and the greatness I don't have, I seek that as well!
You who laughed that night at my hesitations
Laugh again at my duality!
But what has anyone ever gained from Love except for himself?
O Born of Time,
Every Love is question that except the Lover
It has no answer
It is enough that the call of the Soul reverberates!

O Born of Time
It was indeed the call of my Soul
that reverberated against the icy rims
of centuries of my art
And it was indeed the shore of the ocean of your eyes 
that had engulfed the centuries gone by
This ocean, which, to my soul, is a mirror
This ocean, which, to my ever forming,
ever un-forming wine-cups, is a mirror
This ocean, which, to every art,
every Lover of art,
is a mirror

(The Possible of the Imagined)

*Hatim was an Arab from history with legendary generosity


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