Lighthouse for the Drowning

Presented bilingually, this first US publication of Jawdat Fakhreddine—one of the major Lebanese names in modern Arabic poetry—establishes a revolutionary dialogue between international, modernist values and the Arabic tradition. Fakhreddine’s unique voice is a breakthrough for the poetic language of his generation—an approach that presents poetry as a beacon, a lighthouse that both opposes and penetrates all forms of darkness.

Stars:

Stars of ours
that did not shine in the shroud of night,
but we took joy in them
when the night was a gloom all around us.

To our children, we write:
We are not your lighthouse.
Do not follow the path we light,
but be your own secrets.

Jawdat Fakhreddine was born in 1953 in a small village in southern Lebanon. A professor of Arabic literature at the Lebanese University in Beirut, he is one of the major Lebanese names in Modern Arabic Poetry, and is considered one of the second generation poets of the modernist movement in the Arab world. He earned an MA in Physics and taught at the high school level for more than 10 years. During this time he published a number of poetry collections and was encouraged by Adonis to work on a PhD in Arabic literature. Fakhreddine intermittently publishes articles and new poems in al-Hayat newspaper, which is an Arab newspaper published in London and distributed worldwide, and in as-Safir, one of the two major Lebanese Newspapers. He writes a weekly article in al-Khaleej newspaper, a widely distributed gulf daily newspaper. He currently lives in Beirut, Lebanon.

~

Smoke
(To Beirut)

1.

I exhale
and see through smoke
the faces of the city.
When the faces fade,
do I resurrect them,
do I blow them out into a desolate sky,
or is it a restless sky buried in my lungs?

2.

The faces of the city have faded.
For a while they taunted me,
and I fell for it every time.
I smoke,
but in vain discern a face,
in vain discern a face, even if cruel,
like the face the city turned to me
when first I came to her,
hoping for a little charm beyond the cruelty,
an ensnaring charm.
In vain, I recall my first tryst with this city.
How mysterious it was
and how I delighted in that alluring mystery
like a tender love
soon lost.
Time eventually dressed it in shabby clothes.
I smoke,
and the smoke teases me.
It waves to me, weary,
as the city grows sullen and black.
The mystery that first drew me does not return.
Why do I take refuge in this smoke?
Might I relight what time has blown out?

3.

The faces of the city fade.
Nothing is left but the windows of withered cafes
and an empty sky.
Behind the glass I blow my smoke at the sky
and I see the face of sunset in the streets.
Everything has passed on and settled in the dark,
and the directions have all dispersed.
In this smoke I see only the dying of directions.
I smoke so I may not see.
There is nothing but the silence.
Nothing rises, not even words.
Everything has already passed on and settled in the dark.