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By Adonis

Born in Syria in 1930, Adonis is without doubt one of the such a lot celebrated poets of the Arabic-speaking international. His poems have earned overseas acclaim, and his impact on Arabic literature has been likened to that of T.S. Eliot's on English-language verse. This quantity serves because the first complete survey of Adonis' paintings, permitting English readers to appreciate the arc of a amazing literary profession during the labours of the poet's personal handpicked translator, Khaled Mattawa. Experimental in shape and prophetic in tone, Adonis' poetry sings exultantly of either the candy promise of eros and the lingering difficulties of the self. Steeped within the ache of exile and the uncertainty of life, Adonis demonstrates the poet's profound affection for Arabic and eu lyrical traditions while his poems paintings to destabilize these very aesthetic and ethical sensibilities. This assortment positions the paintings of Adonis in the pantheon of the good poets of exile, together with Cesar Vallejo, Joseph Brodsky, and Paul Celan, offering for English readers the main entire imaginative and prescient but of the paintings of the guy whom the cultural critic Edward acknowledged known as "today's so much bold and provocative Arab poet".

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Extra resources for Adonis: Selected Poems

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He walks the abyss, tall as the wind. N OT A STAR Not a star, not a prophet's inspiration not a pious face worshipping the moon, here he comes l ike a pagan spear invading the land of alphabets bleeding, raising h is hemorrhage to the sun. Here he comes wearing the stone's nakedness thrusting h is prayers into caves. Here he comes embracing the weightless earth. K I N G M I H YA R King Mihyar a sovereign, dream is his palace and his gardens of fire. A voice once complained against him to words and died.

Toiling arms that better the world, love me, and go unrewarded with joy. And tatters of my brother scattered about, torn from his wilted chest hidden by wheat spikes and season, a carnelian from which blood shies. He was the god of love as long as I lived. What will love do if I too am gone? 4 SECRETS Death holds us in its embrace, reckless and modest, carries us, a secret with his secrets and turns our multitudes into one. ELEGIES (for my Father) 1. My father is a tomorrow that floats clown toward us, a sun, and above our house clouds rise.

Won't you laugh, won't you frown? Won't you whisper? This is my hand, take it, take my tomorrow. 14 First Poems Divine, improvise and whisper, but beware not to speak out loud. 15 L A B O R PA I N S For whom does dawn open my eye's window, for whom does it blaze a path between my ribs? Why does death pulse through me and tie my life to the A utter of seconds? I've known my blood to be time's womb, and that on my lips quake the labors of truth. O B S C U R E D I S TA N C E S Whenever my hands gather her things and bend like wheat stalks, like a horizon unharvested, a ligh t passes through me silken-stepped, its path studded with thorns, and silence begins to call out my name.

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