I’ve already introduced the pioneering contemporary Omani poet Saif al Rahbi in an article published on Tuesday (July 13), in these columns. I stressed the idea that Al Rahbi elevates the common and glorifies every day. The manner with which he paints brief flashes and provides little commentary is arguably reminiscent of imagism, the Anglo-American twentieth century poetic school championing hardness of imagery and sharpness of diction. A manifestation of this can be seen in the following excerpts and poems taken from his collection titled A Man from the Empty Quarter published in Beirut in 1994.
Excerpts
(1) Adam's children and (before them) Satan
Both were born of fault's storm.
(2) Today
I heard no news
News of myself.
(3) I'm not optimistic
I’m not pessimistic
I just feel pain in my teeth
Unbearable pain.
(4) A man with eyesight
Leads his flock
To the maze.
(5) Like rabbits
Enemies jump
Like rabbits
They eavesdrop.
(6) Ah
The pain flairs up
Before the fountain.
(7) The sea blocks the whales with its voracity
No longer can they move
For other generations.
(8) A plane flies in desolate space
Man floats in the light of his earthly cage
Strewing his dreams between planets.
Meanwhile a Bedouin whips his donkey on a mound.
(9) We'll arrange our enemies' ideas
As required.
(10) The mourning women will trill tomorrow
At the killer's wedding
Just for pennies.
(11) We feel guilty for faults
We didn't commit.
(12) The woman trotting before us
With a flower and saliva
Carried her death for a century.
(13) Scientists say that the sun possesses enough hydrogen to shine for another ten billion years...
How many billions does man need
To wash off the mud of his history?
(14) The young lady artist in the Parisian café
On hearing about the carnage in her country
And the wild dogs
Said repeatedly
With a show of delicacy:
"O haraam, O haraam" .
(15) Nothing remains on its feet
Save an injured ibex
In a jungle on fire.
(16) Pay heed to the wolf's advice
Before it's too late.
Indians in the Dawn's Light
This moment rolled upon itself
Like ruins of a decayed body
As usual
I can't glance at the morning's face
(It has lagged behind.)
Before the window
Out flow Indians
Carrying Buddha's coffin
Washed in the Ganga
Waiting like me
For another day
But with peace and a sacred death.
Indians
Strangers, without shadows or faces
The pain of search for bread and song.
They'll soon rest from the funeral
In the neighbouring tavern
Where a dancer wriggles, feeding her bosom
With an imaginary lover
They dream till the end.
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