I had a donkey
Nali
Translated from the Kurdish by Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse & Shene Mohammed
I had a donkey of such stature: able to traverse steep slopes,
With a wide chest, short ankles, high shoulders, and long ears,

With a white forehead and belly, mule’s tail, and black sex.
Singular, he gallops, three strides in one, two-winded, full-grown, replete.

His skull is a wine glass full to overflowing.
Like the lion, the grazing gazelle, the wild wolf, he’s never tasted the whip.

A flagpole for a neck, sweetly-saddled, thin-waisted, monkey-footed,
Round-hoofed, mule-tailed, enduring, so used to hard labor, he never sweats.

Blue and turning blue like cinders, no dust.
Glint and glinting like the holy, no dandruff.

Hooves of jade lost in feathered wool,
Eyes like agate or two lanterns, spreading flame into the night.

Long-eared, loaded down, and saddled high, he outsteps the caparisoned horse.
More lively and aware than the short-eared and light-headed packhorse,

He’s content at satisfaction’s door, satisfied with hay and scrub.
A patient and enduring traveler, tolerant and uncomplaining.

A clever man called Donkey, a fellow traveler on the path,
Better him than a hundred dizzy, crude friends.

Fasting all year, each day, with no intention,
Awake each night, but not to pray.

How happy I was when he spoke for himself, “Oh, Nali,
We’re both animals, you a short-ear and I a long-ear.”


 
ھەی کەرێکم بوو

ھەی کەرێکم بوو، چ پەیکەر؟ تەیکەری ھەوراز و لێژ
سینە پان و، مووچە کورت و، شانە بەرز و، گوێ درێژ
بن زک و جەبھەت سپی، کلک ئێستر و دامەن سیا
یەککە تاز و، سێ بڕو، دوو باد و، شەش دانگ و درێژ
کەللە وەک جەڕڕەی شەرابی پر نیشات و تەڕ دەماغ
شێری نەڕ، ئاھوویی بەڕ، گورگی سەفەر، قەمچی نەچێژ
مل عەلەم، شیرین قەلەم، ئاھوو شکەم، مەیموون قەدەم
سم خڕ و کلک ئێستر و، مەنزل بڕ و، عارەق نەڕیژ
زەرق و زەڕڕاقی وەکوو خاکستەر، ئەمما بێغوبار
بەرق و بەڕڕاقی وەکوو پیرۆزە، لاکین بێ کڕێژ
سم وەکوو یەشم و لە پەشم و تووکی پێدا سەرنگوون
چاو وەکوو بیجادە یا دوو شەو چراغی شوعلە ڕێژ
گوێ درێژێ بار و کورتان بەرز و، پاڵانی بەزێن
چوست و وریاتر لە گوێ کورتانی پاڵانی و گێژ
قانیعی بابی ڕەزا و ڕازی بە پووش و دڕک و داڵ
سالیکی سەبر و تەحەممول، بوردەبار و ھیچ نەوێژ
عاقڵێ بوو ناوی کەر بوو، قاتیعی ڕێگەی سەفەر
خۆش سلووکتر بوو لە سەد وێڵداشی ھەرزە و گێژ و وێژ
صائم الدهری بەڕۆژ، ئەمما بەڕۆژووی بێنییەت
قائم اللیلی سلووک، ئەمما سلووکی بێنوێژ
!... چەندە پێم خۆش بوو، زوبانی حاڵی دەیوت نالیا
ھەردوو حەیوانین، ئەتۆ گوێ کورت و ئەمنیش گوێ درێژ
from the book MY MOON IS THE ONLY MOON / Kashkul Books
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"On the Power of Poetry to Sustain Our Spirits"

"Really, this is why I’ve always loved and needed poems: they sustain the contemplative hours of the early, unbreeched morning, whenever you come to them. They both demand careful observation and carve the space for it. It’s also why the first thing that happens when I stop really looking around is that I stop writing. And why, when I stop writing, almost immediately belief begins to feel like something distant and ludicrous."

via LITERARY HUB
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Cover image of Diane Seuss' book, Modern Poetry
What Sparks Poetry:
Diane Seuss on Reading Prose


"Keats’s ballad opens with three stanzas in the voice of a questioner, after which the knight-at-arms takes over, answering the questioner through storytelling. Likewise, set at the center of Lorca’s poem is a dialogue between the older and younger man. As the green girl teeters on the balcony, suspended between dream and reality, life and death, so Keats’s knight occupies the in-between, stranded by the faery 'On the cold hill’s side.' And each poem, in its way, serves as an allegory for the container itself, the ballad form, which inhabits the liminal space between narrative and lyric, story and song."
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