Who Do You Love?

As I wrote that last post about "impure criticism"--maybe "impure reading habits" would be a better name?--I kept hearing a heavily accented voice in my head asking the questions "What do you hate, and who do you love?" Whose voice was it? A minute later, I had it! It was the voice of the wonderful Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali, whom I had the pleasure of meeting and hosting here in Chicago a couple of years ago. The poem with those questions is "Meeting at an Airport," which I found in Arabic and in a lovely translation by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin at the invaluable Poetry International website; Taha's work is available in English (the wonderful collection Never Mind) thanks to the invaluable work of Ibis Editions--a publisher you should know!

MEETING AT AN AIRPORT

You asked me once,
on our way back
from the midmorning
trip to the spring:
"What do you hate,
and who do you love?"

And I answered,
from behind the eyelashes
of my surprise,
my blood rushing
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
"I hate departure...
I love the spring
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning."
And you laughed...
and the almond tree blossomed
and the thicket grew loud with nightingales.

...A question
now four decades old:
I salute that question’s answer;
and an answer,
as old as your departure;
I salute that answer’s question...

...And today,
it’s preposterous,
here we are at a friendly airport
by the slimmest of chances,
and we meet.
Ah, Lord!
we meet.
And here you are
asking—again,
it’s absolutely preposterous—
I recognized you
but you didn’t recognize me.
"Is it you?!"
But you wouldn’t believe it.
And suddenly
you burst out and asked:
"If you’re really you,
What do you hate
and who do you love?!"

And I answered—
my blood
fleeing the hall,
rushing in me
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
"I hate departure,
and I love the spring,
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning."

And you wept,
and flowers bowed their heads,
and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled.

A poet to know.