Sunday Poem

THE SURPLUS MAN

I am the one who has not been killed yet

at war, by earthquake or street accident.

What shall I do

with these years that wave before me

like the sea before the pelican?

After mailing the flower of my words

with letters and sympathy cards,

when my future's been etched

like a swan on a school blackboard

do I explain my dreams

with whispers and touches, like a blind man

or leave them to flow down the sides of my head

like glue down trees at the equator?

Let my windows usher in

a little breath from the forest!

I'm about to suffocate.

My lungs strain to escape my chest

like an orphan's eyes.

My voice dies off like the thunder's,

having no future generation to sing to

nor any old mouth to return to.

Hey, builders:

prop me up with a stone!

I crack like walls mixed by crooked contractors,

collapse like snow hills under the spring sun.

If one could change countries,

like dancers in nightclubs!

From Joy is Not My Profession (1994) by Muhammad al-Maghut, translated by John Asfour.