Dunya Mikhail nasceu em 1965, em Bagdá, no Iraque. Formada em Literatura Inglesa pela Universidade de Bagdá e com mestrado em Literaturas Orientais pela Wayne State University, trabalhou como jornalista e tradutora, dedicando-se como escritora à poesia. Hoje é considerada uma das grandes poetas contemporâneas de língua árabe. Em 2020, Dunya Mikhail recebeu o Prêmio Unesco-Sharjah para a Cultura Árabe.
Aqui na Tabla, Dunya publicou A tatuagem de pássaro, primeiro romance escrito pela autora,, livro que foi finalista do Intenational Prize for Arabic Fiction em 2021. Em 1995, Mikhail deixou o Iraque e, depois de uma passagem pela Jordânia, mudou-se para os Estados Unidos, onde vive até hoje e leciona Língua e Literatura Árabes na Oakland University, em Michigan.
Saiba mais sobre A tatuagem de pássaro aqui!
A Tabla separou 3 poemas de Dunya Mikhail pra você conhecer, um deles traduzido. Confira:
A Guerra Trabalha Duro
2005
Quão magnífica é a guerra!
Quão ávida
e eficiente!
De manhã cedo
ela acorda as sirenes
e despacha ambulâncias
para vários lugares
balança cadáveres pelo ar
rola macas para os feridos
convoca chuva
dos olhos das mães
cava na terra
desalojando muitas coisas
de debaixo das ruínas…
Algumas estão sem vida e brilhantes
outras estão pálidas e ainda latejando…
Produz a maioria das perguntas
na mente das crianças
diverte os deuses
disparando fogos de artifício e mísseis
no céu
semeia minas nos campos
e colhe furos e bolhas
exorta as famílias a emigrar
fica ao lado dos clérigos
enquanto eles amaldiçoam o diabo
(pobre diabo, ele permanece
com uma mão no fogo ardente)…
A guerra continua trabalhando, dia e noite.
Ela inspira tiranos
a fazer longos discursos
entrega medalhas a generais
e temas para poetas
contribui para a indústria
de membros artificiais
fornece comida para moscas
acrescenta páginas aos livros de história
realiza a igualdade
entre assassino e assassinado
ensina os amantes a escrever cartas
acostuma as jovens a esperar
enche os jornais
com artigos e fotos
constrói novas casas
para os órfãos
revigora os fabricantes de caixões
dá aos coveiros
um tapinha nas costas
e pinta um sorriso no rosto do líder.
Funciona com diligência inigualável!
No entanto, ninguém lhe dá
uma palavra de elogio.
The War Works Hard
Traduzido por Elizabeth Winslow
New Directions, New York, 2005
How magnificent the war is!
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins…
Some are lifeless and glistening
others are pale and still throbbing…
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles
into the sky
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters
urges families to emigrate
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil, he remains
with one hand in the searing fire)…
The war continues working, day and night.
It inspires tyrants
to deliver long speeches
awards medals to generals
and themes to poets
it contributes to the industry
of artificial limbs
provides food for flies
adds pages to the history books
achieves equality
between killer and killed
teaches lovers to write letters
accustoms young women to waiting
fills the newspapers
with articles and pictures
builds new houses
for the orphans
invigorates the coffin makers
gives grave diggers
a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader’s face.
It works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it
a word of praise.
Leia também: Orelha: A Tatuagem de Pássaro
______________________________
In Her Feminine Sign, New Directions, New York, 2019.
Tablets V
1
Light falls from her voice
and I try to catch it as the last
light of the day fades …
But there is no form to touch,
no pain to trace.
2
Are dreams
taking their seats
on the night train?
3
She recites a list of wishes
to keep him from dying.
4
The truth lands like a kiss—
sometimes like a mosquito,
sometimes like a lantern.
5
Your coffee-colored skin
awakens me to the world.
6
We have only one minute
and I love you.
7
All children are poets
until they quit the habit
of reaching for butterflies
that are not there.
8
The moment you thought you lost me,
you saw me clearly
with all of my flowers,
even the dried ones.
9
If you pronounce all letters
and vowels at once,
you would hear their names
falling drop by drop
with the rain.
10
We carved
our ancestral trees into boats.
The boats sailed into harbors
that looked safe from afar.
11
Trees talk to each other
like old friends
and don’t like to be interrupted.
They follow anyone who
cuts one of them,
turning that person
into a lonely cut branch.
Is this why in Arabic
we say “cut of a tree”
when we mean
“having no one”?
12
The way roots hide
under trees—
there are secrets,
faces, and wind
behind the colors
in Rothko’s untitled canvases.
13
Will the sea forget its waves,
as caves forgot us?
14
Back when there was no language
they walked until sunset
carrying red leaves
like words to remember.
15
It’s true that pain
is like air, available
everywhere,
but we each feel
our pain hurts the most.
16
So many of them died
under stars
that don’t know their names.
17
If she just survived with me.
18
A flame dims in the fireplace,
a day slips quietly away from the calendar,
and Fairuz sings, “They say love kills time,
and they also say time kills love.”
19
The street vendor offers tourists
necklaces with divided hearts,
seashells to murmur the sea’s secrets in your ear,
squishy balls to make you feel better,
maps of homelands you fold
in your pocket as you go on your way.
20
I am haunted by the melody
of a forgotten song
sung while two hands
tied my shoelaces into a ribbon
and waved me goodbye to school.
21
If I could photocopy
the moment we met
I would find it full
of all the days and nights.
22
It won’t forget the faraway child,
that city whose door stayed open
for passersby, tourists, and invaders.
23
The moon is going to the other
side of the world
to call my loved ones.
24
The seasons change
colors and you come and go.
What color is your departure?
Leia também: “A tatuagem de pássaro”: entrevista com a tradutora Beatriz Gemignani
___________________________________________
The Stranger in Her Feminine Sign
Everything has gender
in Arabic.
History is male.
Fiction is female.
Dream is male.
Wish is female.
Feminine words are followed
by a circle with two dots over.
They call it the tied circle,
knotted with wishes
which come true only when forgotten
or replaced by the wishes of others.
In the town of tied wishes,
people feel great anticipation
because a stranger will arrive
today in her feminine sign.
Someone says he saw her
two dots glittering,
refuting another’s vision
of a cat’s eyes hunting in darkness.
So scary, he says, how the moon
hides in her red circle.
Everyone is busy today
listing wishes on pieces
of paper they’ll give to the wind.
When the stranger finds them
on her way, she’ll collect them
and garland them to her circle,
tossing some old wishes
to make space for the new.
They say the dropped ones
will come true.
The stranger’s lateness
worries the waiting.
Someone says she’s searching
for a word to complete
a special sentence,
the gift she’ll bring to town.
Another wonders if she seeks
a verb or a noun,
offering to find her.
A third warns that the stranger
may turn him into a flower
with one touch, blooming
for only a moment,
before a withering death,
and her circle throbs with songs
causing sadness and elation,
and something so obscure
no one has a name for it.
Will she complete a verb
or a noun phrase — or give a solo,
a word complete on its own?
They wonder.
When they finally hear footsteps,
they know the stranger must be near.
Make sure the gate is open,
they remind one another.
They hear clinking —
A bracelet? A chain?