Imruil – A naturalized version of his ode-book – one of the seven ‘suspended odes’ of pre-Islamic Arabia – came out in 1970 from Barrie & Jenkins, whose editor at the time was Christopher Maclehose.

 A SELECTION OF LYRICS FROM IMRUIL

Where She Dismounted

Droppings like pepper-tree pods, these courtyards 
Haunted by the white gazelle.
Place between here and there and there and here.

Nothing takes root now, nothing.
Only the sand may nibble these flagstones.
Vanity builds such effective monuments.

Look, as much as north wind covers
South wind reveals.
There is never enough sand.

One Who Slices Bitter Gourds

Friends who depart have their caravan routes 
To keep them occupied.
Platitudes are all one may expect.

Patience is a virtue. Soothe the heart with tears.
Listen, I have wept patiently.
Where may I sleep among these ruins?

The pale thorn throws scant shade.
Even in the few hours left me.
The wind brings tears to the eyes.


Remote Caravanserai

Mother of Cloud, the maidenly rains 
Drift westwards; to the east 
An emaciated crone hoes the topsoil.

This is grief, the legendary, tears 
Of desire for what is, after all, 
Hardly lamentable: the wail 
That greys a man’s fine beard, 
Drenches his girdle, rusts his sword.

Feasting the Girls

Idiocy! My camel sank to its knees, 
Stabbed in a frenzy induced by the giggles. 
My saddle was made their trophy. Well 
May you blush, sir, just as I would, 
Were I younger, teased with the meat, 
Garlanded with tassels of fat. Delicious!


Pleiades

Plump eggs are nested in those litters 
Few design to raid - as if they were 
Stone cold or not for the asking 
To be had whenever the hen and her brood 
Go peckety over the vast dark yard. 
Unaizaki threads the brilliants, 
Taking care to match them all in order, 
So they form a necklet. “Wear it 
And feel feathery.” Behind the screen 
She shivers in her nightie. “Who?”

Ridge above Ridge

“Paws to yourself, please. What’s so clever 
In going on your belly beneath the goatskins, 
Nosing for goods the ostrich buried?
I’ll carry the lamp: when we’re dazzled
You make the blunders, but who takes the risk?
The vixen. She has to drag her brush
To cover the traces. Don’t play the fool
If you want me to do the same with the fringes 
Of my cloak. What is out here
But dunes, and dunes more firm by far 
Than any mounds a girl like me can offer?
And you still haven’t told me what we’re after.”

This led to a life-long interest in Arabic poetry and ultimately to my versions of the Iraqi poet Fawzi Karim – published by Carcanet.