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.
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