The Arbil suite: a history of Erbil by Steven J Fowler
30th December 2014In April 2014 Highlight Arts were in Iraqi Kurdistan to work on a poetry translation project.
Steven J Fowler was one of 8 poets including Ali Wajeeh, Kei Miller, Nia Davis, Zhawen Shally, Vikck Feaver, Mariam Al Attar, and Ahmad Abdel Hussein. The translations were presented at the Niniti Literature Festival in Erbil, Iraqi Kurdistan that took place from 22 – 24 April, in collaboration with Art Role and the British Council.
The Arbil Suite
The Arbil Suite is a poetic history of a city that rightfully claims itself to be one of the oldest continuously inhabited places on earth. In that time, somehow seemingly situated in the centre of the world, it has seen, and survived, some of human kinds most devastating conquerors and profound cultures. These poems are a faulty, miniaturised thread through 8000 years.
SJ Fowler
SADLY, WITH MY HAND, IT BEGAN {6000BC}
Where are you hurrying to? You will never
find that life for which you are looking.
from the Epic of Gilgamesh
sadly with my hands I’ll punch men
before I hold to light
my children’s neon face
they will have to make do
as once did with electricity
& be allowed to be so bold
I dedicate my memory
to my sons lost at sea
the killed & eaten Ishtar
the guard of spaces owning
the ruin standing between
imperial & earth police
I am ready to take part
of a closed garden
in exchange for a selling
of time into money
& so sorry you have to leave
but the minutes from door
to front aren’t &
I think about the taking of a life
my death a lesson: net > spear
their life, the first nations; a mace
RED ON RED {860BC}
With their blood I dyed the mountain red as red wool, while the
ravines and torrents of the mountain swallowed the rest of them
Ashurnasirpal
I wonder, often, why the infidel
ity of men is in the bed of women
arguing upon an army
with my second wife, the implacable
in silence, I knew that the taking
was the first step of lovelessness
bring me my other wife
in full regalia, for just a few shy
in conversation, also silence
in recognition of what might be
& so it is, rearmed
I raid the sky entranced
in hostage to happiness
HOW LITTLE I CARE ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE’S LIVES {331BC}
as a matter of self-preservation, a man needs good friends or ardent
enemies, for the former instruct him and the latter take him to task
Diogenes the Cynic
even when I don’t have to write
I arrange it every morning
with the painter’s rigour
that has made me lose so many wives
– disciplined out of reaction to my negligence
– generous to conceal my meanness
– prudent to hide my evil mindedness
– conciliatory to not succumb to murderous rage
– punctual to hide how little
- I care about other people’s lives
there is no grudge torn apart by horses
& no Gaugamela was 100k from home
I’d like to enjoy some beautiful
things before I next might die
GRUNT {62BC}
So potent was religion in persuading to evil deeds
Lucretius
dearest, would you drink if you could?
the well taste of liver, the eyes water
(this is often mistaken for weeping)
as though forward motion were a wheel spinning
turn to your instead, perhaps bodies?
I have heard a blue tears are the bestest
the fish eats skin & they say we’re starving
from the back of a skull Centurion
emerges the sunbeam which proves
god to my ride in the yard
as she weeps for joy I touch her shoulder
as Sarin, & whisper that is not a sunbeam
but a cut the night which begs me
to ask you to leave
while the naysmith, the black fur is
a slave whispering in the returning ear
De Rerum Natura
“You are not good a god”
ONLY THE DEAD WILL KNOW PEACE FROM THIS RUSTLING {0}
Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the
earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.
Matthew 10:34
our weddings are eventually eternal
unrusting the control of dad & so
no need to be upset, the only boreal
tears come to me & we shall be friends
held together like melting candles
two beaks from an egg
two handles on the cliff
one drop into powder
we the brass dropping our guts
all over the thorn
I request you help me
wash my brown
legs & feet & trunk, my belly
if you truly feel guilty
for what your ride has done
for there are bandits in my hills
& you have killed my son
So what certainly beats
walking is waiting
for in the end it will end
I HOPE I AM FEELING WELL {1258}
I’m a flail of god. If you had not committed great sins, god
would not have sent a punishment like me upon you
Chingiz Khan
you hope I’m feeling well
on the road
(as I’m the driving)
sitting throne of petrol
shaped a horse
Where did the mongol descend upon Arbil?
the porcelain elephants in Paris
made famous, can you believe
by the wretched
the underhoof
that ended as they began
booking book to burn
in favour of tolerance
in the division of the number six
my thumb the road
lifted home
I have lived in an Ivory tower
Quite well it turns out
soon down
Bricked on with important
impotent descriptivism
Where the depressing
Met the ruled
DOUBLE DRAGON{1391}
As there is but one god in heaven, so should there by but one ruler on earth.
Timur
the island of dreams
where a whale body is a bone
& whale falls breed
or some way to escape being in the tower
of living, breathing, rebelling human beings
having moved into the nervous
while not being a city naturally at home.
now matter is evaporating.
he is going. there are only mutters
name isn’t recorded
hard in his pocket, leaking the leather.
the possibility of enjoyment is passed,
but you might not think so given
the conversation of those who are
the reason it has passed
THE TOURNAMENT OF SHADOWS
No need to listen for the fall. This is
the world’s end.
Rudyard Kipling
some foreigner says that if
at the moment of a person’s death
all our pity for them was somehow
enjoined they would be spared
I believe that would depend
on the manner of their death
tripping over a loose rut of rubble
there are still women to laugh at me
& truly I am still able to feel foolish
there are certain moments
when they have not claimed enough
the flying planes are ribs
the grounded planes are organs
the sky the skin, the spy arrived
I, of course, am the eyes
while the rest is spare
for the Great Game, Lord.
MOOT {1988}
What military are you talking about? Where
can we find the ‘vice’ of poetry?
Sherko Bekas
hasim asked me ‘do you imagine your Bridge
is swimming upon lies? all A is of the blinded?’
yes, smiling, to both questions
but added, ashen faced, that both truths
were true because they were too complex
to explain to an Idiot
the women in the street today, as you ask
on the way to the registry office, crying
‘bring back sons, bring back brothers’
I opened my window & shouted
to draw the out ‘they are busy’
work has ended during weddings
this is finally a chance to read
the night begs me to ask you to leave this time
so I may meet it
FEWER BODIES WASH ASHORE {2013}
The mind is always looking to comprehend some key
part of its circumstance and condition
George Szirtes
how to reconcile the food of people with the food of persons
is it necessary to do so?
the captives will remain mighty
still red salt, amber sugar, & green fat
fewer bodies wash ashore
health is improving
let me suggest to you that boats
may be our quickest glimpse of hell
would you have me explain? in order
to pretend you do not understand
a realism is not a reality
which is already in itself ‘water’ not ‘land’
& though the outside may appear a world
it doesn’t feel that way on the inside
they move you like a pan
Clay pigeon drone shooting
on afternoons, Wolffog on the fold, it is old
so a fragment of a child’s skull
still mottled with scalp
rests in my palm
the first piece of a brand new armada
Originally published on Reel Festivals website on April 29th, 2014.