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COMMENT ON THE POEM by Kareem Abdullah:
“Who is for your clay “Tandoor””

In this poem by the Iraqi friend and poet, translated by me from English to Italian (the original version is Arabic), I glimpse all the phases of a suffering barely concealed by the sensitive soul of the poet, famous in Italy and in the world.
Of the Iraqi war you can feel the aftermath and the bitter taste that many seasons of his life have taken away from the simple joys of domestic chores.
The epicenter of the action is the oven, the characteristic clay “Tandoor”, which has seen many wars flow among the mourning and dust of friends or enemies not worthily buried, brutally left out in the cold and to decompose.
The poet, embittered, pauses to speak to his hypothetical friend, dwelling on the measured gestures, while his gaze is distracted by the crackling of the bread that, placed on the table, exudes smoky scents.
The atmosphere described, apparently of domestic quiet, however hides bitter reflections within it. In fact, the good bread of the past, baked smoky and placed on a rudimentary peasant table woven with branches, no longer seems to have that flavor or even the consistency of the good bread of the past, the fruit of ancient traditions.
Today, not even the baker kneads as well as he did back then: shape and flavor seem to get lost in the modernity of ovens that have much to envy the old clay “Tandoor”. Even tea is no longer as good as it used to be, so much so that it is even spilled on the dust of sad memories. Between metaphors and comparisons, the old oven seems to tell a long story of anguish and the passage of time seems to hide all the bitterness of the poet who sees his seasons of life pass by in the awareness that his country, so rich in culture and traditions, is now the mirror of a torment, not only in his homeland but in the entire world. The realization of this, places him in front of nagging existential dilemmas that only pain permeates leaving no more room for joy.
Contrasting poetic images alternate at the end of the poem with idyllic images and apparent quiet. But, the apparent bucolic peace is contrasted by the storm that rages submerged and that seems to shake every bundled certainty
Thus, the child who always hides inside the poet, yearning for a return to the lightheartedness of the past, now imagines himself with gray locks in his mother's arms, reminiscences of a carefree childhood, lovingly cradled.
Today and yesterday are here fused in a journey back in time, where there certainly seems to be no room for the future, in that mysterious garden intertwined with memories and images that play hide and seek in the poet's mind, perhaps to dispel his suffering.

By FRANCA COLOZZO

Who is for Your Clay Tandoor

Dictated to John Henry Smith, My Friend

Plundered by wars, 
The days of fifty arid autumns were, 
And crumbled were the dreams of innocence, 
Closely squatting by your clay "tandoor"*, 
I…I was,
An eye glimpsing your face,
As inflamed by the dry firewood fires,
Coming from the depths 
And another eye craving for a newly baked "imcasp" loaf,
Resting in your coloured frond-made "Tabeq"*, 
I was warming up by taking bites of the hot bread. 
Why have my eyes so far shed tears? 
Is it the smell of smoke, when the wind blows? 
To stir your only black dress, 
Or is it the nostalgia? As deeply-rooted as our old pine tree, 
Winter cruelty stripped of branches. 
Why does not the bread baked in the metal oven taste like yours? 
It is distressed, burned by gas and inexperienced hands that never dough well, 
No one appeals when it bitterly cries for help, 
Then, the cries gradually faint into more silence,
Lacking pleasure, and being wrapped with curses and black
Instead of love and ripen happiness?! 
Crueller than yours are these fires. Why? 
O thorn trees of our distant city. 
They melt even the soul when surprised by you chopping them every noon, and the roots are eaten by your primitive axe,
Heaping them over and over, by their shade I sit in. 
Your hits are quick and kind, 
Your pleasant song fills the place, 
Even the tea no longer chants in the coal stove, 
We are joyfully waiting for a cup of tea, 
Like the chicks of our sparrow that dwells in the gutter, 
In their wait for the crumbs of bread, 
Competed by our white cat, 
It sleeps among us on the crumbs of the broiled fish every night, 
But the tea turns to be so horrible 
That we remorselessly
Water with it the dust of our always-deserted ally,
AaaaaaaaaaH, Pain of memories, 
My days have quickly run out 
I am still your adorable child, 
Not yet weaned, 
Dreaming of 
Resting his grey head in your lap,
Your fingertips kindly caressing his advancing bald,
Breathing the odour of Henna therein, 
And sleeping as the musk expelling the toil of the years 
Covering his face with your white "shalah"*

*Tandoor mean clay oven. 
The word originates from Akkadian tinûru "tin" means mud and nuro/nura means fire, and is mentioned as early as in the Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh.

*Imacasp = crispy 
*Tabeq = large tray made of frond
*Shalah= head scarf 
A poem by Kareem Abdullah Translated by  John Henry Smith

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Chi è per il tuo “Tandoor” d'argilla

Dettato a John HenrySmith, amico mio

Saccheggiati dalle guerre

Furono i giorni di cinquanta sterili autunni,

E frantumati furono i sogni innocenti,

Accovacciato vicino al tuo "tandoor"* d'argilla,

Io ... Io ero,

Un occhio fisso sul tuo viso,

Come infiammato dai fuochi di legna secca,

Provenienti dalle profondità

E l’altro occhio bramoso d’una pagnotta "imcasp" appena sfornata,

Fumigante sul tuo "Tabeq"* fatto di fronde colorate,

Mi riscaldavo mordendo il pane caldo.

Perché i miei occhi hanno versato lacrime finora?

È l'odore del fumo quando alita il vento?

Per rimuovere il tuo unico vestito nero,

O è la nostalgia? Abbarbicata come il nostro vecchio pino,

Crudele inverno di rami spogli.

Perché il pane cotto nel forno di metallo non ha lo stesso sapore del tuo?

È consunto, bruciato dal gas e da mani inesperte che non sanno impastare,

Nessuno lo conforta quando grida amaramente aiuto,

Poi, le grida si affievoliscono pian piano in un silenzio sempre più fitto,

Privo di piacere, avvolto da maledizioni e nero

Invece d’amore e felicità matura?!

Più spietati dei tuoi sono questi fuochi. Perché?

O rovi della nostra lontana città.

Si snodano persino nell'anima quando ti sorprendi a tagliarli ogni mezzodì, e le radici vengono distrutte dalla tua ascia primitiva,

Ammassandole ancora e ancora, alla loro ombra mi siedo.

I tuoi colpi sono rapidi e garbati,

Il tuo amabile canto s’effonde tutt’intorno,

Persino il tè non  gorgoglia più nella stufa a carbone,

Aspettiamo con gioia una tazza di tè,

Come i pulcini del nostro passero che dimora nella grondaia,

In attesa di briciole di pane,

Conteso dal nostro gatto bianco,

Dorme tra noi sugli avanzi del pesce arrostito ogni notte,

Ma il tè è diventato così orrendo

Che senza pietà

Innaffiamo con esso la polvere del nostro sempre derelitto alleato,

Aaaaaaaaaah, Amarezza dei ricordi!

I miei giorni si stanno rapidamente spegnendo,

Sono ancora il tuo adorato bambino,

Non ancora svezzato,

Che sogna di

Appoggiare la sua testa grigia sul tuo grembo,

Con la punta delle tue dita accarezzi dolcemente la sua incipiente calvizie,

Respirando l'odore dell'henné,

E dormendo come il muschio che allontana il fardello degli anni,

Coprendogli il viso con la tua bianca "shalah"*

Translated by Franca Colozzo

• “Tandoor” significa forno d'argilla. La parola deriva dall'accadico “tinûru”, "tin", che significa fango, e “ nuro/nura”, che significa fuoco, ed è menzionata già nell'Epopea accadica di Gilgamesh.