Alsadig Alradi

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Al-ssadiq Al-raddi (Arabic الصادق الرضي) (born 1969), is a sudanese poet, born in Omdurman.

[edit] Career

He has been publishing poetry since he was 15 when his poem The Wind was published in the literary journal Al-Shawa. He was awarded the prize of Youth Poets in 1986 and in the same year he got a member of Sudanese Writers Union, he released Three poetry collection the first had been released under the title "Ganna Aloazalla" The Singing of Solitude, published in 1996, 2001 in Khartoum, and his second collection "Mattahat Elsoltan" The Dilemma of The Sultan published also in 1996, 2001, and Third Collection Agassi Shaashatt Alasika. He works as an editor in many Sudanese Newspapers, like Alhoria (freedom), Aladwaa, Alayam (The Days) and currently works in Al-sudani newspaper as head of cultural editor department.

He contributed by recited his poetry in Abu Dhabi International for Book Fair in April 2004. He has poetry translated to English by The Centre of Poetry Translation CPT, School of Oriental and African Studies SOAS, University of London and the transltion had done by Sudanese poet Hafiz Kheir, poet Sarah Maguire and poet Mark FORD. He recited his poetry in many British cities which organize by the CPT, also he contributed in many workshop for poetry translation in Britain. Also he contributed in the congress of translation from Arabic to English and from English to Arabic which held under auspices of The British Culture Council festival with the London International Book Fair 2006. In March 2006 he invited by Poetry Cafe in London to recite a poem.

[edit] Sample of Alsadig Alradi Translated Poetry

A Monkey at the Window

The small boy, playing in bed. while his wounded mother cooks, is throwing little words and sounds out of the window.

She smiles (the whole world lights up) he chatters excitedly - What can he see?

There's a monkey at the window - behind the door! But he is falling into darkness. And though he never raises a cry he holds up his claws - this dark stormy boy.

She never taught him how to cry, only how to sing. Happy in herself - just as she wished to be - she taught him endless space and vastness, and she calls him: Open-hearted.

Behind him, a mountain of metaphors, in front, a river, a mouthful of night, and a train of caravans calling him away. (Where is that thread that fire the skill?)

III

Running - down an alleyway he splashes cooking oil all over his shorts, this boy!

He wets himself with laughter running through Eternity - through this alleyway this pack of dogs, the conspiracies of fate!

The solid front door remembers the hand that made it - You are the key - and the creak of the universe – it's your sole secret. You lean your dreams and future against it. For its sake you endure the woodworms gnawing through your heart, the reek of damp, the hammering of enemies and relatives. (Long is the absence of light that paints things awake - Long is the presence of paint!)

You come home exhausted - from wherever you’ve been, the wind at your side - just as you wished, toyed with by traumas.

Once he made necklaces from seashells, colouring them with his own fairytales, once he made friends with strange frogs - and all the while she’s watching him from behind the door /from out the window (when she runs to pick him up, he will not raise a cry!)

In the forest the lonely one knows all the voices beckoned by the eyes of loved ones their songs are luring her with their tbender fingers and her own translucent solitude. She sits in silence close to every thing brewing tea, stirring the porridge.

In the garden of a strange home, her home, she welcomes the pots and pans to the sounds of morning. Scrubbing everything, in its proper place, one eye on the radio that calls her to those distant sands, the desert. But her colour flows like a river so she can sing…. And that boy? ………. …………. In a green forest or a red forest or a desert, now who calls him to Eternity?

Breathless

Your heart thumps - as if she were already at your door.

Or - as if expecting her - all the birds in the midday sky arrive to clamor at your window.

… … … … … … … … … … …

An age of patience. A forest of fluttering.

.......................

Song

Facing down wind in a dust-storm, wrapped up in his cloak and wearing a hat that can’t make him vanish -

this skinny man scans the horizon, gathering - but not quite yet - flowers until the moment you meet

(… but stuck in this narrow alleyway among mountains of rubbish he longs to lift up his beak unfurl his wings and take flight…)

.................................

Orchards

Orchards surround his homes; there, translucent moonlight falls on tranquil streams forming mirrors of each pool. And now this honest tavern owner has asked me to taste the fruits of truth!

That first night, we sang together and, even though he misread me and I misunderstood his invitation, in the end, we shattered every mirror, and found ourselves in a warm embrace.

Free the treasure from the fruit in plain light. Free the secret from the shadow, free tenderness from shame, set free your self. Pour your self out - flow, so we can be at peace together.

Here is a branch, drifting on an aimless wave: water seeps through its shoots like tears, while the keening wind whispers its desires, knowing now the essence of its muffled secrets.

Here are shafts of light, shattered, here are caves crumbling in your fists: never hide your self.

The way you open the night for passers-by. The way you close the window.

III

The cruel silence of shattered glass, thick with little, daily things, that circling, parch your speech. Open your heart. Awaken your mind. You are in flux, your dull husk blind to the light of your self. Revelation is a dream. Strip your self bare. Ecstasy awaits you.

Translated by Hafiz Kheir and Sarah Maguire