Page 30 - Solstice Art & Literary Magazine 2021

A RABID
INFATUATION
CEDRA JAZAYERLI
bic naturally delivered words of love and adoration. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will help you.”
We sat together and worked on it every day. I would drive to his house, have a cup of tea, and recite this poem. The routine repeated for weeks. I remember standing up and pacing back and forth in the marble-plated kitchen while gripping the same pieces of paper that I had printed when I first started. But by this time, Jiddo had annotated and highlighted the paper with notes and reminders of what not to forget. What used to be crisp white had turned wrinkled and colorful with markings and scribbles of my Jiddo’s impeccable cursive writing. We worked through the poem little by little, piece by piece. He translated words I did not know, painting
QUEEN BEE • LOUISA BRORSON
Colored Pencil • 24”x20”
“W
ish the sentence without laughing.
hen I fell in love, I was transformed. The Kingdom of God transformed, the dark rest-
would be an easy task. The poem was written in clear, straightforward language.
“You sound like a baby learning to talk,” he replied, while cracking a smile at me.
“This is weird,” I protested after reciting the passionate introduction. “How am I supposed to read this? I’m not in love with anybody.” He didn’t reply. He merely took the paper from my hands and began reading.
My Jiddo’s deep voice, a voice so familiar and comforting, filled the room. The native Arabic words flowed effortlessly from his worn lips. Each line of the poem was spoken with conviction, and the paused moments made perfect sense. He var- ied his inflection and tone like a seasoned poet. He both commanded the empty room and cradled the delicate stillness that each breath and pause made. Every so often, Jiddo would look up at me to make sure I was taking a good note, with a twinkle of mis- chief in his eye. Then he would lick his lips and look back at the poem that he had known for decades like an old friend.
When he finished, he handed the paper back to me, smirking at my expression of awe as his Ara-
ed in my pocket... ” I could not even fin-
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“And the sun rose from the west,” my grandfather, Jiddo Bashar, finished for me, with his own chuckle. Nizar Qabbani, the most famous Arab poet of mod- ern times, wrote these lyrics of rabid infatuation for his lover in his celebrated Book of Love. I have no experience with infatuation nor the command of Arabic required for this task, but when my cousin asked me to recite the poem at her wedding last year as an element to the wedding celebration, I agreed without a second thought.
The first time I recited the poem to Jiddo, about three weeks before the wedding, I could not get past the first stanza when I could see him snick- ering. He didn’t make a sound, but his lips curved upward, and I knew he was trying hard not to laugh.
“Am I reading it wrong? Is it that bad?” I asked him dumbfounded. I was suddenly hyper aware of my American-ness. Jiddo spoke perfect English, but I tried to speak Arabic with him when I could to make him proud. I genuinely thought this