The long intimate message of the unsaid TERRITORIUM
inside the poetic buildings of Baban Kirkuki -
Territory - Baban Kirkuki, 2011.
Published by Uitgeverij P
Translation: © Yvonne van der Bijl 2011/2012
Drawings: © Baldin 2011
To be difficult
Has a difficult tune
As a piano that
Does not know his harmony
An endless movement surrounds the atmosphere. The poet approaches thoughts on his tiptoes, breaking on the shore like a silent but intense ebb tide. No chance to dismiss the habits of a wandering soul, both compressed and shuttered in the whirling feelings which animatedly capture his meditations. A state of the man to revenge his reasoning and overcome the excessive sense of solitude. It is the solitude digging the soul which catches the waving in the ocean of mute projections, living in a brightness of imagery though filling heart with the tempests of images.
That’s life. Territoriumreminds the modernist conceptualized idea of life: short and abrupt shields evocating what the mouth tries to hide underneath what is shared by a tormented man impressed by experiences: private conditions and anonymous else’s situations. Everything and everybody is there as a basic part of the whole poem. A unique territory and a sense of being one into ordinary circumstances, the complications of which are in the deep of Baban’s words. Suffering due to a continual departure is the meaning to be the main character. A turbulence of body and awareness, willing to blend into a consolidated one. No visions but penetrations.
I have to start from zero
The life that I had
has no value anymore
Now I have luxury problems
The fragrance of the verses shows a diacritic dimension, a sort of meeting point of personal dignity, self–consciousness, troubling image of possible future in a shivering image of a re–generating apocalyptic condition, never to expire but consolidated to maintain sight backside and all around. All at once.
The trend of the poems is distant from stifling the strain of an unquietisticmind. Each part – acknowledged as belonging to the questioning self – aims at absorbing till metamorphosing into a variation of fractions. A step from which another life might evolve, once again. Nothing is lost in the end, as no end is, indeed.
Such a chainless wheel is actualized in a composition of verses never to collapse into the tough uniqueness that fear might move into a word constriction. It is not the enchantment of a parallel world, nor the mirror of a paralysis urging to warp into disillusion. The actioning voice of the man–poet never desponds and turns into a new chance to prevent weathering as a destructive storm.
The voice of the poet is there as reeds of plastic images, keeping on breaking certainties. Mostly, everything happening around is a recall to what looks a broken world – apart from the libertine perception which fluently passes by, never committed to engender the whole in the whole; though the whole fragmentation resembles an accident collecting the steps of whatever has been, but never gone.
The old river which I did not see for long
streams in my memory heart
Khasa, your water was my first discovery
day and night you were close to me
does the sun still shine on your face?
It is the present climate somehow responsible to the recall of whatever is the lively scent of memory, kept into a massive structure able to communicate a new breathe, a brand new appreciation of the truthful sense of living as the most suitable treatment to evil. It is the resemblance of the dignified awareness about something occurring around in a complicated machine, moved by the artifices adopted by each single man in his own private style.
Though working as an active part of life, suspicion is off stage as well as out of any consideration is the disturbing nostalgia, which might affect the slow rhythm of Baban’s poetry: a real conjugation between the reasonability of what life is and the fringes portraying the meta–generative course of existence, out of any approximating sense of a monothematic direction. Life is a never stepping out young force. It is there and here, tuned to be set as a surprising dimension to feel rather than a sterile scaling–down arrangement.
Don not ask me how old I am
And when I have my birthday
I do not have years
I count moments
This is the way. No entropic adaptation to his questing about. The double and the multi–stratification of ideas are mutual creative positions accomplishing the horizons Baban is able to hold to improve his sense of being life as being alive.
Everything is in the metabolic pressure according to which all sensibilities lead to the acribic organization of thoughts and supports the minimal status of perceptions, with the alternative chance to convey all structures of mind without modifying the nature of a conversation the poet maintains closer with a renewed nature. The consciousness moving to the exploration of states of existence is empowered with the intense voice widening throughout the effective usage of verbs, addictions in a wandering space manipulated by the different remark of each event, pulsing towards an image, densely shaped and sharpened in a concealed symphony of moods.
Memories hurt, but the poet never yields. It’s the deep and the words support such an immediate, sculptured intonation. They turn mind explorations into an articulation of colours and shadows in order to gain the widening impact over the screen. Everything belongs to the moment. Time impressions show the virtuous effect of a spirit, twisting like a planet about to seek for its orbit.This way the internal emphasis maintains the balance of a Territoriumas the suitable way along which the progression of the poet evolves somehow dissolving the obscurity of his melancholy and recovering from the sense of disintegration of his previous sensibilities.
The work is determined in three sections (My Territory, Iraq, Holland), linking a sort of colourless strand belonging to the essence of the poet’s inner-outer life as a bond of relationship which directly tightens a space to the following one.
The first section, named My territory is the core and the primary situation condensing the steps towards an increasing sense of “I” as the way he is, he has been and he is expecting for himself. So close to the troubling mind of the great poetry of the XX century, Baban collects the thrusts of the visitor. Somehow he walks around the reality and picks up every moment to be summed up in his verse. This helps dynamism to be revealed as a project of new sensations, performing a tactful, a truthful assemblage to ordinary actions in an endless conversation with life:
An egg of attention
We live in a small world
We just recently
Have met each other
The world is
An egg of attention
That we share together
Nothing is left apart or shadowed behind the anonymous veil of the unsaid. Simple language doesn’t mean an ordinary thinking. His mind is a tiredness movement holding and embracing in a whirling rhythm whatever he keeps in touch with, so becoming part of the whole and keeping the whole inside his own tone. No time separation, nor image distortion, indeed. Everything is there to be swallowed. Past and endless present are framed at a time, so that what is visible is in the end a striving sensation, embracing all senses and beyond, meaning all the chances to collect into one all the territories stepped on and all the times rebuilt in a new frame.
Ten years in the Netherlands
I learned to bike
But I still fall
At least ten times a year
Ten years in the Netherlands
With curious eyes
I call for life
The travel is both a tool and a vehicle; a long moment to conceive all in the whole. In the musical piano rhythm is the concentration of the energies allowing the poet to play a double role of creator and thinker. It’s the activity of the poet, improving the energy to move everything in a continual awakening to the rediscovery of the cultural fusion of what is laying inside events, as an incident or a coincidence between what is around and what has been. That’s why no figuring heroic advancement appears, but the quiet as well as the restless wandering around, talking about what has the shape of a bright colourful circumstance translated by a lively mind into a vivid imagery of poetic potentialities. This is the resource of the multi-levelled exploration, a gradual advancement towards the condensation of whatever is: timeless, floating simultaneous touring inside and direct removal of collapsing into the fears still contained in mind, to prevent mind from falling into the fenced ambiguity of a desert. No hope for the future, but the revelation of what stands still there, a roaring motivating impulse to live on
On a deserted place in life
I make a terrain for my existence
the sun accommodates me in his light
here I can hide
after invisible people
who I don’t want to disturb in their silence
Unfaithful to the servitude of destiny, Baban acquires the fortune inside to make things clear all around and to approach a progression into the situations of life as clarified unto a continual discovering. That’s why the poems resemble a tribute to life, assimilated as the personification of a goddess closer to all human thinking by a stream of ideas generating new places, encouraged by the limitedness of ethereal houses, built up all around the silky frame of existence.
Even I was different
everything was new
a long search for myself
and along the body of the earth
there was no end
long was the day
Each poem is a TerritoriumBaban approaches with a sterling step to enrich his memory. A double vision altogether with a unique land, stepped all around as if he wishes he collected all the distinctive evaluation of what derives from. No one is there but himself and his mind games, once again attentive to bond events in a stream to become a droplet of it. All dropped together is the attempt to make it a justification to a voice shouting silently to turn a word into a real sense of poetry, happening all of a sudden; tightening space into a whisper, though emerging like a statement, a stressful and determined consideration of what it is to his eyes. This way the obscure trend leaves its path to other fluid reasoning and the poem itself appears the personification of what is the private advent of the man.
write my story
In Auden’s terms Baban might realize life in the rationalization of time according to which life is being in the wide availability of chances. Nonetheless, now the time for the poet is urging in energetic commitment, though distant from any depicted bitter mood. On the reverse, stressful is there the involving conviction about the beauty around. And beauty is life and rhythmical times. The distractions and the frictions making an ordinary life as a magnificent condition of a deep desire to conquer a new rising. A dream to gain a way. Once again. One day.
The world turns around
The world turns around
As a wheel fixed to the horizon
Sometimes it does not turn
Stays as a wheel without a movement
Turns around, turns around
My wish for the world
Does not find a place anywhere
Carmen De Stasio
BabanKirkuki(Kurdistan, Iraq, 1974) was grown up in a neighbourhood which felt strongly about literature and art. He studied the Arab language and literature and published his first book of poetry ’Ruine of Babylon’ (1998) in Iraq.
In 1999 he escaped to Holland. He became rapidly familiar with the language and gained big success with his work in Dutch.
In 2006 Baban published his first book of poetry ‘Op weg naar Ararat’on his own. Publisher P (Belgium) has published in 2009 Lontananza and in 2011 Territorium.In 2011 Baban gained the C.C.S. Crone Grant of the council of Utrecht, Holland. Since 2012 he is a member of the Utrecht Poets Guild.