名人诗歌|The Empty Quarter

by John Canaday

In early spring， here in the Rub 'al Khali，

Gabriel swings his goad^{1 over the humped backs}

of swollen^{2 clouds. They roar like angry camels}

and thunder toward the fields of the fellahin.

At night， I dream of grass so green it speaks.

But at noon， even the dry chatter^{3 of djinn}

leaves the wadis. The sun lowers its bucket，

though my body is the only well for miles.

A dropped stone calls back from the bottom

with the voice of a starving locust^{4： Make it}

your wish， habibi， and the rain will walk

over the dry hills of your eyes on tiptoes

as the poppies weave themselves into a robe

to mantle^{5 the broad shoulders of the desert.}

The words uncoil like smoke from a smothered^{6 fire，}

rising leisurely^{7 out of me as though to mark}

where a castaway has come aground at last.

And yet I have not spoken. My voice limps

on old bones， its legs too dry and brittle⁸

to leap like a barking locust into song.

But I imagine what was said or might

be said by some collective throat about

the plowman loving best the raw， turned earth，

or the caliph longing^{9 for his desert lodge10，}

where ghoulem whisper like the wind at prayer，

and poppies bow their gaudy^{11 heads toward Mecca，}

each one mumbling^{12 a different word for dust.}