A Babylonian once told me:
When my name bores me,
I throw it in the river
And return renewed!
* * * * *
Basra existed
Even before al-Sayyab* viewed its streets
Bathed in poetry
As verdant as
A poet’s heart when her
Prince pauses trustfully to sing
While sublime maidens dance--
Brown like mud in the orchards
Soft like mud in the orchards
Scented with henna like mud in the orchards—
And a poem punctuates each of their pirouettes as
They walk straight to the river.
I’ve discovered no place in the city broader than Five Mile.
He declared:
I used to visit there night and day,
When sun and moon were locked in intimate embrace.
Then they quarreled.
The Gulf’s water was sweet,
Each ship would unload its cargo,
And crew members enjoyed a bite of an apple
And some honey.
The women were radiant;
So men’s necks swiveled each time ladies’ shadows
Moved beneath the palms’ fronds.
These women needed no adornment;
Translated by William Hutchins
……………………………………………………………..
Basra, also written Basrah  is the capital of Basra Governorate, located on the Shatt al-Arab river in southern Iraq between Kuwait and Iran. It had an estimated population of 1.5 million of 2012.
Basra is also Iraq's main port, although it does not have deep water access, which is handled at the port of Umm Qasr.
The city is part of the historic location of Sumer, the home of Sinbad the Sailor, and a proposed location of the Garden of Eden. It played an important role in early Islamic history and was built in 636 AD or 14 AH. It is Iraq's second largest and most populous city after Baghdad.
Basra is consistently one of the hottest cities on the planet, with summer temperatures regularly exceeding 50 °C (122 °F)
Badr Shakir al Sayyab (December 24, 1926 – 1964) was an Iraqi and Arab poet. Born in Jekor, a town south of Basra in Iraq, he was the eldest child of a date grower and shepherd.
He graduated from the Higher teachers training college of Baghdad in 1948
Badr Shakir was dismissed from his teaching post for being a member of the Iraqi Communist Party.
Badr Shakir al-Sayyab was one of the greatest poets in Arabic literature, whose experiments helped to change the course of modern Arabic
poetry. At the end of the 1940s he launched, with Nazik al-Mala'ika,and shortly followed by ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Shathel Taqa, the free verse movement and gave it credibility with the many fine poems he published in the fifties.
These included the famous "Rain Song," which was instrumental in drawing attention to the use of myth in poetry. He revolutionized all the elements of the poem and wrote highly involved political and social poetry, along with many personal poems.

we've been through enough
to throw words as daggers
deeply piercing hearts
racing, almost bursting
shatt'ring and breaking apart

yet we never do,
and may we never will.
for the things making us
bleed'll come to be the same
keeping us standing still

stronger day by day
imperfect, but in every way
perfect for each other

i once just yearned her my beautiful stranger
yet feelings haven't waned
since six months and before
i'll hold you safe, sweet found treasured
you're everything I wanted and more

While out on a walk with a seer,
The maid froze while on the first mile.
"This is not a good place to remember,"
She said with a nervous smile.
~
A fearsome crack
A cry of wrath
A bright red droplet on the path
~
"This is not a safe place to be stepping,"
The maid said, with a frightened glance.
"We had better run home and regroup, friend;
We shouldn't leave this to chance."
~
A cheshire grin
A shatt'ring cry
A nightmare socket with a bloodshot eye
~
"Now, now, dear seer!" I told her.
"Calm yourself, you seem so distressed!
Retreating would be a failure indeed,
To press onward would surely be best."
~
A vicious slice
A gushing flood
A vital veinage, sweet lifeblood
~
I quelled her fears and she followed,
Despite her persistent doubt.
"Honestly," I softly muttered
"There's nothing to be frightened about."
~
A lifeless maid
A slackjawed bride
A headless creature with arms splayed wide
~
We travelled deeper and deeper
Through the path into the dark wood
We travelled so far,  that if we were to shout
No creature would come if they could.
~
A loneliness
A fading light
A blackness like the dead of night
~
Here we stopped. "I need a rest,"
I said to her. She acquiesced.
She turned around. Such woe betide.
And so that foolish seer died.
With all her gifts
She could not see
That I was her true enemy.
My knife did slash.
And she did wail.
I grinned a grin.
I watched her flail.
I watched her fall
Down to the ground.
She made a scream,
Melodious sound!
My work was done.
Her head was gone.
In mine her song
Sung on and on.
I turned and left
That empty glade,
Where no one was
Except the maid.

1
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain,
Everything is possible...
When one is washed in cognac,
Drenched in sorrow,
Haunted by the unknown...
And when one refuses to remain a stone.
So why—
Do you consult the coffee cups?
Why—
Do you ask the endless questions?
And why—
Did you come to the sea,
If you fear the journey?

2
Between October and October,
Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit...
Leave your fate to God, and sleep.
For your ******* come into this world by destiny,
And by destiny, they fade away...

3
Love will come in its time...
So wear your Egyptian caftan.
I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta...
Sit wherever you like,
For the piano concerto
Will erase time,
Erase you,
Erase me,
And erase the burdens we have carried since birth.
Love will come in its time...
And passion will come in its time...
For the piano concerto
Washes all things in camphor and oil,
Melts the ice off the faces of lakes,
Summons strange butterflies,
And brings forth fields anew.
So let things be natural... effortless...
For the piano concerto
Finds its own solutions.
Love will come in its time...
And the piano...
Will call us into its watery chamber,
And I do not know what it will say...

4
Everything is possible...
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain.
Tchaikovsky—
Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares,
Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse,
Drifting through the memory of roses,
Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests,
Praying in Hagia Sophia,
Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf,
Between mirrors and golden domes...

5
Everything is possible...
On that night, pierced by the sound of rain.
So wear your Kurdish caftan...
I do not know why—
But I recall Mosul in spring,
The water reeds swaying in the marshes,
The orchards of Al-Rasafa,
And the writings God inscribes
In roses and gold,
Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab
At sunset...

6
Good morning, jasmine... are you well?
The piano concerto
Lit the fire for us... then vanished.
Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa,
The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah,
And the writings God inscribes
In roses and gold,
Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab
At sunset...

7
Good morning, jasmine... are you well?
The piano concerto
Lit the fire for us... then vanished.