Poem: My Mother’s Face
The poet Riyad bin Yusuf expresses his sentiments:
O mother, forgive me, for I am overwhelmed by boredom,
And I am enveloped in patience and endurance.
O mother, forgive me, for my dreams have betrayed me,
And the fruit on its branches has become troubled.
O mother, forgive me, for the journey has caused me pain,
And thorns and pits have torn at my steps.
O mother, forgive me, for the distance is filled with darkness,
And this world has laid its burdens upon me.
What can I sing when I have lost my voice,
And my sighs have been cut off, along with the strings?
What can I weave other than tattered lines,
As shadows deepen, leaving images unclear?
No light comes to my aid, except for you, O brightness,
From my tearful gaze, in solitude, the trees weep.
No light is like yours; amidst their deceptive illuminations,
The sun and moon weep upon my shoulders.
O mother, forgive me, for God bears witness
I have not forgotten; can the rain forget its clouds?
Can the silver fish abandon its home?
Can the river forsake its course and die?
O mother! You remain a spring that washes over me,
The waters from your two springs continue to pour.
I am still a small child, freshly blooming, with hands
Surrendering, crying out in despair, and issuing apologies.
O mother, forgive me, or rather a thousand apologies
The pen has run dry, and my heart is a furnace!
Embrace my trembling and accept this face of mine,
May my journey conclude within your warm embrace!
Poems of Nostalgia for the Mother
The poet Abdul Wasee’ al-Saqaf penned:
O Mother, I have written to you my longing,
And my pens are nourished by their mourning.
They bowed in reverence at the mention of you,
Finding themselves prostrating in prayer.
O Mother, in the depths of existence,
My echoes sent forth a cry of yearning,
As I have called out a thousand times “My Mother,”
For countless years now,
Among the ancients and those yet to come.
In every grain of clay,
I have woven the tapestry of your name,
Marking the birthplace of dignity for humanity,
Raised high, in a world where they can see.
So that history will remember my cries,
As I scream, I cannot relent.
I have ignited the passion within me,
Beginning on the right side,
And I have set forth a revolution,
A call to people, igniting their hearts.
And your heart I filled with deep emotions,
As if I were a sorrowful child,
Though I wander between uncertainty and certainty,
In your world, I wish to merely remain a fetus.
O Mother, branches of the lemon tree,
O Mother, the prayers and treasurers,
O Mother, the times of prayers,
As the devout recite before you.
O Mother, the heralds of dawn,
When the frightened see your presence,
O Mother, the heralds of breaking fast,
When the fasting observe you.
Between morning and evening,
O Mother, you are light for all eyes.
O Mother, the songbirds in their nests,
Singing above the branches.
O Mother, both distance and law lament,
And mourn in one of the tunes.
O Mother, Jerusalem and Al-Aqsa mourned you,
As time added to their sorrows.
O Mother, the bitter reality,
If only it were acknowledged by those who disbelieve.
Who else do I have, if not you, O Mother?
I shall neither exist nor become anyone else.
O Mother, you are my sanctuary,
If only I could witness the universe in the grip of fate!
A Sad Poem About the Mother
The poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab writes:
That is my mother, even if I approach her limping,
Caressing her flowers, the water, and the earth within.
Shaking off with my eyes the nests and the forests,
Those azure and gray birds of tomorrow flutter across the rooftops,
Or spread their wings in the air like flowers opening their mouths.
Right here, at noon, was our first meeting,
As the sun broke through on her lips, tearing apart the hues.
And spilled forth its light.
How do I walk these green paths, knocking on doors,
Seeking water, only to have a pot
From which sweet drops of coolness flow,
Drip by drip?
With the pot extending to my head, adorned by fragrant blooms,
What happened to those mothers (Wafiqa and Iqbal)?
All that remains are the names,
Of romances that passed like thunder in my sky,
Without rain.
How do I tread this path, torn by illness,
Like a pillar of salt walking?
Is she the enchanting Amura or Sodom?
Never! It’s Jikour,
A paradise where the boy was lost, yet vanished when he vanished.
Oh, if the dark years were wheat or stones,
I would have carried them, casting off my burdens to shake Jikour,
Of the dust that cloaks its trees, embracing my sorrowful instrument
Sobbing with a melody, still singing,
And each reunion feels like saying farewell.
Oh, if only the green years could return to the days when we were
Sad Poems for the Mother
The poet Qasim Haddad conveys:
This figure with fleeing eyes and the wound that smiles,
Mother,
This weary waist, filled with sorrow and chill,
From the other side and me,
It is she, my mother.
These snowy pathways,
Who turned this night into a singing lantern?
Oh, my mother!
You gifted me a voice flavored by the millions
That walk toward the sun and build.
I was a bird in your breast,
Cast into flames, nurtured by a green hand.
Look! Your flame-bird sings in captivity.
You, who have fleeing eyes and the wound that laughs,
Sing!
There is nothing between the light, the earth that walks, and my heart,
Except for this crimson horizon and time, along with you, Mother.
Oh, my mother, who sewed a garment for me with your eyes,
Why does the garment not pass through the prison?
Why don’t you sew us our other garments?
Extend the handkerchief to wipe my sorrow,
And what is the terror that has turned me into poetry
On the walls of my prison?
Isn’t the thorny tree within your tired eyes
A place for singing birds?
Oh, you with fleeing eyes, you are the wedding that weeps.
I am your voice, emerging like lightning from the night of legends,
And you are the blossom of life arising from within me.
So why does sorrow escape to your cheeks, O bloom of my grief?
Elegy for the Mother
O Mother, for you, this tear has flowed,
After the beloved has parted and wandered afar.
The holiday visited me, while my insides were hurt,
A wounded heart scattering longing and love.
O Mother, I remembered the festivals we have lost,
The heart in your hands has long felt joy.
Those gatherings were a source of gladness and mirth,
But time has betrayed us, this world has turned upside down.
May God bless the holiday; you are its flower,
From you wafts the fragrance of chosen love.
O Mother, I recalled a favor that you bestowed upon me,
With God’s gracious hands, and both have faded.
Your rights today are a debt I can never deny,
Before humans were created, they had to exist.
How many times have we sailed the ship of love in joy,
And today, the storm has capsized it?
My face is a sacrifice to my mother’s spirit,
What harm does it do if my face has become pale or wan?
I am a caller, and the tears cascade from my eyes,
For long have my eyes overflowed with sorrow and spilled.
One day, light will gather us in love,
After darkness has vanished and concealed itself.