Nizar Qabbani
Nizar Tawfiq Qabbani was a contemporary poet and diplomat, born in Damascus. After completing his university education, he joined the diplomatic service, moving between various capitals. Eventually, he resigned from this position to pursue his passion for poetry and literature. He published his first collection of poetry titled “The Dark-Skinned Woman Told Me.” In this article, we present one of his notable poems alongside additional verses honoring mothers.
A Poem for Mother
Nizar Qabbani
Good morning, my beautiful one…
Good morning, my lovely saint
It’s been two years, O Mother
Since the boy who sailed
On his legendary journey
And tucked into his luggage
The green mornings of his homeland
And its stars, and its rivers, and every red flower
And hid in his clothes
Sprigs of mint and thyme
And a Damascene violet…
It’s just me…
The smoke from my cigarettes is tiresome
And my seat is tiresome
And my sorrows are like birds…
Searching (in vain) for a barn
I have known the women of Europe…
I have recognized the feelings of cement and wood
I have known the civilization of fatigue…
I have wandered in India, in Sindh, I have roamed the yellow world
And found nothing…
Of a woman to comb my blonde hair
And carry in her bag…
Little sugar dolls for me
And to clothe me if I am stripped bare
And lift me up if I stumble
O Mother…
O Mother…
I am the boy who sailed
And in his mind
The sugar doll still lives
How… how, O Mother
Have I become a father…
And have not grown up?
Good morning from Madrid
How is the jasmine there?
I send my regards to you, O mother…
That little girl
For she was my father’s dearest darling…
He pampered her like his child
Inviting her to share his coffee
Feeding her…
Saturating her with his mercy…
And father has passed away
Yet she still lives dreaming of his return
Searching for him in the corners of his room
And asking about his cloak…
And asking about his newspaper…
And when summer comes
She asks for the azure of his eyes…
To sprinkle gold dinars over his palms…
Salutations…
Salutations…
To a home that has nurtured us with love and mercy
To your white flowers… the joy of “Star Square”
To my bed…
To my books…
To the children of our neighborhood…
And the walls we filled…
With chaos from our writings…
To the lazy cats
Snoozing on our sunlit spots
And the creeping violet
On our neighbor’s window
Two years have passed, O Mother
And the face of Damascus
Is a bird scratching in our depths
Nibbling at our curtains…
And tapping us gently with its fingertips…
Two years have passed, O Mother
And the nights of Damascus
And the jasmine
And the streets of Damascus
Live within our thoughts
Its minarets illuminate our vessels
As if the Umayyad minarets
Are planted within us…
As if the orchards of apple trees
Are perfuming our consciousness…
As if the light and the stones
All came along with us…
September has arrived, O Mother…
And sadness comes bearing gifts for me
Leaving at my window
Its tears and complaints
September has arrived… where is Damascus?
Where are my father and his eyes?
Where is the silk of his glance?
And where is the aroma of his coffee?
May God bless his resting place…
And where is the grandeur of our large home…
And where are its comforts?
And where are the gardens of joy…
That laugh in its corners?
And where is my childhood there?
Dragging the tail of my kitten
And eating from its vineyard
And picking from its violets
Damascus, O Damascus…
O poetry
Written on the pupils of our eyes
And O beautiful child…
From your braids, we have crucified you…
We knelt at your knees…
And melted in your love
Until in our affection, we killed you.
A Poem for My Mother
Abdullah Al-Bardoni
You left me here amidst torment
And went away, oh how long my sorrow and despair
You left me to sorrow all alone
While you rest alone within the soil
Where there is no injustice nor oppression
Nor any trace that announces destruction
Where there is no sword or bomb
Where there is no war nor the shine of spears
Where there are no chains nor whips nor
Oppressors who dominate, nor the meek who conspire.
You left me remembering tranquility as
The old man remembers the dreams of youth
And I cannot reach you, and my longing surrounds you
Recalling the past, and I – alas – what is with me?
And the reaper of time summons her to
Where I call her, yet she hardly hears my plea
Where I call her, and only silence answers me
The silence of the grave and the barrenness of the land.
Her death was my entire calamity
And my life afterwards stands above my calamity.
Where is that comforting shadow of hers, since
She left me for another without return?
Days have dragged along, wounded across
The baking sun and the thorns of the hills.
She passed along the trails of life so
Calmly into a world of hardships
And she concluded where the journey led her
Finding peace behind the veils of absence.
O, Mother! My sorrowful thorns
Set fire to the pains surrounding my dissolved heart.
With you I bade farewell to my youth and childhood
And the sweetness of youth has faded behind me.
How can I forget you, when your memory in
The record of my days is like a book within a book?
Your memory precedes me and on
My path, where I come and go.
How often I thought of your hands lightly
In mine or in my food and drink…
Your fatigue afflicted you with my frailness
And if cold touched me, your sleeves were my clothes.
And when I cried out from hunger and you
Had nothing but broken promises to offer
You rocked my head with your hands as if
The dawn caressed the flowers in the meadows.
How I longed for your gentle hand to pull me
Towards our field in (Ghul) in (Qaa Al-Rahab)
And to the valley, to the shade, where
The meadow exhales the breath of beauty.
And the streams of the river play their melody
Melted like a kindness in sweet reproach.
How we hoped, and how you pampered me
In silence of the night with the glitter of stars.
How often your eyes wept when they saw
My sight fade and fold behind the veil.
And you remembered my fate and the longing
Between your two sides, wounds in inflammation.
Here I am, O Mother, today a young man
A fleeting star far from the comet’s tail
Filling history with melodies and echoes
And singing in the meadows of eternity.
So hear me, O Mother, my voice, and dance
From beyond the grave like a beautiful maid.
Here I am, O Mother, grieving for you and in
The sorrow of this poem lies my grief and lamentation.
A Dialogue Between Me and My Mother
Abdul Rahman Al-Ashmawi
My mother questions me, weeping with rage
What is it with our nation and its severed roots?
What is it with our nation that it let down its hair
And exposed its bronzed face to the flames?
What is it with our nation that it cast off its cloak
And became nothing but a toy in the hands of the weak?
What is it with our nation that runs aimlessly
And falls into the hands of an aggressor and a usurper?
What is it with our nation that hangs in limbo
On the gallows of deceit and betrayal?
What is it with it tearing its bonds of unity
And disregarding the rights of faith and kin?
My mother questions me while sorrow hangs heavy
My son, why didn’t you speak or answer?
Are you not the one who sings of our nation
Claiming that it is bound to rise again?
And claims that it elevates itself with its resolve
And professes it is held in high esteem?
My son, tell me, why the silence in an era
That thrives on chaos and clamor?
O mother, do not ask; I have turned to
Silence, overwhelmed by my burden of fatigue.
I bear troubles that words cannot express,
Beyond the power of poetry and the most eloquent speech.
What can I say, when the moments speak
To one who understands, a statement not to be missed?
Listen to my wound, O mother, and hold on,
To God, and entrust everything to Him.
Sadly, I Lived, O Mother
Abdul Aziz Jweida
Sadly, I lived, O Mother, among the poor
They wet their bread with tears to eat it
Morning and night…
Sadly, when I see them,
There are no dreams in their eyes
Not even a glimmer of hope…
They come into this world
And pass away without a light
For too much silence makes you forget…
You think they are dead
And they are alive.
Sadly, I lived, O Mother
I see the poor as lovers
Yet they do not know…
That poverty is a knife for lovers
And no matter how they resist,
Eventually, they will succumb…
And amidst their wounds one day
And among their tears forever…
They will come back to life.
For poverty has taught them
That their eyes were created
And they are crying.
Sadly, I lived, O Mother, as the world
Has betrayed us all, until we fell in love
With it, a distraction from the other side.
So how do I live, O Mother
When my love is all a facade
And my life has become an act of disbelief?
Souls of people have fallen ill
And the disease of hatred is spreading
The hearts of people have become corrupt
And that is a major calamity.
Sadly, I lived, O Mother
Because love has become trapped by our interests
If we have a desire
That brings us closer, it’s our ambitions.
And when we finish with whatever
We are meant to do…
Our impulses, without haste or embarrassment,
In front of others, we declare it
And we initiate our massacres.
Sadly, I lived, O Mother
Because I never spoke the truth one day
And raised my voice loudly:
I am the one imprisoned by poverty
And in my oppression, my chains!
I am the one confined for an era
My rulers have succeeded
In constraining me…
And humiliating me.
So forgive me if one day I opened the door, O Mother
And found – as you always do –
No messenger behind the door.
For my rulers have killed
All my pigeons!
They stepped over the likes of me.
Sadly, I lived, O Mother
Because truth has been lost between us
And everyone has turned to a thief.
When we were young, yes, we were strong,
And the noblest of humans among us…
Is a hungry student.
The sword of truth hasn’t been sharpened,
That’s why it no longer divides.
And how do I sleep, O Mother
When shadows of terror surround me?
Sadly, I lived, O Mother
And longing comes as a time
To shatter my idols
And break my shackles
And demolish my lofty prison over the jailer…
And my day has yet to come
I do not know in what era
The voice of my anger will thunder
And all my voice will turn into molten lava from a volcano…
I am, O rulers, a human
I am a human.
The Face of My Mother
Riyad bin Yusuf
Forgive me, O Mother… I am seized by boredom
And I am burdened with thorns and patience
Forgive me, O Mother, for my dreams have betrayed me
And the fruit has grown bitter on its branches
Forgive me, O Mother, for the path pains me
And the thorns and holes tear my steps apart
Forgive me, O Mother, for the horizon is darkness
As this world has settled under the burden of despair
What am I to sing of, I have lost my voice
And my moans and strings have been severed?
What can I weave but tattered verses
As the dark night veils the images of hope?
There is no light that can save me but you, O Light
In my eyes where the trees flourish in solitude
There is no light but you in their false brightness
The sun and the moon weep upon your shoulders
Forgive me, O Mother, for God bears witness that
I have not forgotten, does it forget, your rain?
Does the silver fish leave its home?
Does the river abandon its course and perish?
O Mother! You are still a spring that cleanses me
The water still pours down from your streams
I am still that little child, soft and longing
With hands that weep, begging, apologizing
Forgive me, O Mother, or a thousand apologies
The pen has dried, and my heart is like hot coal!
Embrace my trembling, embrace my apology
To end the journey in your arms!