Sad Poetry
Writing poetry is one of the most effective methods for conveying the depths of our sorrow and the pain that resides within us. Life is like a wheel, guiding us down various paths, each accompanied by its own emotions. As a result, we often find ourselves either composing or reading verses that express, even if only slightly, this sadness and suffering.
My Father
The poet Nizar Ibn Toufic Qabbani penned this poignant elegy for his father. Born into a prominent Arab family in Damascus on March 21, 1923, Nizar pursued a law degree at the University of Damascus. His ancestry traces back to Imam Ali Ibn Al-Hussein Zain Al-Abidin. He passed away in London on April 30, 1998, but expressed in his will a desire to be buried in Damascus.
Your passing has not diminished me, my father.
I remain lost without you.
For in this home, your scent lingers,
the fragrance of the Divine and memories of a Prophet.
There lies your corner, surrounded by your belongings,
blossoming into a thousand tender branches.
Your favorite newspaper awaits you,
as if you have yet to leave.
The ashtray and your coffee cup
still sit untouched
and your glasses yearn, do they not?
Eyes clearer than dusk?
In the spacious chambers, remnants remain,
like scattered eagles on the playground.
As I wander through the corners, I continue to roam
and where I pass, I find solace.
I grip your hands and lean on you,
my weary chest lies upon yours.
Father, you have not left us, and our conversations
flow like drinks at the goblet.
We share whispers, as the fruitful vines
spring forth from your gentle spirit.
Father, you were a story from paradise,
and essence from the vastness of the universe.
Your eyes, my father, were a sanctuary for the stars.
Does the East recall my father’s gaze?
In summer’s memory from my father
are vineyards and planetary recollections.
Father, oh father, the gentle history
walks behind you, so do not fault.
We move forward with your name, for within goodness
is the sweetest of offerings.
I carried you in the clarity of my vision until
it appeared to others that I am your own.
I still hold you within the tone of my voice,
How could you have gone, yet remain with me?
When the flowers in the home bloom anew,
the house echoes a thousand golden words.
We opened our doors wide for the summer tide,
for during this season, Father must surely return.
Tossing and Turning
Ahmad ibn Hussein al-Mutanabbi, born in Kufa in 915 AD, is esteemed as one of the most celebrated poets of the Abbasid era. His poetry often revolves around praising kings, particularly Sayeed al-Dawlah al-Hamdani. This poem is considered one of his greatest works, categorized within a structured form following the complete meter.
Restless with sleeplessness while my sorrow intensifies,
My heart beats rapidly as I suppress the yearning.
No flash of lightning or song of a bird,
Without the stirrings of my longing heart.
I’ve tasted the unquenchable flames of love,
Only to encounter their consuming anger.
And I admonished lovers until I felt its grip,
And marveled how one could perish without desire.
I absolved them when I understood my sin—
Insulting them, I reaped what they had endured.
Children of our clan, we reside in this dwelling,
While the crow of separation caws within.
We mourn this life, yet no gathering,
Has kept people united through it.
Where are the great kings who possessed treasures,
They amassed which life has not retained?
From those whose armies suffocated the skies,
Even they found refuge in narrow graves.
They were silent when hailed, as if imperceptive,
Not recognizing words flow freely to them.
Death approaches, and souls are scarce,
A fool savors what little he possesses.
Humans aspire, finding life delightful,
Yet aging begs for sobriety, while youth transgresses.
I have wept for the loss of my youth,
The grief stains my visage richly yet pallid.
I fear losing it before the farewell,
Until my lashes began to glisten.
The Auws sons, kin of distinguished valor,
Fostered dignity too brave to yield.
I respected their land when dawn broke,
The sun’s light revealed no rising place.
I was astounded by the cloud of their blessings,
Exiting above while their rocks did not yield.
Elusive fragrant breaths abound,
Esteemed in every corner, they are inhaled.
Like musky scents, yet they are feral,
And without others, they fade on no occasion.
Is there anyone like Muhammad in our time?
Let not your ambition deceive what is unattainable.
The Merciful has not crafted one like him,
Forevermore, that may not be.
O Creator, who bestows generosity,
In gratitude, I beseech you for kindness.
Rain down upon me your abundant gifts,
And see me through your mercy or perils.
Falsehood emerges from the ignorant,
Declaring the noblehave perished while you thrive.
I Urge You to Mourn, Not to Hardiness
Abu Firas al-Harith ibn Sa’id al-Hamdani al-Taghlibi, a cousin of Sayeed al-Dawlah al-Hamdani, was born in 932 AD. In this poem, Abu Firas advises against resistance and urges genuine sorrow, categorizing his work within the structured poetic forms of the simple meter.
I urge you to mourn, not to endure,
For the loss goes beyond any cruelty and injustice.
I honor you, for I know no comfort,
Without the finest of losses, my dearest friend.
It’s the tragedy when she withholds,
Her eyelids heavy; she offers no solace to anyone.
What you feel resembles my grief,
As I find no patience where I search.
Distance from you brings no less sorrow,
It becomes a burden whether close or far.
I share your bitterness during hardship,
Just as I shared joy during glory.
I weep with tears fueled by my past agony,
And alleviate into a patience that lacks reward.
And I won’t justify relaxation forever,
Understanding well your suffering is profound.
Neither can slumber touch my weary eyes,
Knowing that you linger upon sleeplessness.
O lonely one, weeping without comfort,
God aid you with serenity and strength.
This captive, persisting without ransom,
Would sacrifice everything in return for you—
For family, kin, and beloved child.
The Tragedy of Life
Najib Mahfouz, a noted Iraqi poet, lived to be 83 years old, renowned as the first writer of free verse in Arabic literature. Her mother, known for publishing poetry under the name (Umm Nizar al-Mahfuzi), named her Najib in honor of the Syrian revolutionary Nazik al-Abid. Najib remained engaged in the study of Arabic language, music, and various Western languages, and she passed away in 2007.
From morning till night, this existence,
In vain, you inquire, the secrets unfold not,
Nor will you savor the freedom from chains.
In the shade of the willow, you have spent hours,
Consumed by the secrets you unravel.
You question the shadows, yet the shade
Knows not a single tale.
Forever you gaze towards the unknown horizon,
Does what is hidden ever become revealed?
Always you inquire,
Amidst an eternal and confounding silence.
Why then do you not resign from seeking knowledge,
And heartlessly seek not to comprehend?
Leave the weary vessel afloat,
As capricious fates steer your course.
What have you gained from battling the waves?
Is sorrow asleep amid your gripes?
Ah, you who lost your life in dreams,
What have you harvested except fatigue?
Its secret tempests remain buried; oh, what a waste,
A lifetime spent entwined in inquiries!
It is the secret of life that beats within minds,
Until it suffocated the wise.
In your despair, how can one hope to understand
What was once shrouded in obscurity?
Came forth before your entry into the world,
Countless lives, only to fade.
What, I wonder, was borne from their nights,
And where did joy and festivities linger?
Only mournful graves remain,
Rising at the shores of existence.
They fled life’s embrace, seeking solace
In silence, within death’s domain.
How the dismal night enveloped the sky,
And how all of creation relented.
The night bore witness that just as before,
Where are those who existed yesterday?
Oh time, why do dreams extinguish
And lay waste to hopeful aspirations?
How do hearts dim, although illuminated,
While darkness persists, intrinsic within shadows?
I Never Expected After Your Passing, Father
Abu al-Qasim al-Shabbi is recognized as one of the poets of modern times, born in 1909. He earned the nickname “The Green” attributed to his birthplace in green Tunisia. Al-Shabbi was known for his piety, passing away in 1934 after a lifelong battle with heart disease. His deep attachment to his father significantly impacted him, and this sorrow inspired a poignant composition five years after his passing:
Never did I expect, oh father, after your passing,
That emotions would blind me amidst overwhelming sorrow.
That I would thirst for life and sip from,
Its blazing river in a drunken delight.
And return to the world with a heart racing,
Open to love, joy, and melodies.
To all the images of desire within the universe,
And the marvels of passions and laments.
Until the years moved and time bathed in
The spellbinding beauty of existence.
Then I would find myself still a child, enamored,
Chasing lights and vibrant colors.
A pessimistic view of life I rejected,
An illusion forged from bafflement and delirium.
For within the depths of man,
There exists a genuine belief in life.
Delights of Separation
Ghada Ahmed al-Samman, a renowned Syrian writer, was born in Damascus into a traditional family, also related to Nizar Qabbani. In 1962, she released her first collection of stories titled “Your Eyes are My Destiny.” One of her beautiful poems reads:
How beautiful is the separation.
You will remain handsome and youthful forever in my memory. You will continue to love me
And pen me the sweetest love verses, and whenever I hear your name or
See your image, I will envision stars racing by my side, a vibrant river flowing from
Light to the infinite voids.
I will keep loving you, blissfully complicit in your deception of me, cherishing you without
Ever inquiring who you are, or what you are, a love without conditions,
A love bearing the beauty of desolation.
A love that has declared its independence from you.
Your love will transform into a meeting within the space between pride and secrecy
And the impossible,
A radiant planet racing through dark, distant orbits.
A new moon, enigmatic, added to our galaxy,
As astronomers gaze in wonder, questioning: where did it emerge from?
A Final Prayer
Among Mahmoud Darwish’s sorrowful verses lies a poem characterized as prose poetry:
It seems to me that my days are few
And I am merely a traveler on this Earth.
My fragile heart finds solace
Only to betray me when I am absent.
Fluids for another,
While I tread lightly here as a tourist.
It seems that a dagger of betrayal
Will carve into my back,
While one newspaper shall pen,
“He struggled on.”
Hearts heavy with sorrow for family and neighbors,
Yet joy shall belong to our foes.
And after mere months,
Echoes shall whisper. He was.
It seems to me that my mournful poetry
And these dirges shall soon fade into memory,
While songs of joy
And rainbows will be sung by others.
And my mouth will remain bloodied,
Upon sand and thorns.
Therefore, I express my gratitude to those who carry
The coffins of their loved ones,
And apologize to the seers,
Before me is the starry sign
Upon a darkening night.
It seems to me, my land’s cross,
You will be burned one day
And transform into memory and a scar.
When your ashes fade away,
Fate’s eye shall smile
And wink at our unity again.
If only I could
Embrace even the stone,
And shout that nothing remains but my homeland.
My homeland, little child,
Your chains shall dissolve beneath your feet,
Only to forge anew.
When shall we raise our cups in your honor
Even if in a poem?
For Pharaoh has perished,
And Nero has fallen,
And all the whispering sheaves in Babylon
Have returned to life.
When shall we toast in your memory,
Even if in songs?
O steed ridden by the tyrants of time,
That slips away from us,
From the first era,
Your bridle flows with my blood,
Your saddle merely my essence.
Where are you racing therefore, scent of mine?
I have arrived at a pit,
While you gallop ahead.
Where are you, my wild steed,
It seems the ashes of the past
Will bloom after me,
Into wine and vines,
And I shall not feed it,
For I dwell in my clay’s darkness,
Alone with skeletons.
One made the yeast of our coming days,
And timber of our vessel in the seas of ash.
It seems to me that my days are few,
And I am merely a traveler on this Earth.
Yet if a heartbeat persists within my blood,
It will breathe life anew into my spirit.
If only I could
Part from the thorns along our ascent,
I would plead, bury me at once,
I am the twin of the summit!