Romantic Poetry
Romantic poetry is considered one of the most captivating and melodious forms of poetry, as it encompasses themes of love, affection, the sighs of lovers, and their tribulations. This genre allows readers to transcend earthly bounds, inviting them to dance among the stars, whisper to the night and celestial bodies, and communicate with the birds and nightingales, expressing their grievances to them. Many beautiful verses have been penned in the realm of romantic poetry, presenting enchanting tales of love and passion.
Among the most notable romantic poets from the pre-Islamic era is the poet Imru’ al-Qais, who gifted us with timeless verses evoking his longing for his beloved. During the Umayyad era, figures such as Qais ibn al-Mulawwah emerged, renowned for his verses beseeching his beloved Layla and lamenting his separation from her. In modern times, the poet Nizar Qabbani significantly enriched romantic poetry, igniting the hearts of many with his compositions that convey profound sincere meanings of romance, tender love, and intense emotions. Here is a selection of some of the most beautiful romantic poems.
My Beloved Asks Me
This poem is by Nizar Qabbani, and here are its verses:
My beloved asks me
What is the difference between me and the sky?
The difference is that
If you smile, my beloved,
I forget the sky.
Oh Lord, my heart is no longer sufficient
For the one I love is equal to the world,
So place in my chest another
That is as vast as the world.
You still ask me about my birthday,
Then record, if you wish, what you do not know:
Your love for me is my birth date.
With those dark eyes,
Those bright rain-filled eyes,
I never ask my Lord for anything but two things:
To protect these two eyes
And to add two days to my life, so I may write poetry
About these two pearls.
I complain to the heavens, how did you
Simplify everything on earth into one woman?
If you, my friend, were at my level of madness,
You would have thrown aside your jewels
And sold your bracelets
And slept in my eyes.
For Your Eyes, What the Heart Meets and Sees
This poem is by Al-Mutanabbi, and here are its verses:
For your eyes, what the heart meets and sees,
And for love, what remains of me and what has not.
I was not among those whom love enters their hearts,
But those who see your eyelids fall in love.
And between love and anger, and proximity and distance,
There is space for the weeping eye.
And the sweetest love doubts its connection,
And in its separation, he hopes and fears.
My anger from indulgence is intoxication from youth,
I interceded for her while pouring from my youth.
And she kissed my hair, yet my mouth was covered from her.
And the graceful gazelles, like your neck, visited me,
And I did not observe anything other than the cuffed one.
Not everyone who loves remains chaste when alone,
My wholeness pleases love, and the horses meet.
O God, may the days of youth please them,
And he acts like a wise ancient bliss.
When you enjoy life, you become frayed,
For the garment worn has not frayed.
I did not see eyes like those on their parting day,
They sent back every death from every mournful.
They turned eyes as if they were
Surrounded by a bright circle above a widow.
On the evening they distance us from the sorrowful gaze,
And from the pleasure of farewell, the fear of separation.
We bid farewell where the parting seems
Loyal like the son of Abu al-Hayja in the heart of his brigade.
A twin joy flows like David’s weaving,
When it falls into its security like the covering of virtue.
For land comes to be their property as if they
Choose the souls of the warriors and the select them.
Prepare for them all armor and camouflage,
And dispatch them every wall and trench.
With them a small army between al-Luqan and Wasit,
To conquer between the Euphrates and Jalil.
And return to them, red, as if the life from them
Cries from mercy of the meticulous being.
Do not repeat what I say, for he is
A brave one when he recalls the stabbing and is wide open.
The edges of the swords is part of him,
Skillful with the edges of the split—
Like those who lament the rains for a drop,
As if the disbeliever who told the stars to ease.
You have indeed given until you have fallen in every sect,
Until you obtained praise from every speech.
The King of Rome saw your attendance for relative,
So he acted fully devotedly.
And he left the spears of resistance distressed,
To have struck from them by the stabbing; the skillful.
And he wrote from a distant land, a place of longing,
Coming close on horseback surrounding you.
And the envoy of his had traveled on a mountain peak.
And he did not journey anything above a breaking wave.
So when the approaching past hid his place,
The glow of the shining steel was dazzling.
And he entered walking on the mat not knowing
If he was progressing to the sea or ascending a full moon.
And the enemies didn’t hinder you from your desires
With such humility or words disguised.
And if you had written to him about those words,
You would have indeed written upon it steadfastness.
If he gives you assurance, ask the question,
And if you give him the sword, hearken to it.
And have the white swords from among them,
Locked for a captive or a lightened slave.
Indeed, they have arrived at the evening of the shadows,
And passed over it, racing and rushing into quickeness.
I have arrived at the growing state of “al-Nour,”
Illuminated by all the distances between the West and East.
And if he wishes to play with the beard of the ignorant,
I saw its dust then told them to speak,
But the suffering of the envious is a targeted achievement.
But he is one who burdens the sea; he will drown.
And the prince tests people with his opinions,
And looks over knowledge with every familiar mark.
And the downcast decline of the eye is futile,
If the heart’s shutter isn’t the downcast light!
Oh you who are sought, dwell close to him, you shall have peace,
And oh you who are deprived, face toward him, you shall be provided.
And oh you coward knight, hang with him, you shall dare,
And oh you bravest of the brave, leave him, you shall perish.
When enemies sought against his glory,
His grandfather rushed through with unyielding aims to be void!
Nobody encourages the clear favor over reinstated contact,
If the happy virtue aligned does not become sourced.
Let Us Weep Over the Memory of a Beloved and Home
This poem is by Imru’ al-Qais, and here are its verses:
Let us weep over the memory of a beloved and a home,
At the outskirts of the valley, between Al-Dakhool and Hawmil.
Its traces have become clearer, not worn away,
For it was woven from the south and the north.
You see the dung of the footprints scattered on its paths,
And its grounds are as if sprinkled with peppercorns.
As if one morning at parting day,
By the Samrat trees of their clan, we sat atop black thorn.
Stand still—My companions on their steeds say,
Say not to perish in sorrow; dress yourself with hope.
And indeed my cure is a flowed tear,
So, at the remnants of the worn—who shall I commiserate with?
As was your habit of hauling unyielding ears of dread,
To visit her with the aroma of musk from them.
As they stood, the musk wafted from them,
The breeze greeted it, bringing a scent of cloves,
And tears flowed from my eyes with passion,
That soaked my neck until my tears filled my mantle.
Forget not that I had, one day with them, something fitting,
And especially the day of the Mughal,
And on the day I slaughtered for the maidens my mount.
How wonderous it is that these daughters,
That remained, their cheeks preserved most comfortably,
And on the day I entered into the hallowed bosom of Unayza,
She said: “Woe upon you, you whom I loathe,”
And no doubt, the cross has been to you, unwished for.
She spoke while the veil hung between us,
The dispute, remain clear; you have wounded me harshly.
Oh Fatima! Be gentle in this seduction—
Even if I have moistened with abundant sorrow you return!
Even if your actions have disgraced me in fate,
Take the very thin from your cloth, cast it away.
Willful of you was this love that has slain me!
And no matter what you command, somehow my heart obeys.
And no eyes have shed tears except to let fly,
By your arrows, within the decade of hearts slain.
Through hiding a haven nook untouched by none.
I indulged joyously, though, I hasten not to depart.
I’ve passed through kin scattering across the land wishing,
This killer that struck of such hosts.
And in the daylight of any night you found it,
The coats did not attire where dire need stowed.
And my days were scattered among others,
And a sacred veil, unyielding despite disgrace,
By day I should lie nearby unleashed,
And night come upon me while immobile slept the rest,
He was born with enmity.
This feeling of longing demanded that which belonged,
A sweet kindness, concealed yet made cherish.
And should I lay down each day, I shall be a slave,
A wound which never signals what joyous beauty is done,
But in mortal moments belied by virtue.
Old Love Poems
This collection features the works of Mahmoud Darwish, containing the following verses:
Upon our paths was delivered
And our faces lay on the sand.
When the summer winds blew,
We unfurled the handkerchiefs,
Gently… word by word,
And we vanished through two songs, like prisoners
Playing hide and seek with summer’s dew,
Come, refrain in my thoughts,
Oh sister!
The late hours of night
Strip me of colors and shadows,
They shelter me from humiliation!
In your eyes, my ancient moon,
My roots are pulled back
To their blue slumber
Under the sun… and the palms,
Far from exile’s darkness…
Close to the embrace of my family.
I yearned for childhood in you.
Since the sparrows of spring have flown,
Shredding the foliage—
Your voice was, oh it was,
Emitted from wells at times,
And sometimes drizzled on me by rain,
Pure like fire,
Like the trees… like the poetry pouring down.
Come,
In your eyes was something I desire,
And I waited,
And draw me to your arms.
Hold me tenderly,
A prisoner within, forgiven.
I yearned for childhood in you,
Since the sparrows flew.
The trees grew naked!
And we crossed the path,
Shackled,
As if we were prisoners,
My hand, I did not discern, nor yours,
Drained from pain—
From the other’s?
Neither dumb,
Still its grip on my breast or at your chest…
… storied remembrances,
We are but shadows across the terrain,
Like is all the world be all of us.
If it gazed upon us,
No yearning
Nor regret,
Nor lingering glance,
And we lose one another in the crowd,
To buy ourselves little things,
And have not left our night
A spark to kindle the ember.
And something streams through my veins,
Calls me,
To sip from your hand, the strange memory.
Fall, once, wanders among us,
It did not tire,
And when I tasted from your lips,
The water of the mulberry burst forth,
Then the day came up, it dripped down—
And when I wrote of your eyes,
What I recorded scattered all asunder,
And we shared beds…
We shared coffee—
And when you departed…
It left unwelcomed,
Perhaps I became forgotten
As a cloud in the wind,
Settled to the west…
But if I attempted
To forget you…
It landed upon my hand like a star.
To you belongs unprecedented wonder,
With kindness in the dreams.
Of a cedar tree that flourished in me…
Of a flame cupped in my being,
You me find me in the winter nights
A sun,
In my blood a song.
I will name you childhood,
As lifting in my sight the blossoms bloom,
I will name you spring,
Which the grasses raised and the roses arise,
I will name you sky,
So that rains and roaring fill the heavens,
For you belongs glory,
For my joys of bewilderment
Have not circled,
And my promise up where I linger alone—
For you… are renowned.
And then daybreak arrives…
And the sun
Combs her hair through the sea,
And the last kiss docks
Upon my eyes like embers;
Take the winds from me;
Embrace me
For the last time in my life.
And dawn tinged the place
While the sun
Grooms her hair in the sun: a wedding
And a ticket to the palace of the dance!
Take the songs from me,
And remember me…
Like a flash of lightning
And the evening found me,
And the bells rang for the parade of the beautiful captive—
And my heart cold like a diamond.
My dreams boxes on the port,
Take the spring,
And bid farewell!
Little Affairs
This poem is by Nizar Qabbani, containing the following verses:
Little affairs
You pass by without acknowledgment,
Worth all my life,
My entire existence…
Incidents… perhaps would not ignite your interest,
I build castles from them,
And I spend long months on them,
Weaving many tales,
And shaping a sky…
And an island…
Those affairs…
Those small affairs of yours.
When you smoke, I kneel before you,
Like your gentle cat,
And submit myself in peace;
I pursue the fragrant threads,
They spin into circles around this place
And are gone in the last hour of the night.
Like a star, a gentle migrant,
And you leave me, oh companion of my life,
To the lingering smell of tobacco and memories.
And I remain…
In the chill of my isolation,
For I hold my burden dear—
Bits of cigarette remains,
And a plate that gathers ashes,
My ash..
And when I am ill,
You carry your precious flowers,
My friend… to me,
And I place my hand in your palm,
Color and health return to me,
While the sun graces my cheeks…
And I weep, and weep, and weep,
Against all will,
As you cover me with my blanket,
And raise my head above the pillow…
All that I have wished
Dear friend, if only
I could remain ill,
So you would ask about me,
So you’d carry me flowers every day…
And when the phone rings at our house,
I soar to it—
Dear friend of my soul,
With the joy of a small child,
Like the longing of a wandering swallow.
I hold the cold machine,
Squeezing through its wires,
Awaiting the sound…
Your voice pouring onto me,
Warmly, filled with might—
Like the voice of a prophet,
The sound of colliding stars,
The sound of falling ornaments.
I weep and weep,
For you thought of me,
Because you called from the windows of the unseen!
And the day I come to you,
To borrow a book,
To claim I came merely to borrow a book.
Your tired fingers stretch
Toward the library…
While I remain in the mist of fog,
Like a question without an answer…
I gaze at you and the shelves
Like a good cat stares.
Have you uncovered it?
Did you find out,
That I came for more than a book?
And that I’m nothing but a liar?
… You move swiftly to your chamber,
Holding that book against my ribs,
As if I’ve carried existence with me.
I light my bulb and draw the curtains,
Sif, through the iconic and the lines—
Until I rummage among the paragraphs… I chase
Behind the spaced dots… My head spins…
Like a hungry little bird
Searching for bits of seeds,
Perhaps, dear friend of mine,
You tucked away in the corners,
A short phrase of love…
A small garden of longing…
Perhaps you hid between the pages something,
A little greeting to restore peace upon me…
And when we stand side by side on the road,
And you, perhaps unwittingly, take my arm,
I feel deep down, my friend,
Something profound,
Something that tastes like fire,
Engulfing my elbows…
I raise my hand to the heavens,
To make my path eternally endless,
And I weep and weep, without ceasing,
So my wandering remains…
And when I return to my room in the evening,
And strip from my shoulders the mantle,
I feel—when you aren’t in my room—
Your hands wrapping around my arms,
And I remain here, worshipping pain,
Where your tender touch used to rest,
On the sleeves of my blue dress…
And I weep and weep, without stopping,
As if my arms are not my own.