Delicate Eyes of Ahmed Shawqi
I conceal the enchanting eyes of delicate appearance,
And I lament to them the schemes of their creator.
They have slain, and the prose of the slain speaks
Of enchantments that transform demise into dreams.
They communicated with glances that made the heart ill,
Thus they became sound in the hearts, merely reflections.
I adored you, you with the beauty mark, and love is a state
That when it presents itself to a person, they become bewildered.
And indeed, you are the world of the heart, no matter how treacherous,
For in your presence came a heart filled with longing.
Your indifference is not seen as a harsh cruelty,
And your speech ceases to heal the wounds of my heart.
Between abandonment and reproach, there lies a stand for the heart,
Like a path caught between the sword and fire.
Between desires and despair, patience is stirred,
Like your waist caught between the chest and hip.
And my people exposed my plight, saying certainly he has strayed,
I have lost my reproach of you if I am indeed astray.
They seek solace for a heart that aches,
And who will provide solace that is not too precious?
What is love but a pleasure followed by misery,
Just as the drunken man suffered under the burden of being awake?
Two Nuns in the Monastery of Beauty
Hamad Al-Asimi expresses in his thoughts on beauty:
They always resort to tears when…
The time of departure approaches…
Sparks fly from the eyes…
And hot tears stream down…
This is their legacy from love…
From longing and beauty…
And I want you, not like them…
No crying and no wailing…
Be elegant, beautiful, and royal…
When the time of farewell comes…
Stand with your face to the sky, like…
The date palms…
Wear your pink dress…
And the long shawl…
Put a permanent color on your lips…
A crimson that will not fade…
Be like the playful white cat…
Like the twin stars…
Like the phoenix…
Like the playful gazelle…
Be all the women if…
The paths lead us astray…
For the sun is at its finest…
When the time of sunset comes…
I want you, not like them…
Did I ask for the impossible?!!
Your eyes are the greatest refuge I have known…
Through times of war…
And I, a wanderer in the caves of the blue eyes…
From the southern lands…
Your eyes, like two nuns in the monastery of beauty…
Pure from all sin…
And I sought refuge in them to guide me…
So I may repent…
Thus, I want you, unlike all others, no crying…
No wailing…
So stand with your face to the sky…
Like the date palms…
For I want you to be thus…
At the time of farewell.
That Nature, Stop By Us, O Sari
- Select verses from the poem “That Nature, Stop By Us, O Sari,” written by the Prince of Poets, Ahmed Shawqi, during his visit to Istanbul, reflecting on the beauty of its nature:
That nature, stop by us, O Sari,
So I can show you the splendid work of the Creator.
The earth around you and the sky trembled
For the marvelous verses and artifacts.
From every utterance of majesty, as if it were
The Mother of all books on the lips of the reader.
It pointed to the King of Kings, leaving not
For the jurisprudents and the scholars any proof.
Whoever doubts it, a glance at its creation
Erases the wretched doubt and denial.
The veil was lifted from the terrains, and nature shone through
Like a bright, unveiled essence.
I likened it to Bilqis upon her throne,
In beauty and in procession with maidens.
Or (as the son of David) with vast dominion,
And markers of glory in it standing tall.
The winds howl in its gates,
And the birds there show their curved bills.
They stood on the outskirts of gardens, as if they were
Ridwan forwarding paradise to the righteous.
How many in her beauty were some of her maidens,
With anklets and bangles adorning them?
And in garments that barely conceal them,
Amid the gentle and soft who trail behind their skirts.
And a grin of teeth fills the world with radiance,
And a tearful beauty, pouring down her flood.
And solitary in the desert complains of loneliness,
And numerous playmates in the depths of valleys.
And indeed, you pass over the pond, thinking it,
And the growth is a mirror adorned with a frame.
The beauty of interlacing its waves with her forked branches,
Like fingers running over strings.
Its arms stretched out over its well, sparkling with jewels,
Of gravel and treasures.
Flowing in a damp flowery hue,
Woven of fine materials and delicacies.
O flower of the lovers in passion,
Chosen by the poets in the month of March.
The frozen ones lingered there, flowing as if
It were the tears of desire, resembling delicate cheeks.
And when you see the sky shining, as in the dark of night,
It bursts forth from rivers and seas.
In every direction you tread and every path you take,
Two mountains of rock and flowing water.
From every cascading edge and summit,
With the depth of the abyss saturated with honor.
The direct way held for him a lofty turban,
Positioned with the reverence of the elders of Nizar.
And one who disbelieves in the jinn stirs her voice
In the water, descending and in the current.
Filling the space with a loud commotion,
So as if he filled the horizons with beasts.
And as if the flood of Noah appeared, and we see not
The ship transformed, rapid like a train.
It flows like the bridge of a path, and sometimes,
between a chasm and a crumbling cliff.
It traverses the kingdoms with its sorrow and valleys,
And it overwhelms the paths of Serbia and Bulgaria.
Until he cast our belongings and our hopes
In a region filled with hope and a cherished neighbor.
A king whose crown upon his head, when you face him,
Are two crowns: the crown of guidance and the crown of pride.
The Pleiades are the resting place of his majesty,
And his virtues traveled to the cities.
For the East is watered with his right hand,
And the West rains upon it with clouds of his left.
And the cities of the mainland are in his regard,
And the realms of the two seas are in his honor.
O Allah, bolster him with the lions of bravery,
In the form of the fierce moving chargers.
Those ascending to the enemy over the hills.
Descending upon the fixed swords,
Purchasing God with their sons and spouses
And belongings, and their longevity.
Those standing under the banner of His Prophet,
Settling in the abodes of the helpers.
Do Not Speak of My Language, Mother of Languages
- A poem by the poet Wadi’ Akal defending the Arabic language and showcasing its beauty:
Do not speak of my language as the mother of languages,
It relieves itself from those daughters.
My language is the noblest mother who did not give birth
To the Arabs except for the honored.
I saw no trace of the letter Dhad
In the languages of the West with their stammers.
Allah created the Dhad and
Bestowed upon it eternal merits.
And aside from the ‘Ad from the West,
Came upon our land with disastrous invasions.
He seized the house and became its lord,
And concealed sustenance and consumed the life.
He attacked the Dhad, and it was a fortress,
Stubbornly facing every blow.
It was the stronghold that foiled his tribulations,
So that he only returned with forlorn aspirations.
O Arabs, guard your stronghold,
Your Lord from the evils of those tribulations.
If a day shocks you with sorrow in the Dhad,
It is for you, by Allah, the day of death.
O Arabs, if you are encumbered by
The eastern cities from the horrors of calamities,
Be wary of losing the Dhad, even if
They roll you along with it in the wilderness.
Poem of Words by Nizar Qabbani
He hears me… when he dances with me,
Words that are unlike any other words.
He takes me under his arms,
And plants me in one of the clouds.
And the black rain in my eyes,
Falls in drops… drops.
He carries me with him… carries me,
To pink sunlit evenings.
And I… like a child in his hands,
A feather carried by the breezes.
He brings me seven moons,
In his hands, a bundle of songs.
He gifts me a sun… he gives me,
Summer… and a flock of sparrows.
He tells me… that I am his masterpiece,
And that I equal thousands of stars.
And that I am a treasure… and that I,
Am the most beautiful thing he has seen from paintings.
He tells tales that dizzy me,
Forgetting the dance and the steps.
Words that change my history,
Turning me into a woman in moments.
He builds for me a castle of illusion,
Where I dwell only in moments.
And I return… I return to my table,
With nothing but words.