Poem: My Weakness
By Manie Saeed Al-Otaiba:
For tolerance is my weakness,
So you continue to enjoy my affection and kindness.
Yet every day you wound me,
And my sword fails to defend against your blows.
I heal my wounds with my beautiful patience,
Neither does the heart equate, nor does patience bring healing.
I ask what is the secret of this steadfastness,
In the midst of my love, as it unfolds my bleeding.
If only you, my sorrowful guest,
Could be merciful and forgiving toward my harshness.
Do not imagine that you are stronger,
While I remain patient, despite my own resistance.
I am the fury of storms, so I understand,
Why I protect you from the passions of my violence.
You cannot withstand,
If my tenderness and affection withdraw from you.
Poem: Let Us Weep for the Memories of a Beloved and a Home
By Imru al-Qais:
Let us weep for the memory of a beloved and a home,
Located at the starting point between Al-Dakhool and Hawmel.
Its imprint has not faded,
From what it was woven from the south and the north.
You can see the footsteps of the camels in its fields,
And its vastness appears like the seeds of pepper.
As if on the day of banishment I stood,
By the junipers of the neighborhood, confronting the bitterness.
My companions wait there for me with their mounts,
Saying, “Do not despair, maintain your composure.”
And indeed, my remedy is a flowing tear,
So is there old soil that survives?
Must I remain at the old site of Umm Al-Huwairith?
And its neighbor, Umm Al-Rabab, with bitterness.
My eyes overflowed with tears of longing,
Upon my neck, until my tears moistened my pillows.
Oh, how many days I cherished from them,
Especially the day in the abode of Juljul.
And the day I dedicated my camel to the maiden,
Oh, how strange it was to embark on its journey.
The maidens still wallow in vulnerability,
And the fat of the tender thighs, like the thin skin of the wild vine.
And the day I entered the maid’s quarters,
She said, “O, how tragic, you have held me captive.”
“Why did you tie up my camel, O Imru al-Qais?” she asked.
I said to her, “Let me pass and loosen its reins,
And do not keep me from your cherished embrace.”
Like you, I have wooed and suckled,
I distracted her from the charms of adornments.
If only I could escape from the past burdens
And find refuge where my heart never transforms.
One day upon the back of the dune, I hesitated,
For she proclaimed an oath she did not break.
O Fatima, pause in this indulgence,
Even if you have resolved to sever our bond, please be gentle.
Poem: She Received What I Have Yet to Achieve
By Al-Wa’wa Al-Dimashqi:
She has achieved what I have yet to attain,
An imprint upon her wrist which weakens my skin.
As if it were the footsteps of ants upon her fingertips,
Or a garden adorned by clouds with hail.
As if she feared the arrows from her gaze,
So she adorned her arm with armor of steel.
She lays traps in her palm,
Capturing my heart from deep within my body.
And her brow’s arch becomes a bow from all sides,
With the arrows of her gaze piercing through my heart.
And the scorpion on her temple reveals its sting,
While her drowsy glance keeps watch over me.
If there is something of wonder in the roses of her cheeks,
Then the chest reveals pomgranates for those who dare.
Her waist, slender like mine upon a modest scale,
Whispers melancholy through the sorrow in her soul.
Had she appeared to the sun, it wouldn’t rise again,
After catching sight of her one day in all its glory.
I asked her for a meeting, she said, “You know us well,”
“For whoever seeks reunion with us perishes from longing.”
How many lovers have died in the grips of love,
From passion, without voicing their woes?
I said, “I seek forgiveness from the Merciful for my slip,”
“For the lover is rarely patient or resilient.”
She said, and her eyes glistened with mischief,
“I see no remedy for the slain lovers.”
She left me prostrate, while she was unaware,
“Consider how the doe acts in the face of a lion.”
She described a vision I once had that came and departed,
“So by God, describe him without lessening or exaggerating.”
He said, “I saw him as if he were to die from thirst,”
I said, “Stay away from the waters that have not been quenched.”
She said, “You spoke the truth. What remains in love is loyalty,”
“Oh what a cold thing she spoke upon my heart!
And she inquired about me, and it was said to her,
“There is no trace left of him.”
And she rained down pearls from jasmine flowers and watered,
Flowers that bit upon the berries of hail.
And she sang with the voice of her state, saying,
“Without resentment, delay, or hesitation.”
By God, no sister grieved for the loss of a brother,
“More than I grieve for him, nor a mother for her child.”
She hurried and came running hastily,
When I beheld her, I could not hold my composure.
She quenched my spirit with her lips’ nectar,
And revived my heart after death within my body.
They envy me for my death, alas for me,
Even in death, I am not free from envy.
Poem: Departure
By Manie Al-Otaiba:
Why have you come asking for me to sacrifice,
And forget what I have earned and the wounds I bear?
Weren’t we done with this and had we not resigned?
We walked toward the end without mourning,
And declared the sunset of our affection,
Without providing any reasons or explanations.
Why have you returned, knocking once more,
At a door that will remain closed?
Have you come to console me, O my friend,
Or do you seek to see the marks of my slaughter?
Indeed, I am the slaughtered one, and you are like me,
Enduring the flames of a deep wound.
And if I deny this, it will not help.
For in your eyes lies the truth that whispers and reveals,
And in my eyes lies a sadness ready to uncover,
At the break of dawn, when night gives way to day.
Why have you returned to breathe on my ashes,
And awaken a spark from deep slumber?
It is impossible for us to return to harmony,
Even if we were to embark on a new pact.
The friendship has shattered in our hands
O woe to you, what have I done to it? And woe to me!
Why have you returned? You bring us tears,
Attempting to resist every erasure.
Why have you returned, after death, seeking
A revival of life with flowers but without spirit?
My heart has closed its doors to you,
And it has surrendered its keys and sealed away.
So do not knock on the doors of a past,
With the grip of a regretful heart. If you wish, let’s discuss.
The time of affection has passed,
And its beauty within us has transformed to ugliness.
Apologies from you will serve me no purpose,
And running away will not bring back the past.
I will not replace my love with hate,
Nor will the grasp of mountains yield soft slopes.
Our battles have ended; do you not see me,
That I have thrown my spear and shattered my lance?