Poem: The Return of September
Written by Nizar Qabbani:
There is no oil… no straw,
No charcoal in the hearth,
The fire is prepared,
In my dream a tremor… September is for the embrace.
Extend your hand to me,
Did they inform my mother?
That I am here with you… how sweet is solitude,
And the open arms.
The boys scatter,
In the town square,
And the sound of birds
Fills the laughter.
The moons have rushed down
In the homeland of (the dance)
From the dusk of the rafters
In our summer vineyard… oh sweet September.
The doors resonate,
Were they lullabies?…
Stirred from this soft timber;
Our seats were… we moist the hill,
In the basket’s memory…
No, oh no lullabies,
Embroidered is the village… adorned in black.
With the glory of Syria… when summer has passed
And the desert grew barren.
In a green pupil
We were with the breezes,
Moistening the hill,
Stuffing stars
In the basket’s memory…
No, oh no lullabies,
Embroidered is the village… adorned in black.
With the glory of Syria… when summer has passed
And the desert grew barren.
My home dozes
In a green pupil.
Poem: The Yellow Color
Written by Mahmoud Darwish:
Yellow flowers expand the light in the room.
They look at me more than I look at them.
They are the first messages of spring,
Gifted to me by a lady
Who is not troubled by the war
From reading what remains of our sparse nature.
I envy her the concentration she brings
To what is beyond our frayed lives…
I envy her for embroidering time
With a needle and yellow thread cut from the unoccupied sun.
I gaze at the yellow flowers,
Feeling they illuminate me and melt my darkness,
So I hide and shy,
And keep up with them in exchanging transparency.
The metaphor of interpretation tempts me:
Yellow is the color of the hoarse sound
That the sixth sense hears.
It is a neutral intonation, the voice of sunflowers
That do not change their faith.
If there is a benefit to jealousy—its color is—to look around us
With the knightly fierceness of the loser,
And learn to focus on correcting our mistakes
In honorable competitions!
Poem: You are enchanted, and the barren homes have moved you
Written by Qays ibn al-Mulawwah:
You are enchanted, and the barren homes have moved you,
And a longing has returned to you after two years.
And a fire was ignited in your heart, burning,
That morning for separation, I was the one who withdraws.
His lips babble separation as if he is
A captive that the group behind him is anxious to rescue.
I said: Indeed, the matter has been clarified, so depart,
For we were amazed by the enchantment before you were.
I drank a curse from the crow, for I realized,
What you attempted to conceal is indeed real.
Did you not see that I am neither a lover nor sensitive to blame,
And I am not content with a substitute for them?
So depart from me, do not let the destination be seen,
That has sighs shed by tears.
Did you not see the dwellings of the tribe in the splendor of the morning,
Where the trees leaned to the two hills?
And perhaps the clattering of the awnings after honor,
Is what divides between the two parties?
How many loves or friendships you were familiar with,
For a while, and separation did not hinder them?
As if I, on the day of separation, were held to fate,
A brother of thirst, closed upon me the passages.
It deprives whoever loves him the water of his life,
Neither is drinking easy nor a remedy available.
The white of their food is a delight as if
They are sheep adorned with veils.
The edges of their mouths, just beyond the bellies,
Are where the secret of them is heard by the gleaming clouds.
They endure from the essence of the steadfast
As tears flow at the edges of their eyes.
So not long had passed in the home until her hints
And the modest ones, among them, resembled each other.
And as they bore all aspects from every side,
And ventured among the rapid rivers.
So when they became settled beneath the veils and a fragrance had flowed,
A fragrance of musk shone in the horns,
They pointed out to those who rushed in to saddle the camels,
And announced that it was a fine day from the summer.
So they began to compete with the veils,
Playing with the curves, pulling the reins.
And every stallion-like mare, as if she had been rained upon,
Glistening when they fled from the stretch.
They are oft-repeated strains as if its sweetness came from
The wine that flowed from their arms.
A companion with a reversal in the elbows,
When the pace of the group met their maze.
He responds with an invitation if I call him,
On an ailment, while the stars above advance.
And when we caught up to the loads, it began to be those who
Imagined in the sweet solid and if she appears.
They withdrew gently, and were ever gracious,
As if the necks were extended while they were street performers.
So I wish to know if I shall spend a night
Where my heart found solace with the beloved.
And shall I lay my heavy burden alongside a tent,
Whose edges stretch at her brow?
And shall I accompany time in the dawn’s rise,
The herds that push him forward?
Watered there from the great distance of homes, a gentle breeze,
And with the line extended, swollen with tides.
How imperative I demand an exceptional event,
And he approached to establish the audiences.
As the deer brought forth the ravagers of time while the sun dawned,
Perspective shifts to those sheltered under the trees at dusk.
So I spoke to my companions, with tears falling down,
As the scattered gathering was distressed,
At the gates of the tents they were exposed,
For my vision was that of the sun adorning.
Poem: A Lover from Palestine
Written by poet Mahmoud Darwish:
Your eyes are a thorn in my heart,
They wound me… and I worship them,
I protect them from the wind,
I conceal them behind the night and aches… I conceal them,
And their wound ignites the light of lamps,
Making my present more dear than my soul.
I forget, after a while, in the meeting of eyes,
That once we were two, behind the door!
Your words… were a song,
And I was trying to sing,
But misery surrounded the spring lip.
Your words, like swallows, flew from my home,
Leaving behind the door of our house,
And our autumn threshold behind you,
Where longing has broken our mirrors!
We have gathered the shards of sound.
We’ve mastered nothing but the elegy of the homeland!
We will plant it together in the chest of a guitar,
Amid the roofs of our catastrophe, we will recognize it,
Flawed moons… and stones.
But I forgot… I forgot, oh unknown voice:
Is your departure rusting my guitar, or is it my silence?!
I saw you yesterday at the port,
A traveler without family… without provisions;
I rushed to you like orphans,
Asking the wisdom of the ancestors:
Why is the green orchard drawn
To a prison, to an exile, to a port,
And remains, despite its journey
And the scents of salts and longing,
Always green?
And I write in my notebook:
I love oranges. And I hate the port,
And I add in my notebook:
At the port,
I stood. And the world was eyes of winter,
And the peel of oranges awaited us. And behind me was the desert!
I saw you in the mountains of thorns,
As if without sheep,
Pursued, and among the ruins…
And you were my garden, while I was a stranger in my house,
I knock on the door, O my love,
To my heart… the door and window are eaten by cement and stones!
I saw you in the vessels of water and wheat,
Shattered. I saw you in the night cafes, serving,
I saw you in the rays of tears and wounds.
And you are the other lung in my chest… you are you,
The voice on my lips… and you are the water, you are the fire!
I saw you at the cave’s entrance… at the fire,
Hanging on a clothesline, the clothes of orphans.
I saw you in the hearths… in the streets…
In the stables… in the blood of the sun.
I saw you in the songs of orphanhood and misery!
I saw you filled with the salt of the sea and sand,
And you were beautiful like the earth… like the children… like the jasmine.
And I swear: from the lashes of the eye, I will sew a handkerchief
And engrave on it poetry for your eyes,
And when I water it in a heart thawed by melody,
It extends its vines… I will write a sentence dearer than martyrs and kisses:
“She was Palestinian. And she still is.”
I opened the door and window in the night of storms,
To a moon that solidified in our nights,
And I said to my night: It’s your turn!
Behind the night and the wall,
There was a promise with words and light,
And you are my virgin garden… as long as our songs are,
Swords when we unravel them,
And you are faithful like wheat… as long as our songs are,
Soil when we plant it,
And you are like a palm tree in my mind,
Unbroken by a storm and a woodcutter,
And never have the wilds of the wilderness and thickets slashed her braids,
But I am the exile behind the wall and the door.
Take me under your eyes,
Take me, wherever you are,
Take me, however you are,
Return to me the color of the face and body,
And the light of the heart and eye,
And the salt of bread and melody,
And the taste of the land and the homeland!
Take me under your eyes,
Take me a still life in a hut of regrets,
Take me a verse from the book of my tragedy,
Take me a game… a stone from home,
So that our coming generation remembers,
Its path back home!
Palestinian of the eyes and the tattoo,
Palestinian by name,
Palestinian of dreams and concerns,
Palestinian of the handkerchief and feet and body,
Palestinian of words and silence,
Palestinian of voice,
Palestinian of birth and death!
I carried you in my old notebooks,
The fire of my poems,
I carried you the provisions of my travels,
And in your name, I shouted in the valleys:
The horses of the Romans!… I recognize them,
Even if the field changes!
Be cautious of the lightning that struck my song on flint!
I am the decoration of youth, and the knight of knights!
I am. And the destroyer of idols!
I plant the borders of Syria,
With poems that unleash the eagles!
And in your name, I shouted at the enemies:
Eat my flesh if you sleep, O worms!
For the white ant does not birth eagles,
And the egg of the snake… hides its skin a serpent!
The horses of the Romans… I recognize them
And I know before them that I am the decoration of youth, and the knight of knights!
Poem: The Guidance of God and the Beloved Beauty
Written by poet Ibn Alawi Al-Haddad:
Guidance from God is the beloved beauty to the guidance,
And near it what He fears from destruction.
A jealous soul, may God inflame its eye,
And keep it awake until it sleeps sleepless…
I love her for the hills, the heights,
A gazelle and the tribe that shines with light.
Veiled from Hashim and Muhammad,
Peace and blessings of God be upon him forever and ever.
So do not blame me for the beautiful one, forgive me,
For my heart with her becomes as it was yesterday.
Oh, you enemies, be gentle and merciful,
With a lovesick one whose life has turned bitter.
And do not imagine the gazelle of the tribe if I,
With God’s guarding and the harsh has led me astray.
And the camels of longing head toward a place,
Where people dwelled in the meadows of abundance.
Be kind to God’s village where every year,
With grace like the lightning or thunder.
Ride through the green plains of the valley,
As soft as a canary’s song or loud as my nightingale’s call.
And throughout, enlightening the night with the company of the righteous,
How many have pledged to keep faith with God.
To His gates, bliss belongs to the one who hears the call.
And walks to the Merciful Lord, hastening,
To obey Him, hoping for eternal joy.
And fears God’s torment in His fire,
Where those who rebel will enter forever.
And he did not follow the best of mankind, Muhammad,
The Prophet of guidance, the sea of generosity, the source of echoes.
Peace and blessings upon him and upon his progeny,
Endlessly to the horizon!