Poems About Winter
Many poets have crafted verses and poems reflecting the essence of winter. Below are some notable examples:
Poem: The Luggage of Tears and Sorrow
Written by Nizar Qabbani:
When winter arrives,
And its winds sway my curtains,
I feel, dear beloved,
A deep need to weep
In your arms,
On my notebooks,
As the songs of the nightingales cease,
And all birds lose their homes.
The bleeding begins in my heart,
And in my fingers,
As if the rains in the sky
Are pouring, dear friend, inside me.
At that moment, I am flooded
With a childlike longing to cry
On your long hair, soft as ears of grain,
Like a boat worn out by fatigue,
Or a migratory bird
Searching for a lit window,
Looking for a roof of its own
In the darkness of braids,
Stealing the sweetness of the fields,
And hiding the stars in its gloomy cloak.
It comes to sorrow from the cave of evening,
Like a pale, strange child,
With damp cheeks and garment,
And I open the door to this beloved visitor,
Offering him the bed and cover,
Giving him everything he desires.
From where does this sadness come, my beloved?
And how did it arrive?
It brings with it
A bouquet of pale lilies,
And carries for me
The luggage of tears and sorrow.
Poem: A Beloved and Winter
By Nizar Qabbani:
It was promised that you would come in winter,
But winter has left, and spring has gone,
Embroidered yet with no beautiful dress,
No shawl draping over us.
Every friendly bird has migrated,
The gentle ones have died, and trunks have fallen,
And the quiet cottage finds no joy in you.
For at my door, September weeps,
And my fireplace hoarsely coughs flames,
Heating the blood in my veins.
A painting is bewildered, and hunger grows,
While the infant generosity fades away.
And in October, amid the singing wood,
And in the grapevines’ clouds in my country,
And within the stars in my homeland, it gets lost.
Before it, sails have not found their way,
Nor do the consciences and ribs pretend.
I smell your lips with the scent of meadows,
I approach them, finding fields,
While spring kisses my lips,
With the essence from your love swirling around.
Can hell be extinguished, is it possible?
Do not fear winter nor its forces;
I love you; nothing can limit my passion,
As the flock gasps in your hair.
I am like a field to you; every part of me
Is a small hell. Do not fear,
For on your lips, the frost burns.
Poem: Youna Abu Rahma
Written by Youna Abu Rahma:
He says: This winter
From the dome of the sky,
And its gentle fragrance,
And the friendly stream,
We revolve around the fire,
We praise the Generous One,
As he spills beauty,
Quenching the thirsty among us.
Poem: Akram Al-Zoubi
By Akram Al-Zoubi:
Winter arrived unexpectedly,
Its dark hue did not cover the stars,
Nor did its whiteness resemble summer’s clouds,
It came strangely,
Carrying the burdens of autumn in its hands,
And half a sword on its back,
In an unusual way of crying,
Depressingly heavy,
Scanty,
Ripping the fields’ faces with the wind,
And laughing secretly behind the mountains;’,
This is drought, said the old swallow,
Then she called her people to flee,
But a little bird in its swaddle
Smiled at her sorrow and said:
In an unusual way, in deceit,
Winter will return
To us.
Poem by Mohammed Al-Maghout
Written by Mohammed Al-Maghout:
Our home that resided by the riverbank
With its noble roof and red lily,
I have abandoned it, oh Layla,
And left my fleeting childhood
To fade on the empty streets,
Like a cloud of roses and dust.
Tomorrow, winter will fall upon my heart,
And the parks will leap from tatters and golden braids.
And I will burst into a sorrowful cry on my pillow,
While I watch beloved joy
Depart my verses forever.
And the rancid fog on the seashore
Spreads in my eyes like a deluge of gray nails,
Where the foul winds roar
Before the cafes,
And the long arms wave emptily on both sides.
I crave, dearly beloved, to seize your breast violently,
To lose my melancholy before your honeyed lips.
For I am a wounded man, oh Layla,
Since the dawn of creation, unemployed,
I smoke excessively,
Yet they expelled me from many neighborhoods,
Me, my poems, and my vividly colored shirts.
Tomorrow the chrysanthemums will long for me,
And the accumulated rain between the rocks
And the pine tree at our house
Will miss me within the aging rooms,
Moaning in the early morning,
As the herds head to the meadows and hills,
Longing for my blue eyes.
I am a tall man,
In steps filled with misery and lyricism
Lie generations of foolish, sleepy,
And tense weight.
So give me my share of wine and chaos,
And the freedom of peering through door cracks,
And a beautiful girl
To serve me roses and coffee in the morning,
So I can run like a little violet among the lines,
To unleash the cries of slaves
From steel throats.
Poem: Rain Down on Us, O Sky
Rain down on us, O sky,
Shower us with rain,
For winter has arrived,
The season of renewal for the trees,
The season of thunderous clouds,
As they drape with pouring cloth,
The season of promising snow,
Gifting poems to the fields,
Filling the fields with wheat
That grow and flourish with joy,
Gifting the plains with streams,
Welcomed by cheerful birds,
So prepare, O mountains,
And receive the pearls of rain,
Get ready, O hills,
For the grass to grow and bear fruits.
Winter has arrived,
The season of love and generosity.
Song for Winter
This year’s winter tells me
That I am dying alone.
One like this winter, one winter,
To which this evening whispers that I am dying alone,
Like an evening, like an evening,
And that my passing years were in vain,
And that I dwell in the open air.
This year’s winter tells me that inside me,
It trembles with cold,
And that my heart has been dead since autumn,
Withering as the first leaves fell,
Then it perished with the first drop of rain.
Each cold night deepens its absence
In the core of the stone,
And if summer comes to awaken it,
It shall not stretch its arms through the snow
Carrying flowers.
This year’s winter tells me my frame is ill,
And my breaths are thorns,
And each step in it is an adventure,
I might die before one foot catches up
In the flood of the rushing city.
I die, unknown to anyone,
I die, no one weeps for me,
And it may be said among my friends in casual talk,
His presence was here, he passed by,
Among those who pass,
May God have mercy on him.
For what I thought was my cure was venom,
And this poetry that moved me dropped me.
I do not know for how many years I have been wounded,
But since that day, my head has bled;
Poetry is my mistake for which I destroyed what I built,
For it, I emerged,
For it, I was crucified;
And when I was hanged, the cold, darkness, and thunder
Rattled me with fear.
When I called to Him, there was no response.
I knew I had lost what I had lost.
This year’s winter tells me that to live in winter,
We must gather warmth from summer and its memories,
To keep warm.
But I scattered all my grains in the autumn,
All my wheat, and my seeds,
My penalty is that winter tells me
That one like this winter,
I die alone,
One like this winter, I die alone.