Mother’s Poem by Abdul Karim Ma’touq
God entrusted you to me, just as the scriptures advised.
And poetry approaches with trepidation, only to retreat once more.
By God, I swear, dear mother, no verse I utter
Is without a standing that exceeds my description.
The field of my letters flourishes when a cloud carries them
Filled with sweetness, destined for my mother.
Indeed, a mother is a school, as they say, and I concur,
All schools have their playgrounds where she stands.
Here I come with poetry, bringing it closer to my verse,
As if the essence of a mother embodies the indescribable.
If I dare to speak of a mother in poetry, it stands apologetically;
Here I stand before the gathering, ready to confess.
I Long for My Mother’s Bread by Mahmoud Darwish
I yearn for my mother’s bread, her coffee, her touch… and childhood swells within me,
Rising like a day upon another day, and I cherish my life because if I die,
I would feel ashamed of my mother’s tears! Take me, if I return one day,
Wrap me in a shawl with your hem and cover my bones with grass,
Washed in the purity of your footsteps, and bind me with a strand of hair,…
Perhaps I will become a god, if only I touch the depths of your heart!
Place me, upon my return, as fuel for your oven…
And the laundry hanging on the rooftop,
Just like I have lost the ability to stand
Without the prayer of your days. I withered; return the stars of my childhood
So that I can join the little birds on the path of returning… to your nest of waiting!
Mother by Abdullah Al-Baradoni
You left me here, amidst suffering,
And moved on, oh the length of my sorrow and gloom.
You abandoned me to despair alone,
While you found rest beneath the soil.
Where there is no injustice or oppression,
And no news of ruin or calamity.
Where there are no swords or spears,
Where no wars rage and no weapons shine.
Where there are no shackles or whips,
Nor victims drowned in pain and anguish.
You left me, reminiscing about serenity
Like an elder recalls the dreams of youth.
And you drifted away, my longing circling around
The past – oh my, what has become of me?
And called to you, the harvester of time,
To where I summon you, but you are weary of my answer.
Where I call you, but I hear only
The silence of the grave and desolation of the empty wasteland.
Your death was my entire sorrow,
And my life afterwards is just an extension of that loss.
Where is your tender shadow, now that you
Have vanished from my sight?
The days dragged their wounded selves
Across the regions of pain and thorns.
And it ended where the race concluded for you,
And there you rested in the veils of absence.
Ah, “Oh my mother!” The thorns of grief
Ignite the pain within my melting heart.
In you, I bid farewell to my youth and infancy,
As the sweetness of blossoming days fades behind me.
How can I forget you while your memory is inked
On the pages of my life?
Your recollection follows me, casting its shadow
Wherever my journeys take me.
How often I remembered your hands, as they were
In mine or while preparing my food and drink.
They bore the burden of my frailty, and if
The cold touched me, it was your garments that kept me warm.
And if hunger gripped me and you owned nothing
Except the promise of empty words.
Your hands soothed my head, just as
Dawn caresses the fragrant blossoms of the meadows.
How you guided me with your dark eyes to
Our fields in the (Ghool) in the (Qaa’ Al-Rihab).
And to the valley, to the shade where
The garden exhales its fragrance.
The riverbanks resound with its melody,
Flowing like sweetness in the delicate chat.
How often we longed, and how gently you treated me
Under the silence of the night and the whispers of the stars.
How many tears your eyes shed when they saw
My sight slipping away, losing in the veil.
And I remembered my fate, the longing
Injuring both sides of your being.
Here I am, oh mother, today a bird,
A renowned one, shining like a meteor.
I fill history with a melody and echo,
And I sing in the realms of eternity.
So hear me, oh mother, my voice—dance
Beyond the grave, like the soft curves of your youth!
Here I am, oh mother, I mourn you,
In the melancholy of this poetry, with my longing and tears.
The Mother Kisses Her Child by Abu Qasim Al-Shabbi
The mother kisses her child and embraces him,
A celestial sanctuary of beauty, sacred and divine.
Thoughts deify as they dwell beside her,
And pure souls return there, in a state of grace.
A sanctuary of life, with its purity and tenderness—
Is there a holier or greater sanctuary beyond it?
Blessed are you, oh sanctuary of motherhood and childhood,
How life completes itself and becomes sanctified within you!
The Imperative of Honoring My Mother by Ma’ruf Al-Rasafi
It is imperative to honor my mother,
For she is most deserving of reverence.
She bore the burden and, after carrying me,
Nurtured me until I was weaned.
She cared for me through the darkness of night,
Often sacrificing her sleep for my comfort.
Indeed, it is my mother who shaped my existence,
After my Lord; I have become part of humanity.
Thus, I offer my gratitude after my God’s praise,
And my appreciation endures throughout the ages.
The Mother by Hafiz Ibrahim
A mother is a school; if you prepare her well,
You prepare individuals of noble descent.
A mother is a garden; if nourished with care,
Will bloom abundantly, no matter the season.
A mother is the teacher of teachers, whose
Achievements have echoed through the horizons.
A Man Tempts A Naive Boy With Money by Ahmed Shawqi
One day, a man tempted a naive boy with his wealth in order to fulfill his desires:
“Bring me your mother’s heart, boy, and I will give you coins, jewels, and treasures.”
The boy proceeded, thrusting a dagger into her chest,
Drawing forth her heart and returning swiftly.
However, in his hurriedness, he stumbled, and the bloodied heart fell and rolled away.
The heart of the mother cried out as it lay on the ground: “My son, my beloved, are you hurt?”
It was as if this voice, despite its tenderness, rained the wrath of heaven upon the boy.
He saw the enormity of a crime unprecedented in human history,
And he turned back towards his mother’s heart, trying to wash away the guilt with his tears.
“Oh heart, avenge me and do not forgive, for my crime cannot be forgiven,”
And he drew his dagger, intending to strike his own heart—a pain that would serve as a lesson for those who heed!