Nizar Qabbani’s Poetry
Among the most beautiful poems by Nizar Qabbani that celebrate love, the following selections stand out:
Poem: Boundless Love
Nizar Qabbani expresses his sentiment in the poem “Boundless Love” with these verses:
My lady:
You were the most important woman in my history
Before the year’s end.
Now you are… the most significant woman
With the dawn of this year…
You are a woman who transcends time, not measured by hours or days.
You are a woman…
Fashioned from the fruits of poetry…
And from the gold of dreams…
You are a woman who resided in my being
Long before the emergence of the ages…
Oh, you who is woven from cotton and cloud.
Oh, rain of rubies…
Oh, rivers of Nahawand…
Oh, marble forests…
Oh, one who swims like fish in the waters of my heart…
And resides in my eyes like a flock of doves.
Nothing will alter my emotions…
My sensations, my feelings, my faith…
I will remain steadfast in my beliefs…
Do not concern yourself with the rhythm of time or the names of years.
You are a woman who remains timeless.
I will love you…
As we enter the twenty-first century…
And as we enter the twenty-fifth century…
And as we step into the twenty-ninth century…
And I will love you…
Even when the seas run dry…
And when the forests catch fire…
You are the essence of all poetry…
And the blossom of all freedoms.
It suffices that I spell your name…
To become the king of poetry…
And the pharaoh of words…
All it takes is for a woman like you to love me…
For me to inscribe my name in the annals of history…
And to hoist flags in my honor…
My lady…
Do not flutter like a bird in festive times.
Nothing will change within me.
The river of love will continue to flow.
The heartbeat will not cease to throb.
The flight of poetry will not halt.
When love is profound…
And the beloved is a moon…
This love will not turn
Into a bundle of straw devoured by flames…
There is nothing that fills my eyes…
No lights…
No decorations…
No festive bells…
No Christmas trees.
The street holds no significance for me.
The tavern means nothing to me.
Any words written on holiday cards are irrelevant.
I only remember your voice
When the bells toll on Sundays.
I only recall your fragrance
When I fall asleep on the grass.
I only think of your face…
As snow falls upon my garments…
And I hear the crackling of firewood…
What brings me joy, my lady,
Is to curl up like a frightened bird
Among the gardens of eyelashes…
What mesmerizes me, my lady,
Is when you gift me a pen of ink…
I embrace it…
And sleep as blissfully as children…
How content am I in my exile
To drip the essence of poetry…
And drink from the chalice of solitude…
How empowered I feel…
When I am a friend
To freedom and humanity…
How I wish I had loved you during the Enlightenment…
And in the age of imaging…
And during the age of pioneers…
How I long to have met you one day
In Florence…
Or in Cordoba…
Or in Kufa…
Or in Aleppo…
Or in a house nestled in the alleys of Sham…
How I dream of us traveling
Towards lands ruled by guitar
Where love has no walls
And words are without barriers
And dreams are unconfined.
Do not concern yourself with the future, my lady…
My longing will remain stronger than it has ever been…
More intense than ever…
You are a woman who is one of a kind… in the legacy of roses…
In the history of poetry…
In the memory of lilies and basil…
Oh, my lady of the world,
My thoughts reside only in my love for you in the days to come.
You are my first woman.
My first affection
My first embrace
My first passion
My first yearning
My lifeline in times of flood…
Oh, first lady of poetry,
Extend your right hand so I can hide within it…
Extend your left hand…
So I can dwell within it…
Say any phrase of love
To usher in the festivities.
Poem: Luggage of Tears and Mourning
The poet Nizar Qabbani shares his sentiments in the poem “Luggage of Tears and Mourning” with the following verses:
When winter arrives…
And its winds stir my curtains…
I feel, dear friend,
In need of weeping
Upon your arms…
On my notebooks…
When winter comes
And the nightingales cease to sing,
As if… all the birds lack homes…
The bleeding begins in my heart… and in my fingertips.
It feels like the rain in the sky
Is showering, dear friend, inside of me…
Then, I am overcome
By a childlike yearning to cry…
On the silk of your hair, so long like ears of grain…
Like a vessel fatigued by exhaustion…
Like a migrating bird…
Seeking a window illuminated…
Searching for a roof of its own…
In the darkness of the braids…
Having stolen the beauty of the fields…
And hidden the stars in its gloomy cloak…
It comes to sadness from the cave of evening…
Arriving like a pale, strange child
With wet cheeks and cloak…
I open the door to this beloved visitor…
I offer it the bed and cover…
I grant it… everything it desires.
From where did sadness come, dear friend?
And how did it arrive?
Carrying in its hand… lilies of wondrous pallor…
Bringing me… the luggage of tears and mourning…
Poem: Sorrows in Andalusia
In the poem “Sorrows in Andalusia,” Nizar Qabbani recounts:
You wrote to me, my dear…
You wrote inquiring about Spanish lands,
About Tariq, who opened a second world in the name of God…
About Uqba ibn Nafi,
Who planted the seed of a palm tree…
In the heart of every hill…
You asked about Umayyad history…
You inquired about its leader, Muawiya…
About the shimmering caravans
That carried from Damascus… with them
Civilization and prosperity…
What remains in Spain
From us, and from our eight centuries
Is akin to what remains of wine
At the bottom of vessels…
And large eyes… still holding onto the night of the desert in their shadows.
What remains of Cordoba
Are merely the tears of weeping minarets…
And the fragrance of flowers, oranges, and the essence of the past…
What remains of the tales of attachment and love…
Are verses and remnants of verses…
What remains of Granada
And the Nasrid dynasty… is only that which the storyteller mentions…
And “There is no victor but God”
You encounter in every corner…
All that remains is their palace,
Like a naked marble woman…
Living on a tale of love long gone…
Five centuries have passed
Since the “Little Caliph” departed from Spain.
And our small grudges still linger…
Unchanged…
The tribal mentality dwells in our blood as it always has…
Our daily conversations are stained with daggers…
Our ideas, resembling nails…
Five centuries have gone by
And the word Arab still remains…
Like a sorrowful flower in a vessel…
Like a hungry, naked child…
We crucify it on the wall of hatred and resentment…
Five centuries have passed… my dear,
As if we are emerging today from Spain…
Poem: Sorrow
Nizar Qabbani articulates his feelings in the poem “Sorrow” with these lines:
Your love taught me… to mourn
And I have been in need for ages
Of a woman who makes me grieve…
A woman with whom I can weep in her arms
Like a little bird…
A woman who gathers my broken pieces
Like shards of shattered glass.
Your love has instructed me, my lady,
In the worst of habits…
To open my coffee cup
Thousands of times in one night…
And to try the remedies of apothecaries…
And knock on the doors of witches…
Your love taught me… to step out of my home…
To comb the pavements
And chase your face…
In the rain and in the glow of car lights…
Chasing your shade…
Even… even…
In the pages of advertisements…
Your love taught me…
To wander aimlessly for hours
In search of Gypsy hair
Admired by all the Gypsies.
In search of a face… a voice…
That embodies all faces and sounds.
Your love admitted me, my lady,
Into the cities of sorrow…
And I, before you, had never entered
The cities of sorrow…
Never knew that tears are human…
That a human without sorrow
Is a memory of a human…
Your love taught me…
How to behave like a child…
To draw your face with chalk on the walls…
And on fishermen’s sails…
On bells and on crosses…
Your love taught me…
How love changes the map of time…
Your love taught me that when I love…
Time ceases to revolve…
Your love instructed me about things…
That were never in my thoughts…
So I read children’s tales…
I entered the palaces of jinn kings…
And dreamed that you would marry me,
The daughter of the sultan…
Those eyes… purer than the waters of the bays…
Those lips… sweeter than pomegranate flowers…
And I dreamed of seizing her…
Like the knights of old…
And envisioned bestowing upon her
Necklaces of pearls and coral…
Your love taught me, my lady, what madness is…
It taught me how life passes…
Without the daughter of the sultan ever arriving…
Your love has taught me…
How to love you in all things…
In bare trees…
In the withered yellow leaves…
In the raining sky… and the storms…
In the smallest café…
Where we drink our black coffee together in the evening…
Your love taught me to seek shelter…
In hotels without names…
And churches without names…
And cafés without names…
Your love instructed me…
On how the night amplifies the sorrows of strangers…
It taught me… how to perceive Beirut
As a woman… filled with allure…
A woman who wears every evening
The most beautiful attire she possesses…
And sprinkles perfume on her bosom
For sailors and princes…
Your love taught me…
To weep without tears…
To learn how sorrow sleeps,
Like a boy whose feet are amputated…
In the streets of (Rawsheh) and (Hamra)…
Your love taught me to grieve…
And I have long been in need of a woman…
To make me mourn…
A woman… in whose arms I can cry…
Like a little bird…
A woman who collects my shattered pieces…
Like shards of broken glass.