Poems Celebrating Women
* The poet Tufail Al-Ghanwi expresses:
Women are like trees that grow together,
Some bear thorns while others bear fruit.
When women abandon virtuous conduct,
It is a duty that must surely be fulfilled.
They do not yield to righteousness, even if beckoned,
And they remain, to some, blameworthy deceivers.
* Imam Al-Shafi’i conveys:
Many speak about women, claiming,
That love for women is a struggle of trial.
But love for women is not a hardship,
Rather, it’s the closeness to one who is unlovable that becomes the true trial.
The Poem “Woman and Mirror” by Elia Abu Madi
She lingered by her mirror, deeply contemplative,
Unaware of the judgment from those who critique fairly.
Before her lies all that is fitting for one,
Who mirrors the phantoms of the world, acting out roles.
She envies any reference to beauty,
As if charm were a coveted treasure, held tight by those charmed.
Her face flushes with anger and jealousy,
As if she is afflicted by a fever, ebbing and flowing.
She harbors malice towards the narrator; if he knew,
This unfortunate interlocutor would soon be weary.
Her contempt, unintentional but palpable,
Reflects the fierce ire of the charming—they do not relent.
For if she once found beauty in life’s offerings.
She might just turn away from its harshest trials.
A young lady, remarkable as a peacock, without a tail,
Her flowing hair draws all eyes, captivating and bold.
She sought to monopolize beauty itself,
While many enchanting women aspire to the unattainable.
Little does she know that beauty is transient,
Just like a flower destined to wither.
The wise among us disdain to witness,
A burdened heart adorned for a time, now to be unmasked.
And all young men who prefer a polished sheen,
From soft, fair maidens, are surely deceived.
If outward beauty were truly a virtue,
Then the beauty of the soul is far loftier and better.
Yet, it is but the names of the lovely who lead the way,
And all women, mirroring the path that names often take.
If only they could appease the fury of men and recognize,
The wrath of maidens, they would surely fulfill their journeys.
She has taken her mirror as a guide,
For each challenge or dilemma that arises.
There’s no difficulty that one cannot face;
Only those limited in thought find triviality complex.
She conceals her wisdom from those who truly understand,
Yet she reveals it to those who remain unaware.
If only the mirror could preserve her shadow,
Then you would see with your own eyes the truths you once misjudged.
Moreover, her love for vanity grows more intense,
For it is cherished by the youth of this era.
Enveloped by its allure, they resemble dolls,
Having only missed out on the art of embellishment.
The youth of today have become in their adornment a cause,
That incites battles where women are often the victims.
Should an enchanting woman be dismissed, then excuse her,
As she withdraws, declaring all of you simply pretentious.
The Poem “Eastern Woman” by Hamad Al-Aseemi
Love, my dear, is merely a figment of imagination…
And love, my dear, is a city…
With entrances crafted from our rosy dreams…
And love, my darling, is an Indian fable…
And love, my little one, is like a cube of sugar…
In my cup of Turkish coffee…
Let me say, my friend, in brief…
The Eastern woman…
Arrives without warning like a tempest…
Like a heart attack…
She enters the heart without permission…
And shuts down the veins and arteries…
The Eastern woman, my friend…
Is akin to addiction…
Like a wisp of smoke from…
My Cuban cigar…
For every woman I loved before you, my dear…
Has imprisoned me within her secret dungeons…
And treated my heart and me…
With utmost cruelty…
Every woman I have known before you, my beauty…
Has sentenced me in her secret courts…
So help me… help me find my way back, my love…
And let me close this case…
The Poem “A Woman Swept with the Wind” by Sarkon Bolus
If she were seen, that woman
Carried away by the gale,
With the signs of a storm brewing in her eyes,
Her hair already stirring in the whirl.
No
Do not hesitate
And tell me; she might be my lost one,
She might be the one for whom I’ve searched through villages
And far-off countryside,
Dreaming of finding her in a desolate alley,
One day, cradling a child in her arms,
Or peering from a window,
Or even to know that it is she
In some sound, in a melody on
The radio,
A melody speaking sweet things
About sorrow
Or exile.
And perhaps you might find her
Only in the wings of a butterfly,
Perched delicately beside the roadside,
Her eyes stained with the playful ink of history,
Her breasts burdened with the sorrows of a nation,
And her solitary fruit,
Like a few stones nestled in a basket,
Returned from a marketplace where shops have closed, the wind whistling through wooden beams,
On the outskirts of a town
Where we were born and dreamed our little dreams,
Then abandoned it.
The Poem by Antarah Ibn Shaddad
When the wind blows from the heights of Al-Sa’di,
Its chill extinguishes the heat of yearning and passion.
And it reminds me of people with whom I kept my promises,
Yet they never recognized my worth nor kept their end of the deal.
Were it not for a girl in the tents, residing,
I would have never chosen the closeness of home over distance.
Delicate and enchanting is the magic of her glances;
If she speaks to a corpse, it rises from its grave.
The sun gestures to her at sunset,
It says: “When darkness deepens, be there after me.”
The luminous moon beckons her, “Reveal yourself,”
For you, like me, are perfect and fortunate indeed.
She turned, shy, then lowered her veil,
And scattered from her cheek the fresh roses.
She drew a sword from the sheath of her eyelids,
Like the sharp sword of her father, the keenest blade.
Her eyes engage in battle with it, yet she keeps it sheathed.
What a wonder, that steel can sever in its case!
With graceful hips and gentle curves,
Her limbs are dainty; they sway with the flow.
At night, the scent of musk sleeps beneath her veil,
Increasing the fragrance of dew from her breaths.
And light breaks beneath her brow,
Shrouded in the night of her curly hair.
Between her lips, when she smiles,
Is a glass of wine mixed with honey.
Her throat laments from her necklace, appearing mournful;
Oh, what a bitterness from that throat and the chain!
Will time allow, oh daughter of Malik,
For a reunion that heals the heart from its distress?
I will dream of my people, even as they spill my blood,
And I will endure patience for you, alone, my love.
By your right, my grief stems from distance after you,
For now, you distance yourselves, and pain distances us further.
I feared the separation that would keep us apart,
And believed that my effort would not see me parted from you.
For if I endure, my eyes will follow the riders,
I lay down before their hooves, a canvas for the smear of praise.