Poem: The Face of My Mother
- Written by the poet Riyad bin Youssef:
Mother, I apologize; weariness has overtaken me,
And the longing consumes me.. as does patience.
Mother, I seek your forgiveness; my dreams have betrayed me,
And the fruits of my hopes have become bitter.
Mother, forgive me; the path is filled with pain,
The thorns and ditches have torn my strides apart.
Mother, I ask for pardon; the vastness is full of darkness,
For I have found my rest among these sorrowful souls.
What can I sing when I have lost my voice,
And the sighs and strings have been cut off?
What can I weave other than faded verses,
While shadows cloud the visions of the night?
There is no light to aid me except you, oh radiance,
Whose tears fall in my solitude amidst the trees.
No other light exists in the deceptive glimmers,
The sun and the moon weep upon my shoulders.
Mother, I seek your forgiveness; may God bear witness,
I have not forgotten; can the rain forget its clouds?
Can a silver fish abandon its habitat,
Or can a river forsake its course and perish?
Mother, you remain a spring that cleanses me,
From your two streams, the water still pours down.
I am still but a small, wearied child,
In a barren land that weeps and begs for solace.
Mother, I implore you; a thousand apologies,
The pen has dried, and my heart is set afire!
Embrace my shivering, and hold my apologies close,
So my journey may end within your warm embrace!
Poem: Life is Passing – Honor Your Parents
- Written by the poet Abu al-Ala al-Maari:
Life is fleeting, so honor your parents well,
And the mother is most deserving of kindness and grace.
Her labor and nurturing should be enough,
For these two acts of virtue reward every human soul.
Beware of kings and submit to their reign,
For governance is akin to refreshing rain upon the land.
If they oppress, they may still reap benefits,
As many have raised you, either by foot or steed.
Did the lords of Persia or the rulers of Ghassan,
Once find themselves devoid of tyranny and injustice?
The horses, when sold, become obedient and swift,
Only held back by bridles and their reins.
Poem: To My Mother
- Written by the poet Mahmoud Darwish:
I long for my mother’s bread,
And my mother’s coffee,
And the touch of my mother,
As childhood flourishes,
Day after day in its embrace.
I cherish my life because I know,
If I die,
I will feel ashamed of my mother’s tears!
Take me, should I return one day,
As a scarf for your eyelids,
And cover my remains with grass,
That has been sanctified by your heels,
And bind me tightly..
With a strand of your hair,
With a thread waving in the tail of your dress..
I long to become a deity,
A deity I shall be..
If only I could touch the depths of your heart!
Place me, when I return,
As fuel in your oven,
And a clothesline upon your rooftop,
For I can no longer stand,
Without praying during your daylight.
I have aged, so return the stars of my youth,
So I might join,
The baby birds,
On the path of return..
To the nest that waits for you.
Poem: Jikor, My Mother
- Written by the poet Badr Shakir al-Sayyab:
Those are my mother, even if I approach her lame,
Kissing her blossoms, the water, and the earth,
And shaking with my eyes her nests amongst the reeds.
Those are the blue and gray birds of tomorrow crossing the rooftops,
Or spreading their wings like a flower that opens its jaws.
Here, at noon, was our meeting,
And the sun was breaking light upon her lips.
How do I walk through those green paths and knock,
At the doors?
I ask for water, and she brings me a jug from clay,
Delivering drops of cool, sweet shadow, drop by drop.
The jug extends to me as my hands spread the beautiful scents around my head.
Who is she, this mother, a faithful one, an anticipator?
All that remains are names,
Of passions that thundered like lightning in my sky,
Without rain.
How do I walk, my steps torn apart by illness, as if I were a column
Of salt marching on?
Is it Amoura the tempting or Sodom?
Far-fetched, it is Jikor,
A paradise where a boy used to roam, now lost with the disappearance.
Ah, if only the black years were wheat or stones,
That I carried upon my back; I would have discarded Jikor
From its shrubs and embraced my lute in anguish,
Pouring forth a tune, a melody,
And yet a farewell.
Ah, if only the green years returned, when we were still boys,
We would have embraced three or four times,
And my paradise was a halo, while the month that spread the waves of darkness,
In floods of perfumes that lead me to profound depths.
And I would have kissed the bud of death upon the lips of Waheeda,
And I would have reached you, oh Iqbal, on a night of thunder, winds, and darkness,
Carrying my fluttering lantern as shadows extended
From it or shortened, with tremors in the stillness,
Only the rumble of thunder sounding.
Only the heartbeat of steps among the hills,
And the whispers of the wind in your garb, or the sigh of night walking among
The branches.
And I would have embraced you at the door; how cruel is the farewell.
Ah, but youth has fled and gotten lost,
Youth and time will not return again.
Let nostalgia dwell in my memories and let me rest.
Poem: The Mother
- Written by the poet Karim Maatouk:
God entrusted you to me, as the scriptures have advised,
And poetry approaches with trepidation, then departs.
What I have spoken, truly, oh mother, in longing,
Is an elevation beyond what I can describe.
The fields of my letters bloom when carried,
By the clouds for my mother, from which sweet fragrances are picked.
The mother is a school; they say, and I say too,
All schools are her courtyards where she stands.
Here I come with poetry to bring her to my verses,
As if the mother in indescribable fashion emerges.
If I spoke of the mother in poetry, I bow in apology,
Now I stand before the assembly admitting my truth.
Poem: Ode to My Mother
- Written by the poet Majid Al-Baldaawi:
My mother, the sovereign of my spirit and life,
You overflow with tenderness,
Oh, verse of mercy in a human form,
Oh, sacred essence that grants paradise its youth.
You color the history of things with a touch of belief.
Oh mother… how do I inscribe your essence?
Is one poem enough to capture you,
Or a whole diwan..?
You are the prophet of my sorrow and joy,
The capital of my mourning,
Oh greater than all my letters,
Greater than all my anthems,
Oh greater than the window of forgiveness.
God has given you wisdom and grants you serenity,
I will kiss the feet that are sacred,
To attain paradise,
Oh sovereign of love and tempest of emotions.
I seek your forgiveness now and implore your mercy,
Asking God’s pardon upon your hands.
So ride the clouds,
And tighten my bond,
The bond of the soul…
For my spirit is weary, and my steps are light, trodden by deprivation.
And I remain who I am,
Crawling beneath the shades of wonder,
Reciting what I can of passion or sorrow.
O mother, you are the garden of the earth,
The greatest source of my identity,
Oh, how can I pay all my debts to you,
When there lie a myriad of steps to recall?