Poem to My Mother: The Yearning You Inspire
Written by Abdullah Al-Wasi’ Al-Suqaf:
Mother, I have written to you with longing,
And I planted my pens with a sigh,
And I watered them with poetry, they prostrated
Before your name in reverent submission.
Mother, with the depth of two worlds,
I sent out echoes filled with yearning,
And I went shouting, “A thousand mothers,”
For thousands of years past and yet to come.
In every speck of clay,
I wove in your name a lineage and a clear birth.
For the dignity of mankind in the first creation,
With head held high,
So history may witness that when I
Scream, I do not yield.
I have ignited in my veins a revolution,
Beginning from the right,
Lighting it up for the people, igniting the fire within.
I brought you my heart-torn blood,
As if I were a sad child
And as though despite the yearning,
I remain caught between doubt and certainty.
In your world, I exist as a fetus,
Mother, like the branches of the jujube tree,
Mother, the essence of rituals and texts,
Mother, the times of prayer recited by worshippers.
Mother, the dawn of youth,
Appearing before the fearful.
Mother, the signs of the breaking dawn,
Appearing to the fasting ones.
Between morning and evening,
Mother, you are the light for the eyes.
Mother, the song of birds
In nests high among the branches.
Mother, even distant lands grieve for you in song,
As the years bear witness.
Mother, the bitterness of peace,
When perceived by the idolaters.
Oh Mother, who else do I have but you?
Without you, I am nothing.
Mother, my safety; when I see
The universe in the hands of fate.
You comfort me, Mother, amidst sorrow,
And I wrote between them my homeland,
Woven from my poetry, a shroud upon my poetry,
In the midnight hour, a beautiful birth.
I played my lyre, and the wind sang
During the wedding of the quickening.
Eloquently sang, the poetry round the mother, a melody from Yemen,
Sung by Bilqis in Sana’a and in the depths of Aden.
I sang, Mother, in the folds of the coffee tree in Yemen,
Sang to you blooms and fragrance
That filled the homeland.
I nurtured it, a branch from the olive tree amid the tribulations,
Since the branches auto blossomed in the Tobin valley.
With light stealing it away,
Between the wrists and the rope.
I sang, Mother, there is no other friend,
If the companions say: “has diminished.”
I sang to you, oh love, in my poem, and if they ask, “For whom?”
For the crucified worshiper, imperceptibly in the mosques like an idol,
For the distressed, the wounded, incapable of halting time;
For the frightened, terrified, who cannot,
Even if they sing cowardice.
Ode to the Garden of Tenderness and Safety
Written by Majid Al-Badawi:
To the garden of tenderness and safety,
Oh Lady of love, your embrace is all-encompassing,
Lady of the heart, wholly the heart.
How can I distribute my pain,
While the rosy dream threatens me with awakening?
You, who rain down upon the earth
With that outpouring, Mother, Lady of the spirit,
Age, you are the flood of tenderness.
Oh manifestation of mercy in human form,
The sacred that grants paradise its every youth,
And illuminates the history of things with a touch of faith.
Mother, how do I inscribe my letters?
Is a single poem or collection enough for you?
You are the prophet of my sorrow and joy,
The capital of grief,
You are greater than all my letters,
Greater than all my songs,
You exceed the window of forgiveness.
For You, God granted wisdom, and grants you solace;
I will kiss your sacred feet
To earn paradise, oh Lady of love,
And the storm of emotions.
I ask for your forgiveness now and seek your pardon,
And ask for God’s mercy upon my hands,
Ride upon the clouds and strengthen me with fortitude.
The spirit is weary and my steps light, wandered by deprivation;
And I still am. I crawl beneath the shadows of wonder,
Reciting whatever is easy for me from passion or sorrow.
Mother, oh flowering land; you are the greatest title.
Oh how can I pay all my debts towards you,
While I am bound in this footstep or misstep.
Poem: I Am Not Accustomed to Being Away From You, Mother
Written by Muhammad Kamal:
I am not accustomed to being away from you, Mother,
Many times, the need to indulge in remorse washes over me,
And its echoes linger between the bones and flesh,
And the core of my heart never separates from a heartbeat,
Connected to the spirit and body.
Attached to its life and its pulse,
As if I am still in my mother’s womb,
Feeding off every boon she provides,
She nourishes me from the depths of her being.
I still carry her dream in my quiver,
As if I remain in my dreams,
Her smiles linger in my sight,
As if she is alive in my visions.
I still become that child in my prime,
Longing for what I miss in her embrace.
They say slow down, for the twists of time age rapidly,
Rolling through like night and stars.
And they say you will return to the company of yearning;
Then time will allow us destruction.
Nothing in me stirs my longing to veer towards
Love, kissing, or inhalation.
Nothing obscures the feeling in my heart,
And while the thorns bleed,
In my eyes, a tear that never estranges her memory,
And fear occupies my heart from anguish.
Indeed, even if time stretches, I remain your little one,
Oh, my gaze never looks higher than you, Mother.
Longing always precedes her steps
At our meetings, full of joy and laughter,
She writes in the skies her prayers,
And her heart seeks the skies with my name.
And the ears listen when I utter,
As if I were a bird in the generosity of life.
Mother, her coffee has a unique taste,
Her breath mingles with flavors.
With kindness she welcomes me when I bid farewell,
And surrounds me with warmth and a gentle breeze.
Her tenderness is a sea that consumes her heart,
Rooted in patience and dreams.
She dwells in love, deep within,
Yet stands tall like an arrow,
Beloved of the lofty, in her loftiness,
Enamored of learning and knowledge.
Poem: She is the Compassionate Mother
Written by Khaled Misbah Malhoom:
She is the compassionate mother:
With her is the faithful spirit,
Among her children, they say: We all belong to her,
From the womb to the “newborn”—a lifelong support;
We are treasures to our father
Whom we honor and protect.
She is the precious treasure,
A fortress strong and secure,
She is the wise mother;
To her, affliction becomes light.
Her bond is exceedingly strong,
And her reign encompasses the universe.
Every daughter will one day become a mother,
And around her, children will flourish,
Just as branches grow.
Poem: In the Corner, My Mother’s Face Appears
Written by Farooq Jouida:
The specter we call yearning,
In the corner, my mother’s face appears.
I cannot see it because
It has resided within me for years;
The eye, if it closes slightly, will not see,
But what dwells in the inside never fades away.
And if it conceals itself, like all absent ones,
My mother’s face appears whenever
Sad winds arise, and the brow trembles.
People depart in eyes and disappear,
Turning into grief within the ribs,
And a tremor in the heart pulsates every moment.
Yet she is my mother,
Time flows and I dwell within her.
She haunts me, like shadows softly
Circling the sorrowful heart,
Since we have been separated, everything around me grows tight,
And after her, my life feels scarce:
With time she has become a phantom,
One that neither fades nor is apparent,
A specter we refer to as yearning.
Poem: Mother, My Guardian Angel
Written by Said Akal:
Mother, my guardian angel,
Oh Mother, my guardian angel,
My everlasting love.
Do not let your hands leave my swing,
And I forever remain a child,
Longing for the month to pass,
As spring and you are the flower
In its fragrance, I lose myself.
When I whisper “Mother,”
I am charmed and take flight,
Soaring above my worries,
With the wings of a nightingale.
Mother, you are the heartbeat of two lives;
If I ache,
Kiss me and love me.
Mother, when I melt
In awe of you,
What brilliant stars adorn the sky?
Mother, my guardian angel,
You are my eternal love.
Poem: Allah Commanded You as the Scriptures Did
Written by Karim Matouq:
Allah commanded you as the scriptures did,
And poetry approaches with fear before departing.
What I tell you, oh Mother, is not just a verse;
Every word conveys a level beyond description.
The fields of my verses flourish when nurtured
With clouds for my mother, gathering sweetness.
And the mother is a school,
They say, and I have assertively reiterated,
All schools are arenas that bow before her.
Here I come with poetry; I draw her to my verses—
As if the mother simply embodies all descriptions.
If I write a poem about mother, it shyly apologizes,
For I have now come forth before the collective, admitting my truth.