A Poem by Mahmoud Darwish
Mahmoud Darwish expresses:
He averted his gaze from the moon
And bent down to embrace the earth.
He prayed for a sky devoid of rain
And warned me against travel!
Lightning ignited the valleys
Where my father had long ago
Nurtured the stones
And created trees.
His skin was drenched in dew,
And the tree began to sprout,
While the horizon wept a song:
It was like Odysseus, a knight…
There were loaves of bread and wine,
Blankets, horses, and shoes in the house.
Once, my father said,
As he prayed on a stone:
“Avert your gaze from the moon
And beware of the sea… and travel!”
When the deity chastised his servant,
I cried out, “O people! Shall we forsake our faith?”
My father narrated for me,
As he lowered his arm:
In a dialogue with suffering,
Job thanked the creator of worms… and clouds.
The wound was created to show me
That I am neither dead nor a statue;
The wound and the pain
Are reminders of regret!
A planet passed across the horizon,
Descending amidst
A fire and wind
While my eyes pondered
Drawings on the soil.
My father once said:
“The one who has no homeland
Has no grave beneath the soil.”
He cautioned me against travel.
A Poem by Ahmad Shawqi: Why Did They Ask Me Not to Mourn My Father?
Ahmad Shawqi states:
They asked me: “Why did you not mourn your father?”
For mourning a father is a debt, a tremendous debt!
O you reproachers, how unjust you are!
Where is the mind that brings me joy?
O my father, you are not here;
Every soul must face its own end.
Before you, people and communities perished,
And those who mourned the deceased were the finest of the two.
The ultimate goal of man, no matter how prolonged,
Is met with the two small ones,
And a doctor who attends to the helpless
Wipes away his hidden grief.
Indeed, death has a hand;
If it strikes, it can shatter the unity of the stars.
It penetrates the atmosphere and approaches with all intensity,
Confronting the lion between mountains,
Bringing down the fledgling from its nest,
And seizing the parrot amidst the two hundred.
I have died, and I shall perish twice.
We were once a single pulse in one body,
Then we became one pulse in two bodies,
Then we returned as one pulse in one body
And were laid to rest in coffins.
And we shall live in the higher realms afterward,
And be resurrected in the first resurrection.
Look at the universe and describe it,
Say: “They are the mercy of mercies.”
They found paradise in our creation,
And we celebrated in their two gardens.
They are the excuse for us if angered,
And they are the pardon that appeases us.
Oh, how I wish to know: which living soul remains
Among those who came to us as beginners?
My father is but a brother whom I have parted ways with,
And only parents, it seems, die.
How often have we sat at a table,
Where the loaf was shared between us,
And we drank from one vessel,
And washed our hands in the same basin.
And we walked hand in hand;
Those who saw us said we were brothers.
Time gazed at us, and it seemed
That evil was mixed into two gazes.
O my father, death is a bitter cup
That the soul does not drink twice.
How was the moment you spent?
Everything before and after it is trivial.
Did you taste death in a single gulp,
Or did you drink it in two sips?
Do not fear sorrow or weeping after you;
Today, my eyes and yours have frozen.
You have taught me to abandon grief;
Every adornment ultimately leads to death’s disgrace.
I wish to know: will we meet again,
Or is this the separation of the two moons?
And if I die and am laid to rest,
Will I encounter a single hole or two graves?
A Poem by Elia Abu Madi
Elia Abu Madi reveals:
Part of me was covered when you were engulfed by the soil,
And another part overflows from my eyes.
Father! The grave deceived me, and I fell
From the high towers of my dreams like a fig tree.
Once, my gardens were brimming with joy,
Now, they shriveled, their blossoms scattered.
They were filled with wine and joy,
Yet, a blind hand struck with despair,
For nothing remains but the taste of death in my mouth,
And the sound of mourners in my ears,
And little beauty in my sight,
Except rarely have I opened them to beauty.
How these images of life, post you, differ,
Yet, despair has marred them all.
On you lies the daylight and its clarity,
While my heart burns, and my eyes wander.
I seek sorrow in my tears, only to find them shed,
Once I counted sorrow as a form of courage,
Thus, I am perplexed by how your warmth has turned
Into astonishment amidst the storm’s throes.
A Poem by Nizar Qabbani
Nizar Qabbani articulates:
Has your father passed away?
An absurdity! My father does not die.
In the house, his scent lingers,
The fragrance of the divine… and the memories of his messenger.
This corner holds his things,
And bursts forth with a thousand tender branches,
Of his cigarette, and his comfortable seat.
It seems my father never truly left;
The ashtray remains, and his coffee cup
In its same state… untouched.
His glasses… Do glasses remain
Unblemished by tears that outshine the sunset?
His remnants linger in the rooms,
The remnants of light on the stage.
I roam around him, everywhere,
For, wherever I order… it is an order!
I hold his hands… lean on him,
I pray on his weary chest.
My father is still among us, and the conversation
Is with cups on the table,
As he shares with us; the full-bellied grapes
Have birthed from his sweet essence.
My father is a tale from paradise,
And a meaning of boundless expansion.
His eyes… a refuge for stars.
Will the East remember my father’s gaze?
With the summer’s memory from my father,
And the clouds, and the memories of the planets.
My father, oh my father… Your gentle history
Walks behind you, so do not chase it.
We move forward, guided by your name,
From the sweet fragrance of decay, to the good.
I carry you in the brightness of my eyes,
Until the people believe I am your son.
I lift you even in the tone of my voice.
How have you vanished yet remain within me?
If the flower of the home has given us joy,
In the house, there are a thousand gilded mouths,
We opened to July’s embrace,
Thus in summer, my father must surely return.