Poem: Indeed, the Lover’s Affection Endures
By Al-Mutalmas Al-Dhabai:
Indeed, the love of the beloved has not faded,
And despair brings solace, should you forget the longings.
For a long time, you cherished and desired her;
If longevity of affection could satisfy you.
Truly, Iraq and its people were the source of love.
So if their affection distances me, let it distance.
Let them abandon my night, my she-camel,
Leaving the celestial bodies and guided by the Pleiades.
She speeds up when the path is troubled
Fearing the narrowness of the lookout.
To the plains, if I send them from their station,
They are filled with an intricate mixture of abundance.
And when the mounts were laden after the journey,
And the mirage ran over the ridges of the sandy paths.
Happy were they, and the essence flowed from their hooves,
Attracting the companion towards the safe haven.
To the lands of people whose guidance cannot be outdone
And the guidance of another people is indeed inferior.
Like the offerings of Turayfah ibn Al-Abd, when their tribute
Was thwarted by the sharpness of their blades.
Poem: Mother of Angels and the Full Moons
By Ahmed Shawqi:
Mother of Angels and the Full Moons,
Welcome to your pure carriage.
When you graced us, light overflowed
From the sacred visit and the visitor.
Fragrant are the veils, as if they were crafted
From those very veils.
God is the Greatest when you appear
On cities and frontiers.
You came like generous provision,
Like healing, like delight.
The sun blooms in the heavens,
And you blossom in the beds.
And your son’s dominions shine beautifully,
And his subjects bask in joy.
In a majestic procession of abundance,
And glory illuminated the ether.
Time’s grandeur is emphasized
Between gracefulness and exposure.
People walk along its path
Like a crowd on the day of resurrection.
They approach you with offerings,
And sacrifices and vows.
It’s as if they heralded
The purity of Aisha, the bearer of glad tidings.
They circled around her carriage, seeking
Rewards and hopes.
They inquire about the signs
Of how it was blessed by the appearances,
And about joy’s legacy in the grand gatherings.
And indeed, you signaled with your palm,
So they exalted the hand of the herald.
The orphan recognized you,
And the poor beheld your light.
Why not extend your benevolent hand
To the many seeking your kisses.
Daughter of the divine inspiration
That astonished creation with its magnificence.
And by the gentle touch above the clouds
And above the capabilities of the seas.
The most revered among the wise
Is the prince upon hearts.
As for the noble Muhammad,
His praises are the light of generations.
He has become a paradigm for excellence,
In virtue, and generosity, and goodness.
In the distress of events,
Your words affirm serenity in the storm.
And your personality stands tall as he
Achieved dreams beyond any before.
Your lineage is noble, enriched
By what you attained in renown and virtue.
Are you from a lineage of suns or moons,
Or from noble women that showed brilliance?
Greetings and offerings,
Light walking alongside light.
Poem: I Will Tell You I Love You
By Nizar Qabbani:
When all the ancient languages of love come to an end,
No words or actions remain for lovers.
At that moment, my task will begin
To change the very stones of this world,
A tree after a tree,
A planet after a planet,
A poem after a poem.
I will tell you I love you,
And the distance shrinks between your eyes and my notebooks,
While the air you breathe passes through my lungs,
And the hand you place on the car seat is my hand.
I will say it when I am capable
Of summoning my childhood and fantasies,
And as I reclaim the blue time with you on the shores of Beirut,
When you trembled like a fish between my fingers.
I cover you when you gently sleep
With a sheet woven from summer stars.
I will tell you I love you,
When the ears of wheat grow, longing for you,
And the springs burst forth,
And civilizations progress into maturity,
And the birds learn to fly,
And the butterflies learn to paint.
As if I practice prophecy,
Longing for you.
I will tell you I love you
When all borders finally disappear between you and the poem,
And sleeping on the paper becomes
A straightforward matter, as you imagine.
Outside the rhythms of poetry,
Not that I enter a discourse with a body
That I do not know how to spell.
Word by word,
Verse by verse.
I do not suffer from the complexes of intellectuals,
But my nature rejects bodies that do not express themselves intelligently,
And eyes that do not pose questions.
For my desire’s condition is linked to
The condition of poetry.
The woman is a poem I die when I write her,
And I die when I forget her.
I will tell you I love you,
When I heal from the split personality that tears me apart,
And I return to being one person.
I will say it when the city and the desert reconcile within me,
And all tribes depart from the shores of my blood,
Which was carved by the sages of the developing world
Over thirty years, distorting my memory,
And issued a ruling to flog you eighty lashes
For your femininity.
Therefore, I shall not tell you I love you today,
And perhaps I shall not say it tomorrow,
For the earth takes nine months to bloom its flower,
And the night suffers greatly to birth its star,
And mankind awaits thousands of years to bring forth a prophet.
So why don’t you wait a little while
To become my beloved.
Poem: Love and What Was in Youth Ignorance
By Kahlil Gibran:
Love and what was once ignorance in youth,
A virgin calling, yet she said not wait.
Those in love answered its call,
While those who resisted do not belong to love.
Does not a blessing bring joy to one,
Unless those who rejoice in it belong?
Can one seek glory from its pitfalls,
If the eye of hope does not encourage?
O son of Jacob, awaken your aspirations,
So that it may see for itself the heights.
Your father was the most honored of men in a land
Where he has eternally made his abode.
And as for you, in this sanctuary, you are a stranger,
And in your wisdom, you are distinguished.
Your health is healing, and you possess knowledge
That can cure the soul’s affliction.
If you start a matter, do not finish it; if you would,
Then it is better left to one who has moved on.
Do not fear, if you suspect it,
That there is no safety in hope, nor do you see reluctance.
Offer willingly, not frowning nor pouting,
In glad spirits that double the gains.
How delightful is the beautiful assistance from
The thrall who is graciously called.
O pious one, you’ve gained much,
You have achieved what no youth has earned before.
So be with Najla, let us reach the dawn,
Where loyalty is abundant.
And may the flowers greet you both,
By the door of this life, taking hold of bliss.
The gardens gave forth their lily,
And the roses, jasmines, and fields.
And poetry adorned it with its adornments,
Of all kinds, with beauty that captivates.
In every blossom it cast its rhymes,
In every necklace, it retained its secrets.
Each word cherished, as in it lies
The spirit that joyfully resides.
At the gates of nobility and grandeur,
Your dignity made it seem trivial.
O how beautiful the convergence of gazes,
That has not seen its equal in the past.
In this place of purity, I have made a vow,
With my heart’s desire, and I consult the noble.
A pure maiden surpassed all in virtue,
Among the best of maidens.
She bore an elegance that matched her grace,
And resembled the most exquisite dolls.
Her description aligns with her name far and wide,
Enchanted by the gaze of all who seek her touch.
And how many eyes, were you not restrained,
Would become fatal victims of love.
To God be the luminous face,
How charming, and what sweetness in composure!
In the state of rhetoric, it was known
To roam in joy, and thus it shall remain.
His speech is refined, seeking elevation in thought,
And his style showcases a genius unchallenged.
He is unmatched among eloquent speakers when
His words rise or he accepts the challenge.
He continues to deliver brilliant verses,
And his resolution in creativity remains steadfast.
If he seeks praise, he completes it,
And if he aims for criticism, he does not relent.
His discourse is captivating, never wearying
Unlike the tales of others’ tales.
Poem: To Whom a Remnant Stands Between Al-Judayyah and the Mountain
By Imru’ al-Qais:
To whom does a remnant stand between Al-Judayyah and the mountain,
A dwelling long abandoned, its brambles grew along.
It has faded, untouched, and passed like an eerie shadow,
In a lowland that’s concealed and withered.
Time’s changes have swept past it, leaving
It among the uninhabited, and those who once dwelled have departed.
Awakening the ruins brings a roar,
As if the thunderclouds gathered and silenced the air.
With winds and lightning that appeared amidst the clouds,
And when a new birth is echoed through the rains.
It has sprouted within it from greenery,
And foliage of sweet scents, and the playful echo of wings.
With sparrows and owls, each partner speaks,
And figures of birds echo with harmonious cries.
The eagle and the pang of the traveler’s heart,
As it continues down the path, racing toward the toil,
When I recognized the dwelling after my delusion,
My tears gathered on my cheek and overflowed.
I said, O dwelling of Salma, what is it that you enjoyed,
You have certainly changed, O dwelling, with the change of time.
Long have you endured in poverty and become forlorn,
An expected denizen of whatever comes or goes.
A refuge for innocent maidens and friendly companions,
And perhaps one like a lion, with an honor so bold.
I have long sought the gentle-eyed one,
And they capture my heart with their glances and gazes.
The nights where the beautiful ones enchanted me,
With mesmerizing charm and enchanting fragrance.
As if the droplets of rain fell on their glowing glow,
On bended knees, and among passing phases.
My heart has become attached to an Arab maiden,
Delicate in silk, adorned with blooming attire.
Had she gazed upon a monk who worships,
He would have become captivated by her love.
As if he had neither prayed to God nor fasted.
Alas! How many a day, under her enchantment,
When her father had gone away, lost in slumber.
She told her companions that he had captured her heart,
What would happen if he died, or how would it be?
Will it remain concealed, if in the night he is buried?
They said, can the moon hide when it sets?
She killed the Kinda youth, and the poet whose
Verses resonated with everyone, thus, alas!
Why did you slay the famed knight, who
Split the foreheads of men without fear?
O children of Kinda, kill your cousin,
Or else you are but an unseen tribe, without purpose.
A victim in the valley of love, without a slayer,
Not a corpse to be mourned, nor anyone to weep for.
This is her, who captured my heart with her love,
A white maiden, adorned with pearls of kisses.
And she has a name sung amongst the people,
An inspiring tale told far and wide.
As though upon her teeth, after rest,
The soft scent of pomegranates and honey rests.
Elegant and breathtaking, with a grand display,
The passion and stated desires take flight.
Enclosed, but free, she walks in grace,
Her beauty expressed with every glance.
She is she; and she is herself,
A longed-for memory, embodied amidst the people.
O no, alas, except the blessings of those who have departed,
And those who remained in their absence.
Many trials I faced and countless hardships,
My hands gripped tight, not letting go.
A hand I take that clasps the thoughts of a lifetime,
And the hand that received the raindrops of love.
Had I approached Salma’s abode first,
By her side, I would have been the first.
I am constantly inquiring, seeking answers from every traveler,
Continuously asking each time they pass.
And upon Salma’s cheeks, I wish to kiss,
In a manner I would not tire of.
And ask about Salma and her realm, how many times I have asked,
And wander among the blossoming places.
And I would write this, as it adorns her eyebrows,
With an elegant touch, fit for the most remarkable.
Both her eyes and her smile enhance the gloss.
Of the distant, the gentle appearance gleams,
The artful features perfect in every detail.
In me rests the dialect of her heart, and before her, I bow,
As I inquire about her lineage among people:
Perhaps, I may blend among all, through poetry,
To be remembered as an honored bard.
She replied, “I am Kinda, an Arab,”
As though I would respond in disbelief.
She claimed, “I am of Roman descent,”
Yet I believe her to be royal and noble.
When we met, I felt her fingers,
That told stories with each stroke of passion’s flame.
Our chess was a playful bidding of souls, while we danced,
And laughter flowed freely, a lively jest.
She said, “What is this game of love?”
But only in my heart did the game begin.
From two to nine, in quickness I felt what I did not relent,
And my lips kissed every rose on her cheeks;
Just like the crescent moon disappears,
I kissed ninety times and a single, in a rush.
And I embraced her until her necklace fell with force,
And even until the beads of her collar scattered.
As if lights from lamps scattered the flames,
And my final words echo like the first:
For whom does a remnant stand between Al-Judayyah and the mountain.
Poem: Love Teaches Me Not to Love
By Mahmoud Darwish:
Love teaches me not to love,
And to open the window
To the path’s edge. Can you escape
From the call of the basil?
And divide me into two: you and what remains
Of the song.
Love is the death in every love,
It is a death to death long gone.
The breeze carries the horses to their mother,
In between the clouds and the valleys.
Can you not break free from the pulse of my blood
To soothe this fever?
To pull the honey from the flower of the rose?
Love, teaches me how to question how the wine
Returns to its mother and ignites.
How sweet is the love when it torments,
When it destroys the song’s narcissus.
Love teaches me not to love,
And leaves me in the wake of ink.