Poem: Mother
The poet Karim Matouk speaks about the significance of a mother:
God has entrusted you to me, as the scriptures have ordained.
And poetry approaches with trepidation, then departs.
I have never, by God, said a word in praise of you, my mother,
Without it elevating me beyond descriptive realms.
The fields of my words flourish as they are cradled,
By clouds for my mother, from which sweetness is gathered.
They say a mother is a school, and I have stated,
All schools are merely courtyards that honor her essence.
Here I present my poetry to bring her closer to my verse,
As if the mother embodies characteristics beyond description.
If I strive to write verses about her, they stand apologetically,
Here I stand before the assembly, ready to admit my humble truth.
Poem: Good Morning, Beautiful
The poet Nizar Qabbani lyrically expresses his thoughts on motherhood:
Good morning, my lovely one… Good morning, my cherished ancient one.
Two years have passed, my dear, since the boy set sail on his mythical journey,
He concealed in his luggage the morning of his green homeland,
Its stars, its rivers, and all that is red with passion,
He stored in his clothes two sprigs of mint and thyme,
And a Damascene violet. I am alone… The smoke from my cigarettes bores me,
And the chair I sit on is restless,
While my sorrows flutter like birds, still searching for freedom.
I have known the women of Europe, with their concrete emotions,
I have witnessed the culture of fatigue. I wandered through India, through Sindh, through the yellow world
And yet I found no woman to comb my golden hair,
Or to carry in her bag… the sugar and the sweet flowers.
Oh, my mother… Oh, my mother… I am the boy who set sail,
Yet the bride of sugar still lives in my thoughts.
How is it, dear mother, that I have become a father without ever growing up?
Good morning from Madrid, what news of the jasmine?
I have a request for you, Mother… that sweet child,
For she was my father’s beloved.
He would spoil her like his own daughter,
Inviting her for coffee, feeding her sweetly, and showering her with compassion…
And now that my father is gone, she still dreams of his return
Searching his room for his cloak, for his newspaper,
Asking with the arrival of summer about the azure of his eyes,
To sprinkle on his hands… golden coins…
Salutations to a home that has nurtured us with love and mercy:
To your white blossoms, joy of the “Star Square”
To my bed… to my books… to the children of our neighborhood…
And the walls we filled with the chaos of our writing…
To the lazy cats sleeping on the rooftops,
And the climbing violets on our neighbor’s window.
Two years have passed, O Mother,
With the face of Damascus,
A bird scratching at our hearts
Nibbling at our curtains…
Gently, with our fingertips.
Two years have gone, O Mother,
And the nights of Damascus
And Damascus, you dwell in our thoughts
As its minarets shine on our ships,
As if the minarets of the Umayyad Mosque
Were planted inside us.
As if the apple orchards blossom in our consciousness,
As if the light and stones all accompanied us.
September has arrived, O Mother, and with it arrives sorrow,
Bringing me its gifts,
Leaving at my window,
Its tears and complaints.
September has come… Where is Damascus?
Where is my father and his gaze?
Where is the silk of his sight?
And where is the aroma of his coffee?
May God bless his resting place…
And where is the expanse of our great home?
And where are its comforts?
And where are the pathways of laughter hidden in its corners?
And where is my childhood in it?
Dragging the tail of the cat,
Eating from its vine,
And gathering from its violets.
Damascus, Damascus… Oh, poetry written upon our eyelids,
And O beautiful child… from whose locks we found strength,
We knelt at your feet,
And melted in your love,
Until in our affection we met our demise.
Poem: The Call of Mother to Her Child
The poet Abu Alaa Al-Maari reflects on maternal instincts:
Called for the child by the pulse of the mother.
Beware, my dear, do not emerge to that wretched light.
For if you venture into this world, adversity awaits,
From calamities that may engulf you in their heat and frost.
You shall never be free from its dreadful trials
As you must endure indefinitely.
And perhaps, like others, you may encounter this fate prematurely,
Growing old without ever being truly praised or celebrated.
Do not trust the hand of time which can offer paralysis,
Nor the gaze which may lead to disfigurement.
If you reject the counsel of wisdom, unaware,
Then do a good deed and heed the solitary man.
Your pursuits will unveil vast hopes,
If you achieve a measure of success, you shall see the horizon.
You will navigate the waves, seeking wealth,
Yet traverse the land without encountering stagnation.
And if fortunate, the toil will not cease,
And if you bear sorrow, who else will support your weary body?
Then there are the inevitable ends, either labeled disgraceful,
Or perhaps destined to blaze across the sky.
Man is like the edge of a sword, and life exists for him,
In the shadows of existence, as long as it is cherished.
If that child could speak, it would say to him,
“Leave me alone, for I did not ask to be brought forth.”
How could I bear the weight of blame, if fate has decreed,
That I must navigate this life, holding on to my threads.
To My Mother
Poet Mahmoud Darwish expresses a deep yearning for his mother:
I long for my mother’s bread,
And her coffee,
And the touch of her hand…
As childhood magnifies within me,
One day upon another’s chest.
And I adore my life, for when I die,
I am ashamed of my mother’s tears!
Embrace me, when I return,
With a scarf for your soft eyelids,
And cover my bones with grass,
Drenched in the purity of your presence.
And bind me, with a lock of your hair,
With a thread that waves at the hem of your dress…
Perhaps I can ascend to divinity,
If only I could touch the bottom of your heart!
Place me, when I come back,
As fuel for your oven…
And a clothesline atop our roof,
For I have lost the strength to stand
Without a prayer at your morning.
I have aged, so pull the stars of my childhood
So that I may join
The little birds on the path back…
To your nest of waiting!
Poem: In My Mother’s House
The poet Mahmoud Darwish reflects on memories of his mother:
Within my mother’s house, my image gazes at me,
Never ceasing to inquire: Are you, my guest, me?
Were you in the prime of your twenties,
Without medical glasses, and without burden?
There was a hole in the wall that was enough to teach you how to gaze at the stars…
What is the eternal? *I asked myself*
And, O my guest… are you me as we once were?
Which of us has renounced his features?
Do you remember the hoofprint of the restless horse upon your forehead?
Or did you mask the wound with makeup to appear,
Charming in the camera’s eyes?
Are you me? Do you remember your heart,
Pierced by an ancient reed flute, and the feather of the Phoenix?
Or did you alter your heart when you changed your path?
I said: Yes, I am you.
But I leapt over the wall to see
What would happen if the unseen were to meet me,
To pick a violet with respect from its hanging gardens…
Perhaps it would greet me and say: Return in peace…
And I leapt over this wall to witness
What is invisible,
And to measure the depth of the abyss.