Arab Poetry Quotes

The bridge will only take you halfway there, to those mysterious lands you long to see. Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair, and moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share the twisting trails and wondrous worlds I've known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there. The last few steps you have to take alone.

عارف يارب .. انا لسّه مقولتش على كذا سِر انا لسه مقولتش ولا حاجه ولإن الطيبه ساعات بتعِر بطّلت أفكر بسذاجه بطلت أتعلق الماشيين أو أحب يحبنى بنى آدمين بطلت أعوز أصلا حاجه !

هل تعلم أنك أحيانا .. بتحس بإنك مش حاسس ؟! وكإنك خدت فـ إحساسك 100 حقنة بنج .. وضلوعك بقوا حبة خُرده وتشوف الدنيا بعين بارده ويتحول قلبك يومها لتلج والناس يتساووا قصاد عينك وتشوف الفارق مش فارق وتشوف اللمه بتفكك وتشوف الحلو ملوش قيمه وكإنك قاعد فـ السيما .. وحياتك فيلم قديم شوفته ولذلك بقى مش بيضحك !

أَيَمْرضُ حُلْمٌ كَمَا يَمْرَضُ الحَالِمُون؟ خَريفٌ خريفٌ. أيُولَدُ شَعْبٌ عَلَى مِقْصلَهْ؛ يحِقُّ لَنَا أنْ نَمُوتَ كمَا نَشْتَهِي أنْ نَمْوت، لِتَخْتَبِىء الأرضُ في سُنْبُلَهْ

ياللى انتو قاعدين فـ السما ! .. بقالكوا فتره مزورتونيش فـ الحلم ليه ؟! يا جدتى : طب عامله إيه ؟! أخبارك ايه فـ الجنه من بعد الممات دانا لسه فاكر كل قاعده قعدتها وياكى نحكى بالساعات من بعد موتك حبى للشاى قل خالص .. يمكن عشان الشاى أساسا حلاوته كانت فـ إجتماعنا مبقتش أحس لأوضتك المقفوله معنى .. وكرهت حتى الوقفه فـ الشباك انا روحت مره بعد موتك بعدها مبقتش عايز أروح هناك

الحمد لله القديم الباقي ذي العرش والسَّبع العُلا الطباق الملِكِ المنفردِ الجبَّار الدائم الجلال والإكبار وارثِ كلِّ مالكٍ وما مَلَكْ ومُهِلك الحيِّ ومُحيي مَن هلَك منزِّل الذِّكر بخير الألسن مشتملاً على البيان الأحسنِ

ولأنني رغم القبور.. ورغم موت الأرض أرفض أن أموت

أليست النفس تموتُ مَرَّهْ فخذْ عليها أن تموتَ حُــرَّهْ

يا موطناً في ثراه غاب سادته* لوكان يخجل من باعوك ما باعوا

وحيداً حين أمسي ففي وحدتي أنسي

:وأَمَرْتُ قلبي بالتريّث: كُنْ حياديّاً كأنَّكَ لَسْتَ مني!

إن قـلبـي لــبــلادي لا لحزبٍ أو زعيمِ لم أبِعـهُ لشقيـقٍ أو صديقٍ لي حميمِ لـيـس مـنـي لو أراه مرَّةً غيـرَ سليـم ولساني كـفـؤادي نيطَ منه بالـصَّـمـيـم وغدي يُشبه يومي وحديثي كقديمـي لـم أَهبْ غـيـظَ كريم لا ولا كيْـدَ لـئـيـم غايتي خدمةُ قومي بشقائي أو نعيمي

روعة الحياة في العشق و لعنة العشق الإدمان فإن غاب أحد الحبيبين توقف قلب الأخر عن الخفقان فمهما تراسلوا أو تحدثوا فالقرب وحده لهما الأمان قلوباً في الشتات تتألم و أشجان تصيب بالهذيان حزن مستمر بلا مسكنات لا منه هروب أو نسيان

لا دِينَ لْلِباغِي وإنْ تَدَيَّنا كَفَى بِقَتْلِ النَّفْس ظُلْماً بَيِّنا

ما زلنا هنا ، حتى لو انفصَلَ الزمانُ عن المكان

عانقيني يا أمي فأحشائي ممزقة بوحدتي وبأشياء أخرى أخاف أن أقولها لئلا أفقدك.

لعَمْرُكَ، ما الدّنيا بدارِ بَقَاءِ؛ كَفَاكَ بدارِ المَوْتِ دارَ فَنَاءِ فلا تَعشَقِ الدّنْيا، أُخيَّ، فإنّما يُرَى عاشِقُ الدُّنيَا بجُهْدِ بَلاَءِ حَلاَوَتُهَا ممزَوجَة ٌ بمرارة ٍ ورَاحتُهَا ممزوجَة ٌ بِعَناءِ فَلا تَمشِ يَوْماً في ثِيابِ مَخيلَة ٍ فإنَّكَ من طينٍ خلقتَ ومَاءِ لَقَلّ امرُؤٌ تَلقاهُ لله شاكِراً؛ وقلَّ امرؤٌ يرضَى لهُ بقضَاءِ وللّهِ نَعْمَاءٌ عَلَينا عَظيمَة ٌ، وللهِ إحسانٌ وفضلُ عطاءِ ومَا الدهرُ يوماً واحداً في اختِلاَفِهِ ومَا كُلُّ أيامِ الفتى بسَوَاءِ ومَا هُوَ إلاَّ يومُ بؤسٍ وشدة ٍ ويومُ سُرورٍ مرَّة ً ورخاءِ وما كلّ ما لم أرْجُ أُحرَمُ نَفْعَهُ؛ وما كلّ ما أرْجوهُ أهلُ رَجاءِ أيَا عجبَا للدهرِ لاَ بَلْ لريبِهِ يخرِّمُ رَيْبُ الدَّهْرِ كُلَّ إخَاءِ وشَتّتَ رَيبُ الدّهرِ كلَّ جَماعَة ٍ وكَدّرَ رَيبُ الدّهرِ كُلَّ صَفَاءِ إذا ما خَليلي حَلّ في بَرْزَخِ البِلى ، فَحَسْبِي بهِ نأْياً وبُعْدَ لِقَاءِ أزُورُ قبورَ المترفينَ فَلا أرَى بَهاءً، وكانوا، قَبلُ،أهل بهاءِ وكلُّ زَمانٍ واصِلٌ بصَريمَة ٍ، وكلُّ زَمانٍ مُلطَفٌ بجَفَاءِ يعِزُّ دفاعُ الموتِ عن كُلِّ حيلة ٍ ويَعْيَا بداءِ المَوْتِ كلُّ دَواءِ ونفسُ الفَتَى مسرورَة ٌ بنمائِهَا وللنقْصِ تنْمُو كُلُّ ذاتِ نمَاءِ وكم من مُفدًّى ماتَ لم يَرَ أهْلَهُ حَبَوْهُ، ولا جادُوا لهُ بفِداءِ أمامَكَ، يا نَوْمانُ، دارُ سَعادَة ٍ يَدومُ البَقَا فيها، ودارُ شَقاءِ خُلقتَ لإحدى الغايَتينِ، فلا تنمْ، وكُنْ بينَ خوفٍ منهُمَا ورَجَاءُ وفي النّاسِ شرٌّ لوْ بَدا ما تَعاشَرُوا ولكِنْ كَسَاهُ اللهُ ثوبَ غِطَاءِ

Ego Tripping I was born in the congo I walked to the fertile crescent and built the sphinx I designed a pyramid so tough that a star that only glows every one hundred years falls into the center giving divine perfect light I am bad I sat on the throne drinking nectar with allah I got hot and sent an ice age to europe to cool my thirst My oldest daughter is nefertiti the tears from my birth pains created the nile I am a beautiful woman I gazed on the forest and burned out the sahara desert with a packet of goat's meat and a change of clothes I crossed it in two hours I am a gazelle so swift so swift you can't catch me For a birthday present when he was three I gave my son hannibal an elephant He gave me rome for mother's day My strength flows ever on My son noah built new/ark and I stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer day I turned myself into myself and was jesus men intone my loving name All praises All praises I am the one who would save I sowed diamonds in my back yard My bowels deliver uranium the filings from my fingernails are semi-precious jewels On a trip north I caught a cold and blew My nose giving oil to the arab world I am so hip even my errors are correct I sailed west to reach east and had to round off the earth as I went The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid across three continents I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal I cannot be comprehended except by my permission I mean...I...can fly like a bird in the sky...

The Day is Done The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

تَظاهَر بالحُبِّ حَتّى يُمكِنُكَ الصُمود Pretend to love, so you can survive

إن الصَّبي ما تُغذِّيه اغتذى فأكثر عليه في المثال المحتَذَى

إذا كنتم عبيداً في الأرض وقيل لكم: ازهدوا في حرية الأرض،ففي السماء تنتظركم حرية لاتوصف. اجيبوه: من لم يتذوق الحرية في الأرض لن يعرف طعمها في السماء If you are slaves on Earth & you were told: “Renounce Earthly Freedom, for in Heaven awaits you unimaginalbe Freedom!” Answer him: “He who did not taste Freedom on Earth, will not know it in Heaven!

فكر بموتك في أرض نشأت بها ... واترك لقبرك أرضاً طولها باعُ

الموتُ دون العهدِ غايةُ الكرمْ

أنا عالِقٌ بَينَ حَياةٍ وَمَوتٍ I’m stuck between life and death

Through his eyes she was made of stardust.

إلى أنْ تحامتني العشيرة كلها وأُفردت إفرادَ البعيرِ المُعَبَّدِ

حبيبتي, لا تخطئي فلن يبقى أحد سوايا إذا ما بكت السماء حبيبتي, لا تخطئي إن المطر بعض بكايا وإنني رجل الشتاء لا يصبح الياسمين ياسميناً ما لم يمر بين يديا فأنا أمنحه الكبرياء أي إمرأة عادية إذا ما رأت عينيا تصبح أجمل النساء كل الياسمين يموت شتاءً إلا ياسميني فإنه لا يمارس الانحناء

و بُلْغَةُ العارِ عند الجوع تلفِظُها نفسٌ لها عن قبولِ العار ردَّاعُ

أحتاج إلى مسطرة أصل عليها إلى الضفة الأخرى من هامش النسيان ريثما يتكفل جمر الوقت بإحراق هذه الصفحة

رغمَ انّ القطار لا يسيرُ الا الى هاوية كما كلّ الاشياء لكني ركبت كأي اعمى أو مجنون لايهم شعرك في الريح وصدري مفتوح للوردة والسكين

How easy was it to just grab a handful of you before you dissolved? If someone asks you tell them loving you was the closest I came to seeing God.

أما العمل الأخطر فهو أن تحضر مهرجانًا شعريًّا يؤمّه هذا الطّراز من الشّعراء، عامّة هناك نوعان من الشّعر حاليًّا... شعر (أتدحرج عبر الطّرقات الشّتويّة... تختفي أزمنة اللّاجدوى...) [...] النّوع الثّاني من الشّعر السّائد حاليًّا هو (مات الّذي قد كان نبراسًا... من بعده ساد الأسى النّاسا)... سوف تسمع الكثير جدًّا من هذا الكلام حتّى ينفجر رأسك، ثمّ يظهر ناقد يمطّ شفته السّفلى في قرف ويتكلّم عن: "البنية الإبداعيّة الكوزموبوليتانيّة في إرهاصات ما بعد الحداثة. هذه هي الممارسة المنهجيّة القوليّة الّقديّة تشكف عن نفسها داخل الطّرح البنيويّ".

يعبر العامُ ويأتي العامُ، لكن .. أنت تبقين وجوداً.. وأمل وطريقاً نابضاً باللمسة الأولى، عميقاً كالأزل وشعاعاً ثاقباً أفق حياتي .. ساكباً في عمق ذاتي قطرة الضوء .. الوحيدة .. وأمان الأرض .. للنفس الشريدة وهي ترتاح إلى شاطىء دنيانا الجديدة وهي تهتزُّ إلى لَوْنِ المسافات المديدة لحظة تولد فينا، كانهمار السيل ، كاللمحِ المُشعِّ الضوء، كالرؤيا العجيبة.. يعبرُ العامُ، ولكنْ أنت تبقينَ حياتي وسنيني القادماتِ ، في غدي، والذكريات!

This is my last letter There will be no others. This is the last grey cloud That will rain on you, After this, you will never again Know the rain. This is the last drop of wine in my cup There will be no more drunkenness. This is the last letter of madness, The last letter of childhood. After me you will no longer know The purity of youth The beauty of madness. I have loved you Like a child running from school Hiding birds and poems In his pockets. With you I was a child of Hallucinations, Distractions, Contradictions, I was a child of poetry and nervous writing. As for you, You were a woman of Eastern ways Waiting for her fate to appear In the lines of the coffee cups. How miserable you are, my lady, After today You won't be in the blue notebooks, In the pages of the letters, In the cry of the candles, In the mailman's bag. You won't be Inside the children's sweets In the colored kites. You won't be in the pain of the letters In the pain of the poems. You have exiled yourself From the gardens of my childhood You are no longer poetry.

العقل ليس وعاء يجب ملؤه بل نار يجب ايقادها The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire that must be kindled.

وحكمَ اللهُ بهجرةِ الوطنْ وطالما ابتلى بها أهلَ الفِطَنْ فكنت أستعدِي على الهموم بنات فِكرٍ ليس بالملومِ أستدفع الفراغ والعطَاله وبطلٌ من يقتلُ البَطالهْ

مِن كوّة زنزانتي الصُّغرى أبصرُ أشجاراً تَبسمُ لي وسطوحاً يملأها أهلي ونوافذَ تبكي وتصلي من أجلي من كُوّةِ زنزانتي الصغرى أبصرُ زنزانَتَكَ الكُبرى

"Who Remembers the Armenians?" I remember them and I ride the nightmare bus with them each night and my coffee, this morning I'm drinking it with them You, murderer - Who remembers you?

أنّك أتٍ من هناك ما بين موجةِ تسامر خصري وموجةٍ تلّفني وشمس حزيران البرتقالية.. دمعة تحرق خدّي وتغرقني.. لأنني لوهلةٍ تخيّل لي أنك آتٍ من هناك.. ماشياً حافياً على الماء لتلقي عليّ التحية.

حتى شاعر النبي ( حسّان بن ثابت ) قال فى صاحبه ( و لى صاحب من بنى الشيصبان ... فطَورا أقول و طورًا هوه ) ، و بني ( الشيصبان ) من قبائل الجن ، يقصد أنهما يتناوبان على قول الشعر و الأبيات ، و كل هذا معروف للعرب، لكن تطور الزمن جعل الإيمان بالجن يضعف شيئا فشيئًا للأسف..

طاقتي للكتابة طاغية تستوطن كل حضاراتي لتَستبيح دمائى في كل حرف

عندما يختلط كل شيء الضوء ونوافذ بيتي أعرف بأني والصمت فحسب بلا عزاء.

و ككل صبيحة، أنتظر الشروق لعله يزف لي اشراقة، فلا هي أشرقت بما أريد، و لا هي أشرقت من مغربها ........

صقر قريش أقسمتْ أمتي أنها منحتني الأمانْ أقسمتْ أمتي ثم كان أنها قتلت زوجتي وأنا أقطع النهر، لاسيف .. لاحول .. لاصولجان خبّري يارفوف الرؤى القانيه خبري أمتي أمتي الخاطيه أنني لم أبع زوجتي لم أبعها .. بأندلسٍ ثانيه ..

تمشي وتمشي لا لشيءٍ سوى أنْ تكونَ تائهاً ومُنفرداً وحُرَّاً

وَلي دونَكُم أَهلَونَ سيدٌ عَمَلَّسٌ وَأَرقَطُ زُهلولٌ وَعَرفاءُ جَيأَلُ

كان بودّي ماتت السنابل. أرض الله تحتضرُ.. في يدك، وردة شهية تدعوني لغيثٍ منتظرُ.. كان بودّي..

قلبي يتوق لابتسامتها'' - جيوفاني دي ساديلير ''My heart longs for her smile.

رجلٌ في خريف العمر شعره رماديّ وأشعث كحياتي... يقف تحت شمسٍ لا تمسّه تحت مطرٍ لا يبلّله وفي عيونه مئات الغيوم مئات الغيوم كي يمطر كلمة ولا يقولها داخل نظرته التي تلوح للحزن كباب مخلوع ترقد حياتي.

هَذا الّذي تَعرِفُ البَطْحاءُ وَطْأتَهُ، وَالبَيْتُ يعْرِفُهُ وَالحِلُّ وَالحَرَمُ هذا ابنُ خَيرِ عِبادِ الله كُلّهِمُ، هذا التّقيّ النّقيّ الطّاهِرُ العَلَمُ هذا ابنُ فاطمَةٍ، إنْ كُنْتَ جاهِلَهُ، بِجَدّهِ أنْبِيَاءُ الله قَدْ خُتِمُوا وَلَيْسَ قَوْلُكَ: مَن هذا؟ بضَائرِه، العُرْبُ تَعرِفُ من أنكَرْتَ وَالعَجمُ كِلْتا يَدَيْهِ غِيَاثٌ عَمَّ نَفعُهُمَا، يُسْتَوْكَفانِ، وَلا يَعرُوهُما عَدَمُ سَهْلُ الخَلِيقَةِ، لا تُخشى بَوَادِرُهُ، يَزِينُهُ اثنانِ: حُسنُ الخَلقِ وَالشّيمُ حَمّالُ أثقالِ أقوَامٍ، إذا افتُدِحُوا، حُلوُ الشّمائلِ، تَحلُو عندَهُ نَعَمُ ما قال: لا قطُّ، إلاّ في تَشَهُّدِهِ، لَوْلا التّشَهّدُ كانَتْ لاءَهُ نَعَمُ عَمَّ البَرِيّةَ بالإحسانِ، فانْقَشَعَتْ عَنْها الغَياهِبُ والإمْلاقُ والعَدَمُ إذ رَأتْهُ قُرَيْشٌ قال قائِلُها: إلى مَكَارِمِ هذا يَنْتَهِي الكَرَمُ يُغْضِي حَياءً، وَيُغضَى من مَهابَتِه، فَمَا يُكَلَّمُ إلاّ حِينَ يَبْتَسِمُ بِكَفّهِ خَيْزُرَانٌ رِيحُهُ عَبِقٌ، من كَفّ أرْوَعَ، في عِرْنِينِهِ شمَمُ يَكادُ يُمْسِكُهُ عِرْفانَ رَاحَتِهِ، رُكْنُ الحَطِيمِ إذا ما جَاءَ يَستَلِمُ الله شَرّفَهُ قِدْماً، وَعَظّمَهُ، جَرَى بِذاكَ لَهُ في لَوْحِهِ القَلَمُ أيُّ الخَلائِقِ لَيْسَتْ في رِقَابِهِمُ، لأوّلِيّةِ هَذا، أوْ لَهُ نِعمُ مَن يَشكُرِ الله يَشكُرْ أوّلِيّةَ ذا؛ فالدِّينُ مِن بَيتِ هذا نَالَهُ الأُمَمُ يُنمى إلى ذُرْوَةِ الدّينِ التي قَصُرَتْ عَنها الأكفُّ، وعن إدراكِها القَدَمُ مَنْ جَدُّهُ دان فَضْلُ الأنْبِياءِ لَهُ؛ وَفَضْلُ أُمّتِهِ دانَتْ لَهُ الأُمَمُ مُشْتَقّةٌ مِنْ رَسُولِ الله نَبْعَتُهُ، طَابَتْ مَغارِسُهُ والخِيمُ وَالشّيَمُ يَنْشَقّ ثَوْبُ الدّجَى عن نورِ غرّتِهِ كالشمس تَنجابُ عن إشرَاقِها الظُّلَمُ من مَعشَرٍ حُبُّهُمْ دِينٌ، وَبُغْضُهُمُ كُفْرٌ، وَقُرْبُهُمُ مَنجىً وَمُعتَصَمُ مُقَدَّمٌ بعد ذِكْرِ الله ذِكْرُهُمُ، في كلّ بَدْءٍ، وَمَختومٌ به الكَلِمُ إنْ عُدّ أهْلُ التّقَى كانوا أئِمّتَهمْ، أوْ قيل: «من خيرُ أهل الأرْض؟» قيل: هم لا يَستَطيعُ جَوَادٌ بَعدَ جُودِهِمُ، وَلا يُدانِيهِمُ قَوْمٌ، وَإنْ كَرُمُوا هُمُ الغُيُوثُ، إذا ما أزْمَةٌ أزَمَتْ، وَالأُسدُ أُسدُ الشّرَى، وَالبأسُ محتدمُ لا يُنقِصُ العُسرُ بَسطاً من أكُفّهِمُ؛ سِيّانِ ذلك: إن أثَرَوْا وَإنْ عَدِمُوا يُستدْفَعُ الشرُّ وَالبَلْوَى بحُبّهِمُ، وَيُسْتَرَبّ بِهِ الإحْسَانُ وَالنِّعَمُ

I Will Rise One Day I will rise one day and speak it I, the Kurd, will rise one day and speak it I, the Amazigh, your voice will rise one day I, the Arab you know will rise one day and speak it: They've gone now, Saladin

Dreamers don't abandon their dreams, they flare and continue the life they have in the dream…tell me how you lived your dream in a certain place and I'll tell you who you are. And now, as you awaken, remember if you have wronged your dream. And if you have, then remember the last dance of the swan.

I actually chafe at describing myself as masculine. For one thing, masculinity itself is such an expansive territory, encompassing boundaries of nationality, race, and class. Most importantly, individuals blaze their own trails across this landscape. And it’s hard for me to label the intricate matrix of my gender as simply masculine. To me, branding individual self-expression as simply feminine or masculine is like asking poets: Do you write in English or Spanish? The question leaves out the possibilities that the poetry is woven in Cantonese or Ladino, Swahili or Arabic. The question deals only with the system of language that the poet has been taught. It ignores the words each writer hauls up, hand over hand, from a common well. The music words make when finding themselves next to each other for the first time. The silences echoing in the space between ideas. The powerful winds of passion and belief that move the poet to write.

هُوَ الرجل الذي لن يكرِّره هَذَا الدهر مرّتين..

سأرتاحُ ، لم يكُ معنى وجودي فضولًا ، وَ لا كان عمــــري سدَى فما مـات مَن في الزمـــانِ أحبَّ ، وَ لا مات مَن غرّدَا

لقد قمنا بما أحببنَا فما ظللنَا مسك العقل علمٌ نحن به فزناَ

because you are die surface of my sky. My body is the land, the place for you... the pigeons fly the pigeons come down...

Just like you, my country cannot hear me: She's made of bronze and I can no longer reach her heart (from Thoughts on the Statue of Talaat Harb)

فيا قارئي ، يا رفيقَ الطريقِ أنا الشَّـفتانِ ، و أنتَ الصـدى ســـــألتك بالله .. كن ناعـــــــمًا إذا ما ضممتَ حروفي غـدًا تذكّــــر - وَ أنت تمـُـــرُّ علـــــيها عذابَ الحروفِ لكَيْ توجَدَا

Tenía por cierto, antes de conocer a este eunuco, que las cabezas eran asiento de la inteligencia, si bien al contemplar su entendimiento comprendí que la inteligencia está toda en los cojones.

A great poet must have the ear of a wild Arab listening in the silent desert, the eye of a North American Indian tracing the footsteps of an enemy upon the leaves that strew the forest, the touch of a blind man feeling the face of a darling child.

The word qur’an means “recitation.” It was not designed for private perusal, but like most scriptures, it was meant to be read aloud, and the sound was an essential part of the sense. Poetry was important in Arabia. The poet was the spokesman, social historian, and cultural authority of his tribe, and over the years the Arabs had learned how to listen to a recitation and had developed a highly sophisticated critical ear.

The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati turn their trusting faces to the sun say to me care for us nurture us in my dreams I shudder and I run. I am six in a playground of white children Darkie, sing us an Indian song! Eight in a roomful of elders all mock my broken Gujarati English girl! Twelve, I tunnel into books forge an armor of English words. Eighteen, shaved head combat boots - shamed by masis in white saris neon judgments singe my western head. Mother tongue. Matrubhasha tongue of the mother I murder in myself. Through the years I watch Gujarati swell the swaggering egos of men mirror them over and over at twice their natural size. Through the years I watch Gujarati dissolve bones and teeth of women, break them on anvils of duty and service, burn them to skeletal ash. Words that don't exist in Gujarati : Self-expression. Individual. Lesbian. English rises in my throat rapier flashed at yuppie boys who claim their people “civilized” mine. Thunderbolt hurled at cab drivers yelling Dirty black bastard! Force-field against teenage hoods hissing F****ing Paki bitch! Their tongue - or mine? Have I become the enemy? Listen: my father speaks Urdu language of dancing peacocks rosewater fountains even its curses are beautiful. He speaks Hindi suave and melodic earthy Punjabi salty rich as saag paneer coastal Kiswahili laced with Arabic, he speaks Gujarati solid ancestral pride. Five languages five different worlds yet English shrinks him down before white men who think their flat cold spiky words make the only reality. Words that don't exist in English: Najjar Garba Arati. If we cannot name it does it exist? When we lose language does culture die? What happens to a tongue of milk-heavy cows, earthen pots jingling anklets, temple bells, when its children grow up in Silicon Valley to become programmers? Then there's American: Kin'uh get some service? Dontcha have ice? Not: May I have please? Ben, mane madhath karso? Tafadhali nipe rafiki Donnez-moi, s'il vous plait Puedo tener….. Hello, I said can I get some service?! Like, where's the line for Ay-mericans in this goddamn airport? Words that atomized two hundred thousand Iraqis: Didja see how we kicked some major ass in the Gulf? Lit up Bagdad like the fourth a' July! Whupped those sand-niggers into a parking lot! The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati bright as butter succulent cherries sounds I can paint on the air with my breath dance through like a Sufi mystic words I can weep and howl and devour words I can kiss and taste and dream this tongue I take back.

Eight centuries have passed like a nap in the late afternoon my throat is choked with words I cannot speak (from The Last Soldier's Words to Saladin)

Loving you was the closest I came to seeing God.

سأنسى كلَّ من تذكّروني لأنَّهم شعروا بالوحدة وكلَّ من نسَوني لأنَّهم لم يَعودوا وحيدين

Was du schaffst überdauert die Zeit.

if an arab girl caves into the forest of her body is she the tree or the ax or is she the space between?

اكتب لي قصيدة الطير الذي كان يخشى الطيران والغصن المحبّ الذي لم ينفك يردّد له بصمتٍ: لا تتأخر بالمكوث هنا يا ولدي...

بين بحري ومرساتك، الماء يغرق والأزرق لا ينجو.

There's an Arab blessing," Converse informed them, "'May the poetry of your love never turn to prose.

My mom gave me life When I gave her back silence not a grandchild, She reconsidered the entire cycle of life… (July 1, 2015)

Perfume the literature you write with only the finest inks, for literature works are luscious girls, and ink their precious perfume. —Arabic saying ~800 AD

In which language does "liberation" sound better? / In Arabic, tahrir, / or in English, rebirth?

Here goes my train Sounding its whistle once again As it continues its old journey To a new station A new foreign land A new exile A new illusion A new face A new death…

بلقيسُ.. كانتْ أجملَ المَلِكَاتِ في تاريخ بابِِلْ بلقيسُ .. كانت أطولَ النَخْلاتِ في أرض العراقْ كانتْ إذا تمشي .. ترافقُها طواويسٌ .. وتتبعُها أيائِلْ ..

America's 1st Arab spring came in the guise of the Civil War...when our nation couldn't stomach the abomination of slavery anymore. One can't help keep wondering...when the next one will come.✌

تراتيل على جسد فراشة اغسلوه.. مدّدوه.. اغمضوه.. شيّعوه.. ودّعوه.. ودَعوني. ممسكة تلك اليد الباردة.. أسرق ما تبقّى من حرارة هذا الكفّ. دعوني. أحتضن هذا الجسد الهامد.. أسرق من الموت تنهيدة. فراشتي البيضاء سقطت، أمام عتبة الدار وأنا.. ما عاد بوسعي اكمال القصيدة.. ما عاد بوسعي اكمال القصيدة.. نوافذ الحيّ تركتها جميعها مشرّعة.. حتّى بوّابة الحديد تركتها مفتوحة.. اعتقدت انها قد تعود.. تلك الفراشة البيضاء.. فراشتي الوحيدة. اعتقدت انني قد استيقظ مجدداً على رفرفتها.. واطفأ لها الشمعة كي لا تحترق في العشيّة.. ولكن فراشتي البيضاء سقطت، امام عتبة الدار وأنا.. أحرقت يومها، حداداً عليها، كلّ قصائدي الزهرية.. كلّ قصائدي الزهرية.

POEM FOR SOUKAÏNA” **** To tell of my new Moroccan Love, Ô, I court her everyday. But just as a pearl in the mud is a pearl, So is my Love just an Arab girl… in that I offer her constant, loving woos, but she’ll ask me in return that I give her flooze*. That’s when I kiss her and shrug, and I say, “Someday.” And she gives me her love free anyway. * * * Ô, my Love is a child of the souks. In Casablanca born. A gypsy thief, “Soukaïna” named. We met in the souks of Marrakech, It was here my heart she tamed. Ô, she came at nineteen to Marrakech, In search of wild fun. And she lived in Marrakech seven years, Before my heart she won.

كان لا بدَّ من السير الى الهاوية... وكان لا بدَّ أيضاً من الركض باتجاهها... ففي أسفل كلِّ هاوية طفلاً يشبهك قليلاً... يضحك برعونة ويتمتم: الرشد فخٌ أقنعوك به. ابقَ كما أنتَ. ابقَ كما أنتَ... متهوراً. ايّاك أن تكبر.

the object of war was not to win battles or destroy the enemy, but to provide a field for the performance of heroic deeds, which were subsequently immortalized in poetry. For the early Arabs to fight honorably was more important than to win.   T

A. Guillaume sums up as follows: The Qurān is one of the world’s classics which cannot be translated without grave loss. It (The Holy Qurān) has a rhythm of peculiar beauty and a cadence that charms the ear. Many Christian Arabs speak of its style with warm admiration, and most Arabists acknowledge its excellence. . . . indeed it may be affirmed that within the literature of the Arabs, wide and fecund as it is both in poetry and in elevated prose, there is nothing to compare with it.376

Information does not make a philosophy, information only makes a memory, what makes a philosophy is the way ideas are rotated in the head, and this matter depends on different forms of experimentation, not on settled and codified ways of thinking.

An Opera for Kamal Boullata If I were one of those musicians who penned grand Italian operas where the notes, like clogs strike all the chords of Mediterraneans like us I would compose one and dedicate it to you Yet sadly these shrill words are all I have for you

Like a scared child singing to himself in the dark, most people sooth themselves With the worn-out phrase: 'Life goes on…' without being able to remember anymore Why should it go on? Few are those who dare to ask: How could life go on under such lifeless conditions?

أخشى سأذهب للتسبح قليلاً. أخشى أن لا أعود.. الأمواج تغازلني وتدعوني للعشاء دوماً. أخشى أن أوافق على ملاقتهن.. أخشى أن أذهب.. أخشى أن لا اعود.. سأذهب للركض قليلاً . أخشى أن لا اعود.. الغيوم تنده اسمي باستمرار. أخشى ان ألبّي نداءاتهن.. اخشى ان أذهب يا أمي.. أخشى أن لا اعود..

Later, when his desires had been satisfied, he slept in an odorous whorehouse, snoring lustily next to an insomniac tart, and dreamed. He could dream in seven languages: Italian, Spanic, Arabic, Persian, Russian, English and Portughese. He had picked up languages the way most sailors picked up diseases; languages were his gonorrhea, his syphilis, his scurvy, his ague,his plague. As soon as he fell asleep half the world started babbling in his brain, telling wondrous travelers' tales. In this half-discovered world every day brought news of fresh enchantments. The visionary, revelatory dream-poetry of the quotidian had not yet been crushed by blinkered, prosy fact. Himself a teller of tales, he had been driven out of his door by stories of wonder, and by one in particular, a story which could make his fortune or else cost him his life.

Such was the Arab of the desert, the dweller in tents, in whom was fulfilled the prophetic destiny of his ancestor Ishmael. "He will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him." Nature had fitted him for his destiny. His form was light and meagre, but sinewy and active, and capable of sustaining great fatigue and hardship. He was temperate and even abstemious, requiring but little food, and that of the simplest kind. His mind, like his body, was light and agile. He eminently possessed the intellectual attributes of the Shemitic race, penetrating sagacity, subtle wit, a ready conception, and a brilliant imagination. His sensibilities were quick and acute, though not lasting; a proud and daring spirit was stamped on his sallow visage and flashed from his dark and kindling eye. He was easily aroused by the appeals of eloquence, and charmed by the graces of poetry. Speaking a language copious in the extreme, the words of which have been compared to gems and flowers, he was naturally an orator; but he delighted in proverbs and apothegms, rather than in sustained flights of declamation, and was prone to convey his ideas in the oriental style, by apologue and parable.

Straw" I still keep the last straw I picked from the harvested wheat field near my home before the war forced me out… I have the straw framed and take it with me everywhere I go… And when asked about it, I tell people: It is the straw that broke my back… [Published on April 7, 2023 on CounterPunch.org]

Lost In black as solid as a mire In a land no one would die for In a time I was lost To anyone who ever loved me The world set itself on fire And the sky collapsed above me In a place no one could call home In a place I breathed and slept In a battle no one understood That continued all the same I sat defenseless and alone With the insignificance of my name In the midst of the Lord’s birth On a night meant to be peaceful In a country of the Prophet Where women don’t live free I spoke to God from the shaking Earth And prayed my mother would forgive me In a city without power In a desert torn by religion In a bank between two rivers We added up the decade’s cost And glorified the final hour Of a war that everyone had lost In the dust of helplessness In a concrete bunker In a fate I chose myself I waited without remorse To fight again as recompense For wasted lives and discourse -an original poem about an attack on our base in Iraq during the Arab Spring

آه يا طائر الطفولة النائح قل لي لِمَّ كل هذا النواح؟ قل لي لِمَ كل هذا العويل؟ آه يا طائري الذي صاحبني منذ الطفولة لِمَ طبعت نواحك وألصقت عويلك وآهاتك في كل ضحكاتي في كل ابتساماتي في ملامحي في نبراتي؟ آه يا رفيق الطفولة لقد بات الجميع يتجنبني بسببك لئلا أذكرهم بعويلهم الذي دفنوه وصرخاتهم التي أخرسوها ليتمكنوا من مواصلة العيش ...

بنودالطموح أُحصي بنودَ طُموحي: أن أشربَ الشايَ فجرًا, وأستقلَّ المدينهْ إلى كنوزي الدفينهْ وأن أُراسلَ مَنْ خَفْفَتْ علّي جروحي حتى أحقَّقَ هذا, أحتاجُ - أوَّلَ شيءٍ - إلى مدينةِ روحي : وقْتٌ , وأرضٌ أمينهْ ماذا؟ أهذا كثيرٌ ؟ وأنّني غير قانعْ؟ من أجل شايً وفجْرٍ ودفترٍ وطوابعْ لا بدَّ لي من قلاعٍ، وعسكرٍ، و مدافعْ لا بدَّ من أن أدافعْ.

كان ينبغي لي أن أمتنع. كان ينبغي لي أن أصمت. كان ينبغي لي أن لا أكتفي. أن أقول نعم على مضض. أن أردّد شكراً. وأتمتمها مطولاً. أن لا أحدّق في وجهك طويلاً. أن أدير وجهي بسرعة. أن أرتشف قهوتي ببطأ. أن أنظر داخل الفنجان. وأن أنده "ولكن". كان ينبغي لي كل هذا كي أحبك. وكي أذهب الى ليلك بقلبٍ صاخب وجسدٍ يرقص، كان ينبغي لي أيضاً أن أعيد ترتيب الوقت على طريقتي.

Azita Ghahreman, is an Iranian poet.[1] She was born in Iran in 1962. She has written four books in Persian and one book in Swedish. She has also translated American poetry. She is a member of the Iranian Writers Association and International PEN. She has published four collections of poetry: Eve's Songs (1983), Sculptures of Autumn (1986), Forgetfulness is a Simple Ritual (1992) and The Suburb of Crows (2008), a collection reflecting on he exile in Sweden (she lives in an area called oxie on the outskirts of Malmö) that was published in both Swedish and Persian. Her poems directly address questions of female desire and challenge the accepted position of women. A collection of Azita's work was published in Swedish in 2009 alongside the work of Sohrab Rahimi and Christine Carlson. She has also translated a collection of poems by the American poet and cartoonist, Shel Silverstein, into Persian, The Place Where the Sidewalk Ends (2000). And she has edited three volumes of poems by poets from Khorasan, the eastern province of Iran that borders Afghanistan and which has a rich and distinctive history. Azita's poems have been translated into German, Dutch, Arabic, Chinese, Swedish, Spanish, Macedonian, Turkish, Danish, French and English. A new book of poetry, Under Hypnosis in Dr Caligari's Cabinet was published in Sweden in April 2012. [edit]Books Eva's Songs, (persian)1990 Autumn Sculptures,(persian) 1995 Where the sidewalk ends, Shell Silverstein(Translated to Persian with Morteza Behravan) 2000 The Forgetfulness has a Simple Ceremony,(persian) 2002 Here is the Suburb of Crows,(persian) 2009 four Poetry books ( collected poems 1990-2009 in Swedish), 2009 under hypnosis in Dr kaligaris Cabinet, (Swedish) 2012 Poetry Translation Center London( collected poems in English) 2012

Slavery has been outlawed in most arab countries for years now but there are villages in jordan made up entirely of descendants of runaway Saudi slaves. Abdulrahman knows he might be free, but hes still an arab. No one ever wants to be the arab - its too old and too tragic, too mysterious and too exasperating, and too lonely for anyone but an actual arab to put up with for very long. Essentially, its an image problem. Ask anyone, Persian, Turks, even Lebanese and Egyptians - none of them want to be the arab. They say things like, well, really we're indo-russian-asian european- chaldeans, so in the end the only one who gets to be the arab is the same little old bedouin with his goats and his sheep and his poetry about his goats and his sheep, because he doesnt know that he's the arab, and what he doesnt know wont hurt him.

Armenian Cognac A bottle of cognac from Yerevan is on my kitchen table as closed as that history and as silent If I broke it down I'd lose a hundred years of love and if I opened it the ancestors hanging here in black and white would come down from the walls to have a glass with me I know a history that's been forgotten and I know why that bottle of cognac stands with such singular pride.... If I broke it now I'd lose a hundred years of my people's history

Before the advent of Islam, the Arab peoples constituted a cultural backwater. With the exception of poetry, they contributed virtually nothing to world civilization, unlike their neighbors—the Egyptians, the Sumerians, the Babylonians, the Persians. Islam changed all that. Shortly after its advent, the Arabs excelled in fields from astronomy to medicine to philosophy. The Muslim golden age stretched from Morocco to Persia and spanned many centuries. Likewise,

No one can say what the inner life is, but poetry tries to, and no one can say what poetry is, but let's be bold and claim that there are two major streamings in consciousness, particularly in the ecstatic life, and in Rumi's poetry: call them fana and baqa, Arabic words that refer to the play and intersection of human with divine. Rumi's poetry occurs in that opening, a dervish doorway these energies move through in either direction. A movement out, a movement in. Fana is the streaming that moves from the human out into mystery-the annihilation, the orgasmic expansion, the dissolving swoon into the all. The gnat becomes buttermilk; a chickpea disappears into the flavor of the soup; a dead mule decays into salt flat; the infant turns to the breast. These wild and boundaryless absorptions are the images and the kind of poem Rumi is most well known for, a drunken clairvoyant tavern voice that announces, "Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear BY MOSAB ABU TOHA For Alicia M. Quesnel, MD i When you open my ear, touch it gently. My mother’s voice lingers somewhere inside. Her voice is the echo that helps recover my equilibrium when I feel dizzy during my attentiveness. You may encounter songs in Arabic, poems in English I recite to myself, or a song I chant to the chirping birds in our backyard. When you stitch the cut, don’t forget to put all these back in my ear. Put them back in order as you would do with books on your shelf.

Beware of Strangers As children, they teach us To beware of strangers, To refrain from approaching them. As we grow older we learn That no one is stranger than those We thought we’d known all our lives. As we grow older we learn That a stranger may carry more empathy, And may understand us more deeply. Even feelings of affection from a stranger May be more sincere. And so I ask: can humanity and the strangeness be synonymous? Could we say: I am a stranger; therefore I am? Can we truly feel alive Without strange things Strange encounters without strangers reminding us that our hearts and minds are still beating? They teach us to avoid strangers, And life teaches us that human awareness can only be borne out Of the dagger of strangeness… That life is tasteless When we don’t mix it with strangers… That familiarity is opposed to life! And thus, I loudly declare: A stranger I was born. A stranger I wish to remain! And I ask that you issue my death certificate The day I become familiar. [Original poem published in Arabic on October 29 at ahewar.org]

The explanation of this perennial quality of Arabic is to be found simply in the conserving role of nomadism. It is in towns that languages decay, by becoming worn out, the things and institutions they designate. Nomads, who live to some extent outside time, conserve their language better; it is, moreover, the only treasure they can carry around with them in their pastoral existence; the nomad is a jealous guardian of his linguistic heritage, his poetry and his rhetorical art. On the other hand, his inheritance in the way of visual art cannot be rich; architecture presupposes stability, and the same is broadly true of sculpture and painting.

screen filled with symbols, only this time it was Arabic letters that meant nothing to him. He assumed they meant nothing to Raj as well, and was therefore surprised when Raj pointed out a short sequence. “This is the word for ‘person’ or ‘human being’.” Daniel stared at Raj. “You know Arabic?” “No, not really. I have read Nizar Qabbani in translation, and this word is a particularly beautiful shape, is it not?” “Still waters run deep, Raj. So you read Arabic love poetry. I wouldn’t have ever guessed.” Raj blushed. “Sushma is more woman than I can handle without help,” he admitted. “Qabbani writes more than just love poetry. It is quite erotic.

طريق الجًلجًلة لم أكن يوماً راعياً ينزل من هضبة. أنا كالمسيح، مشيت طريق الجلجلة. أنا كالمسيح، ذهبت الى الصحراء للصوم أربعين يوماً. وأربعين ليلة. ونسيت من بعدها كيفية الأكل. ونسيت من بعدها تناول البلح. عندما التقيتك تراءى لي أنك تقود مواكب الملائكة. تراءى لي ان وجه الله سيبان وأن رضوان يفتح لي باب الجنة. وها بوجه القمر يسود أمامي وها بيهوذا يضحك لي مبتعداً. أنا ما طلبت منك يوماً أن تنزلني من صليبي. أنا ككل مسيح أعشق وأصون صليبي. أنا ككل مسيح وجعي علة وجودي. ما ام أطلبه ولم تبخل عنه هو غرز أشواك ورودك في عنقي. كي أتذكر وجودك كلما رفعت برأسي نحو السماء. كي أستشعر بالشمس تحرق خدودي امتداد الشاطئ. كي اغرق بعرقي المالح كلما هززت برأسي نحو الأسفل.

They say the world will end soon. They say that the nuclear weapons made, Due to fearing 'the other', Has become a curse, a plague, a scourge On those who made them Even more than those they were made to scare... And I wonder: Will the nuclear weapons be the cause of world’s end? Or will world’s end be caused by humanity’s fear, complicity, and submission? And if what they say is true, Before the world ends and before I die, I wish to drink one last cup of cardamom-flavored tea Taste one last fig, peach, or apricot, Smell a quince, Dip one last piece of bread In Palestinian thyme and olive oil… Before the world ends, I wish to smell a few pine needles, To breathe the smell of the first rain shower After a long, hot, and dry summer… Before the world ends and before I die, I wish to read one more book Out of the thousands of books that I still want to read… Before the world ends and before I die, I ask for one more spring To smell bunches of Iraqi narcissus flowers. I want to live one more autumn, To enjoy the magical colors Of the dying leaves on the trees As they challenge death with beauty Right before falling on the grounds of indifference… But my biggest wish before I die is For my death not to be the end of the world… [Original poem published in Arabic on October 13 at ahewar.org]

Outside the study hall the next fall, the fall of our senior year, the Nabisco plant baked sweet white bread twice a week. If I sharpened a pencil at the back of the room I could smell the baking bread and the cedar shavings from the pencil.... Pretty soon all twenty of us - our class - would be leaving. A core of my classmates had been together since kindergarten. I'd been there eight years. We twenty knew by bored heart the very weave of each other's socks.... The poems I loved were in French, or translated from the Chinese, Portuguese, Arabic, Sanskrit, Greek. I murmured their heartbreaking sylllables. I knew almost nothing of the diverse and energetic city I lived in. The poems whispered in my ear the password phrase, and I memorized it behind enemy lines: There is a world. There is another world. I knew already that I would go to Hollins College in Virginia; our headmistress sent all her problems there, to her alma mater. "For the English department," she told me.... But, "To smooth off her rough edges," she had told my parents. They repeated the phrase to me, vividly. I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface, and exit through it. Would I be ground, instead, to a nub? Would they send me home, an ornament to my breed, in a jewelry bag?

[Donor Countries] When are we going to understand That donor countries never donate anything for free. When are we going to understand That the only countries that donate Are those with the biggest role in destruction and ravage? That such countries only donate To shape societies and destroyed countries According to their whims and their desires… That their only aim is To keep the defeated the marginalized the disempowered and the impoverished In that state for as long as they can… When are we going to understand That the easiest way to identify and name the big criminals, Is to take a quick look at the list of donor countries? [Original poem published in Arabic on November 12, 2022 at ahewar.org]

The Meaning of 'Home' As I travel from one city to another From one country to another From one sorrow to another, I encounter thousands of faces: In streets, shops, parks, and cafés. They all ask me the same painful question: 'Where are you from?' As if they know, I am from a place that lost itself and lost me On a long, cold, and sad winter night. They ask me: 'What is your country known for?' I tell them: 'My country is known for exporting sad stories, refugees, and displaced people. All those who were cursed by being born in it.' Similar questions continue to be asked in cocktail parties, In hypocritical and mediocre gatherings, In conferences and boring meetings. Some pretentiously ask me: 'How do you define "home"?' I respond with Ghassan Knafani’s words ringing in my ears: 'Home is for all of this not to happen.' April 19, 2014

Qatar & The West (The Sonnet) All of a sudden the entire west is peeved at Qatar, Because only the west has exclusive rights to exposure. All of a sudden we care about the migrant workers, The Afghans, Palestinians and Kashmiris no longer matter. Human rights issue here is, we don't care about human rights, We only care about filling the air with hypocrisy and mania. Our poster boy just dumped half his new workforce as garbage, We buy Oscar, ditch Batgirl, and we diss Qatar for buying FIFA! We are just peeved that the Arabs are showing off for a change, Sure it's unacceptable, since showing off is a western tradition. Yes, it's true that the Middle East reeks with human rights issues, But it is also teeming with passion beyond western comprehension. If you really care about human rights stick to a cause for more than a fortnight. Otherwise keep your trap shut, lest you open and be proved a privileged white.

QUEEN OF THE SAND "Oh father, behold the desert queen" and I looked and I saw an inscription but age deprived my understanding. My daughter cried out, "Oh father, King of the Desert, behold she who bears my name". Then I realise it was Zara Muhammad The Queen of the Sand. The mercy of princesses. The sons delight and the father's pride. Oh daughter of Arab, what bringeth thou thee to the Kingdom were daughters are enthroned, where women rule, and where the sons of men marvel at the beauty of the stars. The Sand Queen replied, "It the glory every daughter of the Sand has spoken of brought me this far" "What glory, oh Adored Zara?" I asked and she roared with voice of a bird rejoicing over showers of seeds and she said "You my Lord and King, for your beauty has reached the ends of the world" It was then I realise that this poem was written not only for Zara Muhammed but also for Zara Vote and Victor Vote. Greetings of great Great Zara, Queen of the Sand. Poem by Victor Vote for Zara Muhammed

I will begin by writing a sentence about cutting. I will begin by writing a sentence about silence. I will continue by writing a sentence about cutting. I will proceed to ask the question about cutting. I will proceed from this point without euphemism. The question is about the clitoris. I call my cousins in turn. I ask the question about the clitoris. I will begin by writing a sentence about the clitoris. I will begin with the assumption that we each continue to have a clitoris. False. We do not talk about this. I will begin with speculation about our mothers, that each continues to have a clitoris. False. We are never to ask. In the silence, my youngest cousin asks if our grandmothers were cut. We were meant to proceed without euphemism. The Arabic, however, does not allow it. The Arabic, cut by euphemism. We do not use the word cut. The word we use, left intact, is purified. I will ask. I will begin. I was born & allowed to mature uncut. I was born with a clitoris & remain uncut. I was born unnamed & upon arrival was given my orders. I was born & named for a woman who died. The Arabic here allows for nuance. My name, ours, is not the same as the word we use to mean cut. That word, conjugated, is the name of one of my grandmothers. I will not ask her the question. I am told she does not remember.

Everything has already been caught, until my death, in an icefloe of being: my trembling when a piece of rough trade asks me to brown him (I discover that his desire is his trembling) during a Carnival night; at twilight, the view from a sand dune of Arab warriors surrendering to French generals; the back of my hand placed on a soldier's basket, but especially the sly way in which the soldier looked at it; suddenly I see the ocean between two houses in Biarritz; I am escaping from the reformatory, taking tiny steps, frightened not at the idea of being caught but of being the prey of freedom; straddling the enormous prick of a blond legionnaire, I am carried twenty yards along the ramparts; not the handsome football player, nor his foot, nor his shoe, but the ball, then ceasing to be the ball and becoming the “kick-off,” and I cease being that to become the idea that goes from the foot to the ball; in a cell, unknown thieves call me Jean; when at night I walk barefoot in my sandals across fields of snow at the Austrian border, I shall not flinch, but then, I say to myself, this painful moment must concur with the beauty of my life, I refuse to let this moment and all the others be waste matter; using their suffering, I project myself to the mind's heaven. Some negroes are giving me food on the Bordeaux docks; a distinguished poet raises my hands to his forehead; a German soldier is killed in the Russian snows and his brother writes to inform me; a boy from Toulouse helps me ransack the rooms of the commissioned and non-commissioned officers of my regiment in Brest: he dies in prison; I am talking of someone–and while doing so, the time to smell roses, to hear one evening in prison the gang bound for the penal colony singing, to fall in love with a white-gloved acrobat–dead since the beginning of time, that is, fixed, for I refuse to live for any other end than the very one which I found to contain the first misfortune: that my life must be a legend, in other words, legible, and the reading of it must give birth to a certain new emotion which I call poetry. I am no longer anything, only a pretext.

They say the world will end soon. They say that the nuclear weapons made, Due to fearing ‘the other’, Have become a curse, a plague, a scourge On those who made them Even more than those they were made to scare... And I wonder: Will the nuclear weapons be the cause of the world’s end? Or will the world’s end be caused by humanity’s fear, complicity, and submission? And if what they say is true, Before the world ends and before I die, I wish to drink one last cup of cardamom-flavored tea Taste one last fig, peach, or apricot, Smell a quince, Dip one last piece of bread In Palestinian thyme and olive oil… Before the world ends, I wish to smell a few pine needles, To breathe the smell of the first rain shower After a long, hot, and dry summer… Before the world ends and before I die, I wish to read one more book Out of the thousands of books that I still want to read… Before the world ends and before I die, I ask for one more spring To smell bunches of Iraqi narcissus flowers. I want to live one more autumn, To enjoy the magical colors Of the dying leaves on the trees As they challenge death with beauty Right before falling on the grounds of indifference… But my biggest wish before I die is For my death not to be the end of the world… [Original poem published in Arabic by ahewar.org on October 13, 2022]

There is a well-known story about al-Aṣmaʿī, the famous Arab philologist and compiler of poetry, when he once came upon a Bedouin and was invited to enter his tent. In Bedouin culture, the women serve guests in the presence of their husbands. This Bedouin had a very beautiful wife, though he himself was quite unattractive. When the men went out to prepare a lamb for a meal, the guest couldn’t resist saying to this woman, “How did such a beautiful woman like you marry such an ugly man like that?” The woman said, “Fear God! Perhaps he had done good works accepted by his Lord, and I am his reward.” God is all-wise in what He gives to people. If one questions the blessing a person has received, then he or she is actually questioning the Giver. This makes envy reprehensible and forbidden.

As a nonbeliever, I knew I couldn’t replicate Akram’s ecstasy. As an English speaker without classical Arabic, I knew I’d lose the poetry of the original words. But a bit like the nun who, while drifting off to sleep, allows herself a few seconds of wondering about sex, I found that Akram’s description suggested the limitations of my own cozy secularism.

[Love Wasn’t as They Said] Love wasn’t as they said… It didn’t last forever as they claimed… It is fleeting moments only recognized By those with sight and insight… And perhaps only captured By those patiently waiting as if to see a lightning in the sky… And, like lightning perhaps, we never know Where love goes after it strikes… And perhaps the only love that lasts Is one that know when to stay and when to walk away… ** Love wasn’t synonymous with honor As they defined honor... It is often the awareness that falls upon us After betraying or letting down the loved ones… Love wasn’t holding hands forever, It is boring afternoons spent together With no words And no activities… It wasn’t lifetime sexual attraction As many claimed… It is the companionship that remains After the hormonal fires are put out, When the noises of immaturity go silent, And after the childish quarrels and squabbles stop… It is the home that remains erected Long after getting erectile dysfunction… It that appetite for life after the last egg from the last period… It is that strange feeling of elation That may come after what is mistakenly called a “midlife crisis”, To fill that frightening gap between hope and reality… ** Love a widow brushing her hair, On a bus or in a public place, Unbothered by onlookers or passersby, As she opens her shabby handbag And takes out an apple to bite on With the teeth she has left… Love is an eye surrounded with wrinkles But is finally able to see the world Sensitively, insightfully, and more realistically, Without exaggerated embellishment or distortion… ** Love is shreds of joy Interspersed with long intervals Of boredom, exhaustion, reproach, and disappointment… It’s not measured with red flowers, bears, and expensive gifts in shiny wraps, It is who remains when the glucose, blood pressure and cholesterol numbers are high… It’s those who stay after the heart catheterization and knee replacement surgeries… Love gets stronger after getting osteoporosis And may move mountains despite the rheumatism… ** Love is the few seconds when our eyes cross with strangers Who awaken in us feelings we hadn’t experienced with those living with us in years… Or perhaps it’s rubbing arms and shoulders with a passenger On a bus, in a train, or on a plane… It is that fleeting look from a passerby in the street Convey to us that they, too, have understood the game, But there’s not much they can do about it… ** Love wasn’t as they said It wasn’t as they said… It is not 1+1=2… It is sometimes three or more… At other times, it grows at point zero or lower, In solitude, in loneliness, and in seclusion… Isn’t it time, I wonder, to demolish everything falsely, unfairly, and misleadingly attributed to love? Or is it that love burns and dies Precisely when we try to capture it in our hands? [Original poem published in Arabic on October 27, 2022 at ahewar.org]

[Love Wasn’t as They Said] Love wasn’t as they said… It didn’t last forever as they claimed… It is fleeting moments only recognized By those with sight and insight… And perhaps only captured By those patiently waiting as if to see a lightning in the sky… And, like lightning perhaps, we never know Where love goes after it strikes… And perhaps the only love that lasts Is one that know when to stay and when to walk away… ** Love wasn’t synonymous with honor As they defined honor... It is often the awareness that falls upon us After betraying or letting down the loved ones… Love wasn’t holding hands forever, It is boring afternoons spent together With no words And no activities… It wasn’t lifetime sexual attraction As many claimed… It is the companionship that remains After the hormonal fires are put out, When the noises of immaturity go silent, And after the childish quarrels and squabbles stop… It is the home that remains erected Long after getting erectile dysfunction… It that appetite for life after the last egg from the last period… It is that strange feeling of elation That may come after what is mistakenly called a “midlife crisis”, To fill that frightening gap between hope and reality… ** Love is a widow brushing her hair, On a bus or in a public place, Unbothered by onlookers or passersby, As she opens her shabby handbag And takes out an apple to bite on With the teeth she has left… Love is an eye surrounded with wrinkles But is finally able to see the world Sensitively, insightfully, and more realistically, Without exaggerated embellishment or distortion… ** Love is shreds of joy Interspersed with long intervals Of boredom, exhaustion, reproach, and disappointment… It’s not measured with red flowers, bears, and expensive gifts in shiny wraps, It is who remains when the glucose, blood pressure and cholesterol numbers are high… It’s those who stay after the heart catheterization and knee replacement surgeries… Love gets stronger after getting osteoporosis And may move mountains despite the rheumatism… ** Love is the few seconds when our eyes cross with strangers Who awaken in us feelings we hadn’t experienced with those living with us in years… Or perhaps it’s rubbing arms and shoulders with a passenger On a bus, in a train, or on a plane… It is that fleeting look from a passerby in the street Convey to us that they, too, have understood the game, But there’s not much they can do about it… ** Love wasn’t as they said It wasn’t as they said… It is not 1+1=2… It is sometimes three or more… At other times, it grows at point zero or lower, In solitude, in loneliness, and in seclusion… Isn’t it time, I wonder, to demolish everything falsely, unfairly, and misleadingly attributed to love? Or is it that love burns and dies Precisely when we try to capture it in our hands? [Original poem published in Arabic on October 27, 2022 at ahewar.org]

[Silent Messages] I’ve lost track of all the times I have passed by married couples or lovers Dinning at fancy upscale restaurants in foreign cities When the woman sitting across the table from her lover Gives me that quick look Conveying in a painful silence That she no longer loves him, That she wishes she were elsewhere… And each time, I respond with an equally silent look: Why are you there? Why don’t you turn this dinner table of triviality on him, And on everything that happened and is happening And just walk away? [Original poem published in Arabic on November 8, 2022 at ahewar.org]

Bahr sang in Arabic, Pashto, Persian, and English, but even if our brothers or the guards didn't understand the words, his voice was enough to free us all from our caged lives, even if only for a moment. Music and poetry are the soul's languages, and when Bahr sang, all the blocks quieted down so they could listen. His voice and his songs carried with me into solitary confinement, where I listened to Bahr and the sea in my head.

Therefore, my friends, The humanity of those who lose a war may be broken, But that of the winners is totally lost… And I confess to you, sometimes I don’t know which is more merciful: To lose your humanity or to live broken in a shattered world?

[Silent Messages 2] She sat to rearrange the contents of her disorganized handbag At the crowded bus terminal When she lifted her head for a short interval, Her eyes caught a young couple kissing, touching, and hugging In a performative and exaggerated manner... When the couple noticed her, The young woman gave her a mean and malicious look as if asking: Are you jealous of all the love I am surrounded by? She returned the look with a sly one as if responding: The love that exaggerates in displaying itself in public Is either immature, dead, or dying… [Original poem published in Arabic on December 5, 2022 at ahewar.org]

[Silent Messages 2] She was rearranging her messy handbag at the crowded bus station When she lifted her head for a short interval, Her eyes caught a young couple kissing, touching, and hugging In an exaggerated and performative manner When the couple noticed her, The young woman gave her a mean and malicious look as if asking: Are you jealous of all the love I am surrounded by? She returned the look with a sly one as if responding: The love that exaggerates in displaying itself in public Is either new and inexperienced, dead, or dying… [[Original poem published in Arabic on December 5, 2022 at ahewar.org]

لقد عبرت الزمن بنفسي من اليمن الی القرن الواحد والعشرين

أجاور نفسي والآخر وأجد في الآخر نفسي ونفسي تتيه في الطريق اليه

الباب موصد من الخارج الأمم المتحدة، المنظمات الإنسانية ووسائل الإعلام تخمد النيران ب قش

Waiting She caught herself waiting by her bedroom window. A window facing a quiet street, where a car or two passed occasionally. Otherwise, it was a motionless place. The tree branches outside danced Whenever the winds flirted with them. Although she habitually sat by that window every day, for years and years, She never noticed her habit until today! When she realized that, she felt heart sick and upset. She didn’t know whether she was angry at herself Or at the time she had wasted waiting. What upset her even more Was that she wasn’t waiting for any person to arrive, Not even for the postman Who no longer brought her any personal letters. She was not waiting for a lover A friend Or for parents. All those she once loved are long gone. What was she waiting for all these years? She asked herself this question a thousand times that day, And she waited for her inner voice to answer. She must know today! It suddenly occurred to her that Since she was a child, She was waiting for the arrival of a person Who she could never name or describe. She could never put a body or a face On their ambiguous figure. It was a person who only visited her imagination In the form of a shadow. She realized that all her life, She was yearning for something that she couldn’t name, And thus, she remained waiting, Wishing to find out one day What or who she was waiting for. February 9, 2013

The Cats in the City Location: an Arab city. Time: the age of defeat. The twenty-first century. General atmosphere: “fancy” neighborhoods. Expensive houses painted in tombstone colors. Beautiful and well-maintained gardens. Flowers that no one dares to smell. Imported cars. Imported devices. Imported clothes. Imported foods. Endless consumer shops for anything and everything. Between every other restaurant, there are shops selling cosmetics and souvenirs. Between every other consumer market, There is a worship place. All consumer shops are built skillfully On the scab of the same old wound; A wound that can flood the city with blood and death With the slightest fingernail scratch. As I walk farther from the city, The consumer shops vanish. The lights are suddenly dimmed. The cheering and the hustle and bustle of the consumers go silent. I see myself in total darkness. I am alone hearing nothing but the sounds of my footsteps, And the meows of hungry stray street cats, Covered with the ashes of daily existence. A thin and hungry cat approaches me, She meows in despair and starvation, Begging me for her bite of the day (or the week?) I throw her a small piece of my sandwich. She picks it up and runs away To celebrate her temporary gains! She leaves me alone wondering in darkness: What reflects the reality of this city more The 'fancy' neighborhoods I saw earlier, Or the starving cats in the darkness? June 8, 2014

Photographs from Distant Places (1) In distant villages, You always see the same scenes: Farms Cattle Worship spaces Small local shops. Just basic the things humans need To endure life. (2) ‘Can you stay with me forever?’ She asked him in the airport, While hugging him tightly in her arms. ‘Sorry, I can’t. My flight leaves in two hours and a half.’ He responded with an artificially caring voice, As he kissed her on her right cheek. (3) I was walking in one of Bucharest’s old streets, In a neighborhood that looked harshly beaten by Time, And severely damaged by development and globalization. I saw a poor homeless man Combing his dirty hair In a side mirror of a modern and expensive car! (4) The shape and the color of the eyes don’t matter. What matters is that, As soon as you gaze into them, You know that they have seen a lot. All eyes that dare to bear witness To what they have seen are beautiful. (5) A stranger asked me how I chose my path in life. I told him: ‘I never chose anything, my friend.’ My path has always been like someone forced to sit In an airplane on a long flight. Forced to sit with the condition Of keeping the seatbelt on at all times, Until the end of the flight. Here I am still sitting with the seatbelt on. I can neither move Nor walk. I can’t even throw myself out of the plane’s emergency exit To end this forced flight! (6) After years of searching and observing, I discovered that despair’s favorite hiding place Is under business suits and tuxedos. Under jewelry and expensive night gowns. Despair dances at the tables where Expensive wines of corruption And delicious dinners of betrayal are served. (7) Oh, my poet friend, Did you know that The bouquet of fresh flowers in that vase On your table is not a source of inspiration or creativity? The vase is just a reminder Of a flower massacre that took place recently In a field Where these poor flowers happened to be. It was their fate to have their already short lives cut shorter, To wither and wilt in your vase, While breathing the not-so-fresh air In your room, As you sit down at your table And write your vain words. (8) Under authoritarian regimes, 99.9% of the population vote for the dictator. Under capitalist ‘democratic’ regimes, 99.9% of people love buying and consuming products Made and sold by the same few corporations. Awe to those societies where both regimes meet to create a united vicious alliance against the people! To create a ‘nation’ Of customers, not citizens! (9) The post-revolution leaders are scavengers not hunters. They master the art of eating up The dead bodies and achievements Of the fools who sacrificed themselves For the ‘revolution’ and its ideals. Is this the paradox and the irony of all revolutions? (10) Every person is ugly if you take a close look at them, And beautiful, if you take a closer look. (11) Just as wheat fields can’t thrive Under the shadow of other trees, Intellectuals, too, can’t thrive under the shadow Of any power or authority. (12) We waste so much time trying to change others. Others waste so much time thinking they are changing. What a waste! October 20, 2015

The Problem The problem I have, my friends, is too complicated. It is not only that I no longer have a home, Or a roof over my head. It is that I no longer wish to have one. I confess to you; however, that Even if I wished to have a place to call home, My wish would be impossible to realize, Because I have been erased from everywhere. Yes, the mercenaries And those who worship the dollar notes, Under the names of religions and ideologies, Have erased me from history. They have revised and rewrote my story. Everywhere I go, I find them lurking and waiting for me, To blockade me, To suffocate me, And to steal from my mouth The few crumbs of bread I have left. And so, I repeat, my friends, My problem is too complicated. I don’t have a home, I no longer want a home, And I couldn’t have a home to shelter me, Even if so I wished in my wild dreams. June 1, 2017

Exhaustion Salima sat in the fancy hotel room In the evening time. Here she is again in another foreign city, Attending a conference discussing “human rights”. Her eyes roamed the room. She suddenly felt a severe chill in her body. She suddenly realized that she is exhausted, But her exhaustion is not that of one day, It was one of a lifetime! It fell upon her abruptly. The thoughts of the bygone years Nested in her head, Were suddenly awoken. One thought after another. She realized at that moment That she is tired of responding to The same absurd questions About her origins Her ethnicity, Her religion, Her hobbies, Her favorite foods, Her education background, Her age, And her occupation. Questions asked frequently by people who don’t care. She suddenly realized That throughout her life, She never found a friend who could really understand. The evening was about to draw its dark curtains. She remembered that ever since she was a child, She had been hiding her favorite words and writings In notebooks that nobody will read. She has been murmuring her favorite tunes, In places where nobody could hear her. The evening was about to draw its dark curtains. She realized that her true thoughts and feelings Lived nowhere expect inside of her head, And there they will most likely die. Her head had become like a prison for her thoughts. The evening was about to draw its dark curtains. She suddenly realized That she had wasted so many years of her life Looking for someone who might understand. And each time she thought she had found one, She found herself in yet another prison. She looked through the window of the fancy hotel room And saw that the darkness had covered the entire city. September 9, 2017

بينما كنت أشاهد صوراً التقطها عبر السنين اتضح لي بأني اعشق الأبواب العتيقة ... فأنا ابحث عنها في كل مكان لأصورها وأتأملها ... فتجدني أتخيل بأن لهذه الأبواب عيون وأتسأل عن كل ما رأته من الخارج وعن كل ما مر بها عن كل من مر منها ومن أمامها ... أضيع في رحيلي وأنا أتخيل كل ما دار خلفها من أفراح وأتراح من غنى وعوز من نفاق ونميمة من أيام مملة وكئيبة عاشها ساكنيها خلفها وهي ومغلقة .. وتراني اتأمل في تصاميم أبواب من أزمان مختلفة وفي أماكن مختلفة.. بعضها ينم عن ذوق سيء زاده مرور الزمن سوءاً ... وأتخيل كيف ظن أهلها يومها بأنها أجمل ما كان! وبعضها – الأكثر عتقاً – تبدو وكأنها تزداد جمالاً بمرور الزمن ... وكأن القبح والجمال غير ثابتان ... ام تراه قصور في العين البشرية التي لا تميز بين الجمال الحقيقي والقبح الحقيقي إلا بعد فوات الآوان؟ بعض الأبواب معدنية ويملؤها الصدأ بشكل يشبه تآكل قيم ومبادئ البشر، بعضها خشبي ورغم الثقوب والحفر المتناثرة عليها، تراها لازالت توحي بالدفء والأمان .. بعض هذه الأبواب العتيقة لم تعد تفتح إلا للسواح بعضها أجبر اهلها على تركها دون رجعة بعضها الآخر تفتح من حين لآخر لزوار سريين لا يعرفهم احد ولا نعرف ماذا يفعلون خلفها بعد دخولهم ... وما أكثر الأبواب العتيقة المحاطة بسلاسل وأقفال صدئة ابتلع الزمن اهلها ومفاتيحها .. وكم تحزنني الأبواب العتيقة والجميلة التي أضعنا مفاتيحها إلى الأبد بسبب طيشنا وحماقاتنا ...

وإذا كانتِ النُفوسُ كِباراً *** تَعِبَتْ في مُرادِها الأَجسامُ

(Sorrow in the Heart of an Apple) I clean up my old sorrow Wrapped it in a clean and scented piece of cloth Buried it under an apple tree in our apple orchard in the village. Seasons passed… It seemed to me that everything was over When the harvest season came again. I forgot that I had wanted to forget about my sorrow I forgot where I had buried it, too. I picked an attractive red apple That looked glorious and delicious. From the first bite, I immediately recognized The taste of that same age-old sorrow. I realized then that my buried sorrow Had multiplied. And here I am Face to face with it again: Here I am finding it In the heart of every single apple!

أيها اليمني، من اين لك كل هذا الأمل؟ من وجودي، ماض في حضرة مستقبل

Language of God (The Sonnet) A Jew may say, Hebrew is the language of god. A Christian may say, Aramaic is the language of god. A Muslim will say, Arabic is the language of god. A Hindu will say, Sanskrit is the language of god. A biologist may say, DNA is the language of god. Mathematicians say, math is the language of god. A psychiatrist may say, libido is the language of god. Physicists say, Quantum Mechanics is language of god. A politician may say, control is the language of god. A capitalist may say, currency is the language of god. A cop may say, law and order are the language of god. A philosopher may say, wisdom is the language of god. I don't know all that, I'm a being most ordinary 'n simple. I only know that kindness is the language of a human.

The place is very strange, I don't know if I'm dreaming or not, but it's a place where silent, naked people walk with thick dust. No one looks at anyone and no one seems interested in anything and I don't know what this place means. The place I discovered after a long contemplation and these places I always discovered in my head, I discovered strange times and places after contemplation and the contents of creating my strangeness sometimes ugly, but its aesthetic is intrinsic. I looked at myself and found that I had different characteristics from them alone, but they did not pay attention to anything or anyone. I try to speak and my voice does not come out, but I hear the echo of what I want to say in the whole place, as if we were in a glass ball. Whatever I intend to do without moving my body, without commanding it. Was my previous will fulfilled when I was, when I was what? a human being Is volitional poetics achieved? To fly to beat physics, but who is fair to the chemistry and chemistry of the universe? He is the Lord of shedding whom I call Sha’ariel, who transforms beings into other beings and places them in other universes. He turns like a chameleon, into human, animal, wind, inanimate, light, .. I am in the land of processing creatures into experimental projects.

You do not die because you are created or because you have a body You die because you are the face of the future. The flower that tempted the wind to carry its perfume Died yesterday.

There was a widespread rumor that there was an attempt to absorb an Arab youth movement into the  kibbutz. It seemed that the attempt failed. Perhaps Muhammad and Nazmi were the remnants of that Arab youth movement. They may have belonged to the Arab youth movement pioneers. The movement succeeded in establishing a number of cores, and one of its training groups was in Shomrat. It was not talked about often in the  kibbutz, but rumors always reached us, and Mohammed and Nazmi had ties to this movement. Muhammad loved to read Arabic poetry and occasionally enjoyed translating the words into Hebrew for us. It always amazed me how he sat, he never needed a chair.

أُولاء أهلي مَن تَشفِيهم كلماتٌ وتُسقِمهُم أخرى

هذهِ اللَّيلة لامستُ قلبَ العالم ثلجٌ كثيفٌ في يدي وعلى كتفي دموعُهُ تضيع..

لا تفعل شيئاً هذهِ الفراشة سوى أنها تضربُ بجناحيها فيرجفُ قلبُ البحر.

خالٍ مِن الحنينِ لأيِّ شيءٍ هذا نهارٌ أبيضُ لا ذكرياتُ ولا رجاء سيّدٌ فردٌ ومُنعتقٌ لا شيءَ يُوجعني فأنساهُ لا شيءَ ينساني أنا سورةٌ فِي النَّهرِ دارت ثُم دارت وأختفت خلفَ المدى أنا في رحى الأيامِ حبةُ خردلٍ تيهاء تَطحنُني وأضحكْ.

Poetry is practically the only intellectual pursuit which we can be positive was highly developed and much practiced in pre-Islamic Arabia. It seems certain that the Arabic word for poet, shair, meant originally "one who knows," and the word for poetry, shir, "knowledge".

صمت الروح صمت يصقل الحرف قبل ان اتفوه به. صمت فنجان القهوة قبل ان ارتشفه. صمت الفاجعة. هذا الصمت عندما رنّ الهاتف، ما بعد منتصف الليل وقال لي مواسياً: "لقد حاولنا وخسرناه..." صمت الهاتف عندما اغلقته وتوجهت نحو المطبخ كي اشرب كأس ماء. كأس ماء كي لا اذرف دمعة. على الشرفة يردد المذياع النعوة: "انتقل الى رحمته تعالى المأسوف على شبابه...." هذا الغريب الذي لم انس حتى الآن صوته قال بجمود: "انتقل" ولم يذكر الى اين.. قال: "المأسوف على شبابه" ونسي طفولتي.. ينعون الميت وينسون من يخلف وراءه.. كان أبي يردد: "الحياة زهرية حتّى في حزنها" فارتديت الزهر. تأتي امي ترتدي الاسود وترحل. ترتدي الاسود وتنسى الوصية.

صخبُ الصمت الصمت لغة الحاضر. صوت الأنين يمزّق الجرح .. صوت الانين يوقظ باقي الأنداب.. في الجمود عزاؤنا. الضحكة الكاذبة تحرق بضوضائها بقايا قلب أكلته النار.. الدمعة التي تنام في الأحداق وتتدحرج لا تنقذنا من الدمار.. الصمت لغة من بات ألمه من دون ذكرى.. الجمود قناع من فقد عينه وفمه.. في آخر الليلة الماطرة، مركب يغرق.. في آخر السالسا، رمح في الخاصرة.. في بداية العشق، اظافرحمراء في العنق.. بعد آخر نقطة حمراء، تنتبه أنك خسرت اصابعك العشرة.. ناسك يمشي طريق العودة الى ذاته.. ناسك مقتول ويرفض ان يلجأ الى الثأر.. ناسك يردد لنفسه: " الصمت مقبرة الضعف " " الجمود مقبرة الخذلان " أنا الناسك الذي فقد أصابعه العشرة.. أنا المتصوف في حبك أعتنق الصمت.. الصمت مقبرة آلام الحاضر.. الصمت مقبرة ذكريات الماضي.. الصمت ديانتي. ويا ليتني أصمت وتكف شفاهي عن قول " بلى "..

The greatest reward in life is appreciation.

The romantic idealization of love and the beloved had no source in Roman or Germanic tradition. It came apparently from Islamic Spain, where women had a good deal of freedom and were often poets in their own right. It was there that a mystical doctrine of love as a holy passion, pure and uplifting, developed. Arabic literature is full of parted and thwarted lovers, totally faithful and devoted. Its poetry is mostly love poetry, foreshadowing the themes and styles of the French troubadours.

In Arabic ‘the written symbol is considered to be identical with the sound indicated by it’. Letters are not just phonetic; they are phonic, acoustic,’… script that fills the ears of him that sees it’, as poet al-Mutanabbi was to call them.

The man with laughing eyes stopped smiling to say, “Until you speak Arabic, you will not understand pain.” Something to do with the back of the head, an Arab carries sorrow in the back of the head, that only language cracks, the thrum of stones weeping, grating hinge on an old metal gate. “Once you know,” he whispered, “you can enter the room whenever you need to. Music you heard from a distance, the slapped drum of a stranger’s wedding, well up inside your skin, inside rain, a thousand pulsing tongues. You are changed.” Outside, the snow has finally stopped. In a land where snow rarely falls, we had felt our days grow white and still. I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue at once, supreme translator, sieve. I admit my shame. To live on the brink of Arabic, tugging its rich threads without understanding how to weave the rug…I have no gift. The sound, but not the sense. I kept looking over his shoulder for someone else to talk to, recalling my dying friend who only scrawled I can’t write. What good would any grammar have been to her then? I touched his arm, held it hard, which sometimes you don’t do in the Middle East, and said, I’ll work on it, feeling sad for his good strict heart, but later in the slick street hailed a taxi by shouting Pain! and it stopped in every language and opened its doors.

sobs” (sanglots). Some days I enter poetic melancholic states, what the Portuguese call saudade or the Turks hüzün (from the Arabic word for sadness). Other days I am more aggressive, have more energy—and will write less, walk more, do other things, argue with researchers, answer emails, draw graphs on blackboards. Should I be turned into a vegetable or a happy imbecile? Had Prozac been available last century, Baudelaire’s “spleen,” Edgar Allan Poe’s moods, the poetry of Sylvia Plath, the lamentations of so many other poets, everything with a soul would have been silenced. … If large pharmaceutical companies were able to eliminate the seasons, they would probably do so—for a profit, of course. There is another danger: in addition to harming children, we are harming society and our future. Measures that aim at reducing variability and swings in the lives of children are also reducing variability and differences within our said to be Great Culturally Globalized Society.

From the earliest of times, the eye has had a privileged place in the conventions of Arabic poetry.22 As Richard Ettinghausen put it, In [Arabic courtly poetry] one reads that the ideal Arab woman must be so stout that she nearly falls asleep… . Her breasts should be full and rounded, her waist slender and graceful, her belly lean, her hips sloping, and her buttocks so fleshy as to impede her passage through a door. [Her neck is said to be] like that of a gazelle, while her arms are described as well rounded, with soft delicate elbows, full wrists, and long fingers. Her face [has] white cheeks, … and her eyes are those of a gazelle with the white of the eye clearly marked.23 Far from expanding creatively on this set of classical formulas, the figures of feminine beauty in the Nights often repeat them mechanically. This story cycle is filled with over a dozen derivative poems that repeat, in cliché terms, this same image of the beloved’s eye.

What language / do you speak at home? / What is this / flavor called? / How do you say it? / Where are the women?

إذا قيل عنّي "أحسُّ" كفاني و لا أطلبُ "الشاعرَ الجــــيّدَا" شعرتُ بِـ"شيءٍ" فكوَّنتُ "شيئًا" بعـــــفويّةٍ ، دون أن أقـــــــصدَا

أنا الحرفُ ، أعصابُه ، نبضُه تَمـــزُّقُه .. قـــبل أن يولـــــــدَا

My uncle read me Omar Khayyam. In Arabic. Not Turkish or even English. I tried so hard to understand it. I would ask him what it all meant but he always said the pleasure was in the finding out... the discovery. He said you can keep some poems by you your whole life and they will only reveal parts of themselves to you when you are ready to hear them. (Ottmar)

My eyes widened and my face turned red as embarrassment gushed through my person. I had never thought of myself in such a manner. But now I knew the reasons I was sought after by dominant, bearded Arab men. I understood why I had the power to make men feeble in the knees and languid at my commands. Victor’s words that morning certainly took on a new meaning in my adolescent life. Before I could continue to bask in this glorious revelation, my teacher suggested, “Use your temporal assets wisely, or you may end up like many before you, in self destructive jeopardy.” I stared at him, speechless. “Pay attention, young man…” he proceeded slowly. “There are four basic homoerotic notions in Arab societies: * First, the acknowledgment of male beauty, even in other males’ eyes, and its capability of inducing ‘fitna’ (disorder). * Second, the recognition of the natural vulnerability of a grown man to be charmed by a handsome adolescent, to the point that mainstream scholars and theologians urged readers to resist the related temptation that follows this natural appreciation. * Third, the affirmation that love and passion exist hand in hand with related dangers - and not just sexual desires - that might be the driving force in a man-to-man attraction. * Fourth, and certainly not the least, the focus in classical literature and poetry on man-boy love, whereas grown male attraction is marginalized and regarded as mujun (ribaldry) or sukhf (obscenity).”               Señor Victor Angel Triqueros added, “No social definition of homosexuality existed in the Arab world during the reign of the Ottoman Empire. There was no native concept applicable to all and only those men who were sexually attracted to members of their own sex rather than to women. Therefore, no single word exists in Arabic to describe men engaging in same-sex relationships. But there is a categorization of sexual acts: language that uses such specific terms as liwat (anal sex), luti (active sodomite who prefers boys over women, ma’bun (passive sodomite), mukhannath (effeminate passive sodomite), mu’ajir (passive male prostitute), dabb (active sodomite who likes raping his victims in their sleep regardless of their age), musahiqa (lesbian), along with a string of others.

And thou ― what needst with thy tribes' black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?

كيف ليَ أن أكتب قصيدة تخدش وجه العالم وتدير دفّة القمر؟

[Hand Watches] I opened the drawer Where I keep old things and tokens I glanced over some hand watches With dead batteries and frozen times… Watches that were gifted to me over time By teachers or friends To commend my accomplishments and respect for time… It never occurred to them or to me then That Time would die in a heart attack And will cease to be important The day my homeland was occupied and destroyed… The day the occupying thieves In collaboration with the thieves within Would burn and destroy everything beautiful in it… And since then, I refuse to wear hand watches And will never wear one Until my people get back their Time and dignity… And when that happens, Time will remain unimportant For then, I will turn into a butterfly A sparrow A daffodil or an orange blossom, Or perhaps an apricot blossom on a branch An unstoppable sprig of water That flows beyond time and timing … In that same drawer I found Pens that have run out of ink Looking like mummified corpses.. At a moment of despair, A strong feeling struck me like a lightning Leaving me with a frightening question: What if this is a wound that all time can’t cure A cause that all the ink of the world can’t solve? [Original poem published in Arabic on February 5, 2023 at ahewar.org]

A Sweet Woman from a War-Torn Country" In her exile, they often describe her as that “sweet woman from a war-torn country” … They don’t know that she loved smelling roses … That she enjoyed picking spring wildflowers and bringing them home after long walks… They don’t know about that first kiss her first lover stole from her during a power outage at church on that Easter evening Before the generators were turned on… They don’t know anything about the long hours she spent contemplating life under the ancient walnut tree in her village, while waiting for her grandfather to call her to eat her favorite freshly baked pita bread with ghee and honey… They don’t know anything about her grandmother’s delicious mixed grains that she prepared every year before Easter fasting began… In exile, they try to be nice to her… They keep repeating that she is now in a “safe haven”… They attribute her silence is either to her poor language skills, or perhaps because she agrees with them… They don’t know that the shocks of life have silenced her forever… All she enjoys doing now is pressing her ears against the cold window glass in her apartment listening to the wailing wind outside … They repeatedly remind her that she is now in a place where all values, beliefs, religions, and ethnicities are honored, but life has taught her that all of that is too late… She no longer needs any of that… All she needs, occasionally, is a sincere hand to be placed on her shoulder or around her neck To remind her that nothing lasts That this too shall pass… [Published on April 7, 2023 on CounterPunch.org]

Hand Watches" I opened the drawer where I keep old things and tokens… I looked over some hand watches with dead batteries and frozen times… Watches gifted to me over the years by teachers or friends commending my accomplishments and respect for time… It never occurred to them nor to me then that Time would die in a heart attack and cease to matter the day my homeland was occupied and destroyed… The day plunderers, in collaboration with thieves at home, would burn and destroy everything beautiful… And ever since, I refuse to wear hand watches… I vowed not to wear a hand watch until my people retrieve their Time and dignity… And when that happens, Time will not matter for I will then turn into a butterfly a sparrow a daffodil an orange Or perhaps an apricot blossom on a branch… I will turn into a spring of water flowing beyond time and timing … In that same drawer I found pens that have run out of ink looking now like mummified corpses… At a moment of despair, A strong feeling struck me like a lightning leaving me with a frightening question: What if this is a wound no time can heal, a cause that no ink can revive? [Published on April 7, 2023 on CounterPunch.org]

The nature of the Arabic language meant that a precise translation of the Koran was unobtainable. I found myself referring to two quite different English interpretations—George Sale’s for a feel for the poetry of the work, and Mohammed Marmaduke Pickthall’s for a clearer sense of what the text actually said about sex and marriage, work and holy war.

The Abduction refers to an autobiographical event in Al-Masri’s life. When, as a young Arab woman living in France, she decides to separate from her husband with whom she has a child, the father kidnaps the baby and returns to Syria. The Abduction is the story of a woman who is denied the basic right to raise her child. Al-Masri won’t see her son for thirteen years. These are haunting poems of love, despair, and hope in a delicate, profound and powerful book on intimacy, a mother’s rights, war, exile, and freedom.

Few of the Arabs could read, but beauty of speech was a virtue which all Arab parents desired for their children. A man's worth was largely assessed by his eloquence, and the crown of eloquence was poetry.

Please tell Ma & Pa this knowledge I still held about their sojourn years passed, blueprinting edges of the Arab soil with suitcases and work permits for your first lessons in Globalisation.

ألملم البحر في منديل وأدخل إلى الوجع بعيون مفتوح

الحسرة عجينة الندم لغة الفاجعة الأولى تنز كزيت فاض عن الحكاية تبلل الدرب بوجع اللاشيء الحسرة إنسان يحب طعم الروح العالقة بين الأرض والسماء الحسرة أم وأب يبكيان أولادا طمروا النبع وضاعوا في الأيام

نحن نموت كثيرا فلا تعاتبونا إن لم نبك كثيرا

تحتسي القهوة وحيدا تعمّر في زوايا النسيان حكايا حزينة تبعد بُنّك من مروحة الوجع في الصباح تدع تفاصيلك على النار تغلي وتغلي تخرج إلى التعب ناسيا ظلك في الفنجان

لا تبكي الغيمة الوحيدة تبكي عندما تعانق غيمة أخرى

يمكنك أن تكون ناشفا كجبّ بلّان يمكنك أن تخبئ النهار في القصب يمكنك أن تهملني كلوحة في قبو ويمكنك أن تحبني كصلاة أخيرة في صحراء

Just Need to Be Human (The Sonnet) You don't need to be an arab to stand by the muslims, you just need to be human. You don't need to be an immigrant to stand up against hate crime, you just need to be human. You don't need to be a woman to stand up to misogyny, you just need to be human. You don't need to be a queer to stand up to phobia, you just need to be human. You don't need to be colored to defy discrimination, you just need humanity. You just need to be not stupid enough, to confuse diversity with pathology. Every person we meet is our neighbor. We cannot exist as human beings, till we wipe each other's tears.

[Long Life] This famous writer has died at 92 And that legend journalist, The darling of authorities and mainstream media, Has died at 95. This pious religious man Has died at 96, And that billionaire, Known for his countless charities and charitable deeds Has died at 96 also… The veteran and shrewd politician, The former president of that country, Has died at 95 as well… And the same questions that dawned on me Ever since I understood the oppression & filthiness Of what the elites, authorities, and those in power are capable of, Begin ringing in my ears once again: Can anyone aware of the ugliness of what is going on live a long life? Is it a coincidence that most people, writers, and artists Who enriched my awareness and world died prematurely Or died, literally or metaphorically, by suicide, assassination, or in prison? Can a shred of awareness fell upon us without defeating the body and the soul Cell by cell and one organ after another causing a premature death? I also wonder have the writers, journalists, religious men, and politicians Who lived long lives enriched truth and justness, Or have they gotten rich at the expense of the above to live long lives up to 92, 93, 94, 95, & 96? And by biggest questions of all: Is there somewhere, in some world, in some place, a dagger of awareness that stabs without the killing the stabbed prematurely? [Original poem published in Arabic on December 31, 2022, at ahewar.org]

The love that exaggerates in displaying itself in public Is either immature, dead, or dying…

[The Gaze of an Invisible Stranger] In western Europe and north America In the cities of cruelty, racism, freedom & democracy, Cities of exile and alienation, You see many young people Who’d rather die than greet a stranger, You observe how they master the art of ignoring And not acknowledging the humanity of anyone Who is not their height and weight Whose features, skin color, and eyes are different than theirs… In return, you observe cities filled with older people Who delight at a nod or greeting from any stranger Who are hungry for the slightest kind human touch From any by passerby… Making you, the Invisible Stranger, wonder: Did these same elderly folks raise the young ones? Are they merely inheriting a world of their creation? Do the young ones realize The isolation, loneliness, and desolation awaiting them tomorrow? [Original poem published in Arabic on January 3, 2023, at ahewar.org]

We don’t say ‘I love you’ To those we really love. Only to those we are deceiving Or wish to console…

I’m red poppy from the mountains of the homeland The winds are my tunes The thunder is my voice When I object what is going on… Rains are my tears When I’m speechless The gushing sounds of water Are my hearty songs… *** I’m red poppy from the mountains of the homeland When I welt, I shall leave smiling And assured that my seeds Shall create vast meadows of wildflowers For future generations Wiser than you and I…

So many are the people Who don’t teach us anything… So many people do us a favor Because they don’t teach us anything, For if they did, They’d kill many beautiful and alive parts in us…

Yesterday I learned that hours are nothing but bodies We kill upon confronting, Or perhaps they are the ones That backstab us as soon as they are behind...

Yesterday I learned that hours are nothing but bodies We kill upon confronting, Or perhaps they are the ones That backstab us as soon as they are behind.

You’re crying because you think I’m going to a better place I’m crying because I think I’m leaving to a place Better than the one I am going to… Oh, the game of places… Oh, the winds of misfortune…

Love wasn’t created to make us happy, But to test our ability To endure pain and silence To teach us how to sing While enduring…

Nothing in this world scares me More than applause! Yes, I suffer from what can be called ‘Acute Applause Syndrome’! Applause the bread of the hypocrites The talent of the frauds The compliments of liars For other liars…

Nothing in this world scares me More than applause! Yes, I suffer from what can be called ‘Acute Applause Syndrome’! Applause the bread of the hypocrites The talent of the frauds The compliments of liars For other liars… … Each time I hear an applause, I’m reminded of all the dirty hands That applauded Wars Genocide And massacres… I’m reminded of all the hands that applauded Political parties Ideologies And religions That kills humanity and humans every day… I feel the clappers holding my breath And raping me in daylight…

You weep thinking I’m off to a better place.. I weep thinking I’ve left you at a place better than the one I’m going to... Oh, the game of places Oh, the winds of misfortune...

As he saw the reflection of his exhausted face in the teacup, He couldn’t recognize himself, But he was able to see in that face A thousand burned wishes He saw in his eyes A thousand broken dreams… A tear rolled from his eye and fell in the still tea Shaking and blurring The reflection of his face in the teacup, Just like the remainder of his days…

[Our Contemporary Lexicon] As years go by And lives are wasted, As we lose everything, We discover the real meaning Of the words shaping our lives… Words that have filled our contemporary lexicon, We know the words yet don’t fully grasp them, And the more we hear them, The more confusing they become… Words like War Bank Justice Media Capital Investment Advertisement Weapon School University Hospital Humanitarian organization Civil society Ethnicity Race Religion Modernity Backwardness Secularism Trade Love Family Prison Home Immigration Visa Passport Borders Democracy Elections Car Plane And countless others… Words that may pretend to oppose each other publicly, Yet are secretly in bed with each other Making love, acting as synonyms and French kissing… Words that in reality Walk hand in hand and are united against us To achieve the mutual goal of depriving most of us Of having a decent life with dignity… Words used by allies and foes alike, as needed! Words that have become rustier than our souls, Yet their fake glitter continues to deceive millions upon billions Of people believing faithfully in them Or working hard to access their imagined benefits... As years go by, We learn late in the game That all the meanings we ascribed to such words Are in fact killing us Raping us In the homeland On the border And in exile! As the game continues, At a late hour, We discover that Our worries and sleepless nights In hopes of a bearable world Have all been wasted in vain… What is happening today Has happened throughout history… And the game shall continue Until we reexamine this lexicon Until we destroy it And rewrite all its pages To erase all the monsters its words Within all of us… (February 6, 2015)

The darkness of the night knocked on my door, When I opened, It ran away in fear… (July 1, 2015)

Broken tree branches Scattered flowers Bent street light poles Cut electricity lines Dead birds But the weather is beautiful, and the breeze is refreshing… My heart is full of an after-storm peace and tranquility… The real tranquility is the one that follows not precedes the storm… (July 1, 2015)

I lost all hope Ever since I discovered That one home can’t contain me One life is not enough for me And one death won’t do… (July 1, 2015)

Dear God, Grant me faith, but don’t make me faithful. (July 1, 2015)

[Imprisoned Poem] Somewhere deep inside me There lies an imprisoned poem A poem that is Buried Chained And holding its breath Ages ago… A poem about futility The fragility of words About alarms, if sounded, They’d be either destined to silence Or get written on the walls of indifference… There is an ancient poem Imprisoned in my soul Waiting to be released impatiently, In due time… Like a house cat this imprisoned poem keeps eagerly watching Every move outside the window, Without any participation… And like a house cat, Whenever this imprisoned poem Gets exhausted by the triviality of reality, It sleeps for long hours Only to wake up and find The status quo unchanged And the strings moving the puppets uncut… It then looks out the window in sorrow And goes back to sleep once again To dream of a less ugly world… My imprisoned poem has vowed not to release itself From the deepest points in my soul Until everyone else is awake For its release to be meaningful… (November 17, 2014)

This, the ’arabiyyah, was not everyday speech but a ‘mystical tongue’ used for ‘oracle giving and recitation of poetry’. Those who could command this special tongue – above all the sha’ir, later on a ‘poet’, but in its oldest sense probably more like a seer or a shaman – could attract followers. In time of raids, the sha’ir also played the role of Whitman’s poet, ‘the most deadly force of the war . . . he can make every word he speaks draw blood’.

Taxi Driver" There is something strangely liberating about being just a taxi driver… The secret lies in the “just”! Because you’re just a taxi driver, nobody really sees you… But you see, hear, and feel the absurdities, the shallowness, the beauty, the sorrow, the joy, the heartbreak of every rider! Most treat you with half or totally fake respect, because you’re just a taxi driver… But they leave you alone They don’t find justifications or create crises to take over your seat… In fact, they want you to be exactly in that seat! After all, they only ride with you because - at least for that time – they don’t wish to occupy your seat… Yet, like every sense of liberation, Being a taxi driver, is a liberation kneaded with a strange sadness and disappointment when you realize that the motherfuckers only leave you alone when you run away from them and occupy a seat that they don’t desire during the their ride …. [Original poem published in Arabic on June 21, 2923 at ahewar.org]

Silent Messages 4 Nobody wants to change the world… Everyone wants to ensure Receiving just one more paycheck Just one more… [Original poem published in Arabic on May 16, 2023 at ahewar.org]” ― Louis Yako

Silent Messages 3" Sad are the societies in which women have no time to read a book or discuss an idea in depth, yet they take much pride in sharing the secret of their extra delicious dish: make sure to peel each tomato before adding it to the pot! [Original poem published in Arabic on April 28, 2023 at ahewar.org]

الحب هو النعمة ، الحب هو لعنة. الحب هو الالم، الحب راحة.

حقيقة الكون هي الحب.

Pity" Amir sat on the same old wooden chair Roua still remembers vividly the furniture store where she bought that chair - less than a month after their wedding… The furniture store closed its doors a long time ago, Along with the doors of their stormy pre-marital love story perhaps in due to boredom or the shocks of the years… She would cut his hair, a habit that began when they were poor and Amir couldn’t afford a barber … Years went by and many things changed, But Roua kept cutting his hair on the same wooden chair almost once a month… He sat in his underwear She looked at his saggy skin that was getting looser and his belly getting slightly bigger with each haircut… She began wandering in her mind and wondering whether she ever loved him, or was it an overwhelming infatuation that turned into pity over the years without ever passing through the corridors of love? Her emotions kept swinging between love or pity with each snip … She was frightened to admit it was pity, for the price was almost her entire life… Yet she couldn’t sincerely determine it was love, for she hasn’t felt any love towards him for quite a time… Suddenly, she caught Amir looking at her as if he could read her mind… A tear involuntarily rolled down her eye as she continued cutting his hair… [Original poem published in Arabic on August 3, 2023 at ahewar.org]

Where are you from?" Wherever I go, people think I am from somewhere else! The first question they ask is that same sad question that confirms and reminds me of not belonging anywhere: “Where are you from?” They are right to ask! My grandma used to say that I am from a time and a place that don’t exist anymore… My friends tell me that I carry my home with me everywhere I go, therefore, I belong to all times and all places! As for me, I often wish I weren’t at all! [Original poem published in Arabic on September 1, 2023 at ahewar.org]