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

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.

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!

الموتُ دون العهدِ غايةُ الكرمْ

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

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

إلى أنْ تحامتني العشيرة كلها وأُفردت إفرادَ البعيرِ المُعَبَّدِ

Through his eyes she was made of stardust.

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

"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?

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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

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..

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

طاقتي للكتابة طاغية تستوطن كل حضاراتي لتَستبيح دمائى في كل حرف

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

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 ..

وَلي دونَكُم أَهلَونَ سيدٌ عَمَلَّسٌ وَأَرقَطُ زُهلولٌ وَعَرفاءُ جَيأَلُ

تمشي وتمشي لا لشيءٍ سوى أنْ تكونَ تائهاً ومُنفرداً وحُرَّاً

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.

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.

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)

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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?

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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]

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.

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?

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

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.