Here War is Simple

Here war is simple like a monument:
A telephone is speaking to a man;
Flags on a map assert that troops were sent;
A boy brings milk in bowls. There is a plan

For living men in terror of their lives,
Who thirst at nine who were to thirst at noon,
And can be lost and are, and miss their wives,
And, unlike an idea, can die too soon.

But ideas can be true although men die,
And we can watch a thousand faces
Made active by one lie:

And maps can really point to places
Where life is evil now:
Nanking. Dachau.

W.H. Auden


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The White Bee by Pablo Neruda

I'm reading Neruda more and more these days. What's the point of life if we don't have time for poetry and love? Politics and philosophy don't satisfy alone, they're not enough. John Stuart Mill had a nervous breakdown once before he came to that realisation. Wordsworth saved him, I've made a mental note to read him too. For now, Neruda. Because love is messy, uncomfortable, inconvenient and utterly unpredictable. You can almost smell the sweat and tears mingled with smoke in his poetry.

White bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey,
and your flight winds in slow spirals of smoke.
I am the one without hope, the word without echoes,
he who lost everything and he who had everything.
Last hawser, in you creaks my last longing.
In my barren land you are the final rose.

Ah you who are silent!

Let your deep eyes close, There the night flutters.
Ah your body, a frightened statue, naked.
You have deep eyes in which the night flails.
Cool arms of flowers and a lap of rose.
Your breasts seem like white snails.
A butterfly of shadow has come to rest on your belly.

Ah you who are silent!

Here is the solitude from which you are absent.
It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls.
The water walks barefoot in the wet streets.
From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick.
White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul.
You live again in time, slender and silent.

Ah you who are silent!

My favourite line is where he says "I am the one without hope, the word without echoes, he who lost everything and he who had everything". To read this is one thing, but to have felt it first and find this expression of what you thought nobody else knew is priceless. By the way a hawser is the thick rope used to tow ships. She's basically his last hope, the creaking that happens when the rope gets tense is that hope coming under strain. Wow, just wow.

Maybe I'm getting old. To hell with it.

.

The Weary One

The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.

Pablo Neruda

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Casida de la Rosa

The rose was
not looking for the morning:
on its branch, almost immortal,
it looked for something other.

The rose was
not looking for wisdom, or for shadow:
the edge of flesh and dreaming,
it looked for something other.

The rose was
not looking for the rose, was
unmoving in the heavens:
it looked for something other.

Lorca

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قصيدة جميلة لأحمد مطر - يسقط الوطن

أبي الوطن

أمي الوطن

رائدنا حب الوطن

نموت كي يحيا الوطن

يا سيدي انفلقت حتى لم يعد

للفلق في رأسي وطن

ولم يعد لدى الوطن

من وطن يؤويه في هذا الوطن

أي وطن؟

الوطن المنفي..

أم الوطن؟!

أم الرهين الممتهن؟

أم سجننا المسجون خارج الزمن ؟!

نموت كي يحيا الوطن

كيف يموت ميت ؟

وكيف يحيا من أندفن ؟!

نموت كي يحيا الوطن

كلا .. سلمت للوطن !

خذه .. وأعطني به

صوتاً أسميه الوطن

ثقباً بلا شمع أسميه الوطن

قطرة أحساس أسميها الوطن

كسرة تفكير بلا خوف أسميها الوطن

يا سيدي خذه بلا شيء

فقط

خلصني من هذا الوطن

* * *

أبي الوطن

أمي الوطن

أنت يتيم أبشع اليتم إذن

ابي الوطن

أمي الوطن

لا أمك أحتوتك بالحضن

ولا أبوك حن!

ابي الوطن

أمي الوطن

أبوك ملعون

وملعون أبو هذا الوطن!

* * *

نموت كي يحيا الوطن

يحيا لمن ؟

لابن زنى

يهتكه .. ثم يقاضيه الثمن ؟!

لمن؟

لإثنين وعشرين وباء مزمناً

لمن؟

لإثنين وعشرين لقيطاً

يتهمون الله بالكفر وإشعال الفتن

ويختمون بيته بالشمع

حتى يرعوي عن غيه

ويطلب الغفران من عند الوثن؟!

تف على هذا الوطن!

وألف تف مرة أخرى!

على هذا الوطن

من بعدنا يبقى التراب والعفن

نحن الوطن !

من بعدنا تبقى الدواب والدمن

نحن الوطن !

إن لم يكن بنا كريماً آمناً

ولم يكن محترماً

ولم يكن حُراً

فلا عشنا.. ولا عاش الوطن!
 



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" أحمد مطر " لمن نشكو مآسينا ؟

.

Confianzas

Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق.

Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق, Sin Comentarios, لا تعليق.

.

يمة موال الهوى - مهداة الى كل الشعب العربي الثائر

.

مصر يامّة يا بهية

.

The Poetry of Pablo Neruda

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.

I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks, the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.

I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.

Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting stars, falling objects.

.

قصيدة أبو القاسم الشابي الرائعة - اذا الشعب يوماً أراد الحياة

إذا الشعب يوما أراد الحياة
فلا بد أن يستجيب القدر

ولا بد لليل أن ينجلي
ولابد للقيد أن ينكسر

ومن لم يعانقه شوق الحياة
تبخر في جوها واندثر

كذلك قالت لي الكائنات
وحدثني روحها المستتر
ودمدمت الريح بين الفجاج

وفوق الجبال وتحت الشجر:
إذا ما طمحت إلى غاية

ركبت المنى ونسيت الحذر
ومن لا يحب صعود الجبال

يعش ابد الدهر بين الحفر
فعجت بقلبي دماء الشباب

وضجت بصدري رياح أخر
وأطرقت أصغى لقصف الرعود

وعزف الرياح ووقع المطر
وقالت لي الأرض لما سالت:

يا أم هل تكرهين البشر ؟:

أبارك في الناس أهل الطموح

ومن يستلذ ركوب الخطر
وألعن من لا يماشي الزمان

ويقنع بالعيش ، عيش الحجر
هو الكون حي يحب الحياة

ويحتقر الميت مهما كبر
وقال لي الغاب في رقة

محببة مثل خفق الوتر
يجيء الشتاء شتاء الضباب

شتاء الثلوج شتاء المطر
فينطفئ السحر سحر الغصون

وسحر الزهور وسحر الثمر
وسحر السماء الشجي الوديع

وسحر المروج الشهي العطر
وتهوي الغصون وأوراقها

وأزهار عهد حبيب نضر
ويفنى الجميع كحلم بديع

تألق في مهجة واندثر
وتبقى الغصون التي حملت

ذخيرة عمر جميل عبر
معانقة وهي تحت الضباب

وتحت الثلوج وتحت المدر
لطيف الحياة الذي لا يمل

وقلب الربيع الشذي النضر
وحالمة بأغاني الطيور

وعطر الزهور وطعم المطر

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A word on culture vultures...

Last night I enjoyed a wonderful evening of poetry and oud playing where we looked at the works of two famous men, Omar al Khayyam and Abu Feras al Hamadani. Firstly I have to say that our discussion of Khayyam reinforced my earlier views of the poet but they also helped me glean a new found appreciation to the subtle meanings he was trying to convey. It was also wonderful to hear the poem sung, as Umm Kalthoum did, along with some brilliant oud playing.

Unfortunately evenings of culture such as this tend to attract the most idiotic of culture vultures and yesterday was no exception. Two Syrian girls had attended and as soon as they opened their mouths to speak I knew I didn't like them. The first was the kind of Syrian that insists on throwing in English phrases and words, with horribly contorted attempts at an Americanised accent, in her regular conversation. She then had the temerity to, in incredibly bad Arabic, explain the reasons for the decline in the appreciation of classical Arabic. She actually used the word 'coz, in the middle of her contribution to this discussion. This woman grew up in Syria and she's only lived in America for a few years whilst doing her degree...for Pete's sake.

The second one was by far the more dangerous kind of ignorant person. A pretty girl with a good figure, she was wearing a thin clinging dress which tended to expose a certain amount of cleavage when she leaned over the table to get biscuits, and I know for a fact that she was either wearing a thong, or no underwear, judging by the way the dress clung to her as she walked. The problem was that she kept pretending like she knew what she was talking about, or about how level headed she was, when she was anything but knowledgeable or cultured.

All this became apparent to me later when she went on a diatribe of how "our" Arab culture is today opposed to thought and philosophy. And of course she went on that favourite diatribe that people like her like to go on, the "establishment" that is frightening everyone with fire and brimstone. Yet she liked the fluffy sufism implied in the Rubaiyat even after, in the same breath, commending it on its materialism?!?! Really? She also made a point of closing her eyes with her hand clasping her head as the music played, as if she was entering a trance like state or deep concentration at the "profoundness" and "rich" cultural meaning of what she was listening to. What an idiot.

As everybody in the group introduced themselves, the two girls gleefully announced they were Syrian, what they were studying and so on. Tired yet cheerful at finishing my exams, and recognising the two rebels without a clue, I told the whole group that I was Syrian...but that I've been taking my pills and the doctor says I might get better soon. You could have heard a pin drop and I knew then and there that I was already on "clueless girl with shapely buttocks and no pants' " blacklist. Silly, silly girls.

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One more mountain...

In 2003 when I started this journey, I was reading Muhammad Ali's Soul of a Butterfly biography. Some lines I marked down then reminded me of my journey till that point and remind me of my journey since then. I started a race with so many faces. I ask myself, where have they gone? But they are all gone and there is only silence. Muhammad Ali said:

Outrun the people who quit when they feel discomfort, outrun the people who stop because of despair, outrun the people who are delayed because of prejudice, outrun the people who surrender to failure, and outrun the opponent who loses sight of the goal. Because if you want to win, the will can never retire, the race can never stop, and faith can never weaken.

You cannot slow down and you cannot give up. Even if exhausted you have to keep going forward. That is the great jihad, within your self and then outside it, as you express your existence in this world on the principles that you cultivate. I prepare to climb one more mountain, armed with the reassuring words of Arthur Clough:

Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e-en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back through creeks and inlets making
Comes silent, flooding in, the main

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

.

شاعر الحرية أحمد مطر يتكلم عن حكام العرب

مم نخشى؟

أبصرُ الحكام أعمى

أكثر الحكام زهداً

يحسب البصقة قرشا

أطول الحكام سيفاًَ

يتقي الخيفة خوفاً

و يرى اللا شيء وحشا

أوسع الحكام علماً

لو مشى في طلب العلم الى الصين

لما أفلح أن يصبح جحشاً

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Poetry Night

Tonight is the two weekly poetry night. I wasn't going because my exams are getting nearer. Then I saw that Lena Sinjab will be there and frankly this is too good an opportunity to miss. For those of you who don't know yet, I have a tendency to be critical of her articles on Syria. In fact I have a tag just for her on this blog. Apart from the overrated Nizar Qabbani, we will also be reading for the Iraqi dissident poet, Ahmad Mattar.

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Every two weeks, قوافي الضباب meet in London and read poetry, discuss and share ideas. It's a wonderful group, but this is the third time this year somebody wants to read from Nizar Qabbani. Enough, please!

.

Some thoughts on literature and poetry

One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life. -- Gibran Khalil Gibran

Although I thoroughly dislike quoting from Gibran, the line above struck a cord with me when I came across it today. There are some people who just don't get it, and I can accept that, but why are they all lined up waiting to meet me? There are many people who are far worse than me with whom they can go and waste life and time.

Going back to Gibran, my problem is not with his writings per se, he was in fact a very talented writer, but he is overrated through no fault of his own. The Lebanese and the urbane Arab diaspora all seem obliged to have a copy of his book The Prophet on their bookshelves, read once if that. In the same way Nizar Qabbani is constantly quoted and referred to ad nauseum. He was a great poet, although personally I find his poetry more obscene than "daring", annoyingly setting the trend for this ridiculous and artificial dichotomy - that gets the Arab intelligentsia salivating -between the forces of "conservatism" on the one hand and the daring cheekiness of rebels like Qabbani's followers. I think you get the picture of what I am getting at.

As with Gibran, Qabbani was also talented and nowhere was this more apparent than when the Arab fiasco in 1967 diverted him away from trashy love poetry into a more fiery and angry poetry that was intensely critical of Arab leadership and the general malaise. Credit where it is due, and I am the first to recognise that, but please stop making these men more than what they were.

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From Fairouz to Nizar Qabbani to al Barghouti

رد نزار على فيروز ومن ثم رد البرغوثي على نزار

غـنت فيروز لفلسـطين:
الآنَ، الآنَ وليس غداً
أجراسُ العـودة فلتـُقـرَعْ...

فرد عليها نزار قباني:
غنت فيروز مُغـرّدة ً
وجميع الناس لها تسمع ْ
"الآنَ، الآنَ وليس غداً
أجراس العَـودة فلتـُقـرَع ْ"
مِن أينَ العـودة فـيروزٌ
والعـودة ُ تحتاجُ لمدفع ْ
والمدفعُ يلزمُه كـفٌّ
والكـفّ يحتاجُ لإصبع ْ
والإصبعُ مُلتـذ ٌ لاهٍ
في دِبر الشعب له مَرتع ْ؟!
عـفواً فـيروزُ ومعـذرة ً
أجراسُ العَـودة لن تـُقـرع ْ
خازوقٌ دُقَّ بأسـفـلنا
من شَرَم الشيخ إلى سَعسَع ْ.

ومنَ الجـولان إلى يافا
ومن الناقورةِ إلى أزرَعْ
خازوقٌ دُقَّ بأسـفلِنا
خازوقٌ دُقَّ ولن يَطلعْ.

أما البرغوثي فيقول من وحي العدوان على غزة ورداً على نزار:

عـفواً فيروزٌ ونزارٌ
فالحالُ الآنَ هو الأفظعْ
إنْ كانَ زمانكما بَشِـعٌ
فزمانُ زعامتنا أبشَعْ
من حُسْـني القـَيْءِ إلى جَعجَعْ
أوغادٌ تلهـو بأمَّـتِـنا
وبلحم الأطفالِ الرّضـَّعْ
تـُصغي لأوامر أمريكا
ولغير "إهودٍ" لا تركعْ
زُلـمٌ قد باعـوا كرامتهم
وفِراشُ الذلِّ لهم مَخدعْ

عفواً فيروزٌ ونزارٌ
فالحالُ الآنَ هو الأفظعْ
كـُنا بالأمس لنا وَطنٌ
أجراسُ العَـوْدِ له تـُقـرَعْ
ما عادَ الآنَ لنا جَرَسٌ
في الأرض، ولا حتى إصبعْ
إسـفينٌ دُقَّ بعـَوْرتـنا
من هَرَم الجيزَةْ إلى سَعسَعْ
فالآنَ، الآنَ لنا وطنٌ
يُصارعُ آخِرُهُ المَطـلعْ

عـفواً فيروزٌ ونزارٌ
أجراسُ العـَودةِ لن تـُقـرَعْ
مِن أينَ العـودة، إخـوتـنا
والعـودة تحتاجُ لإصبَعْ
والإصبعُ يحتاجُ لكـفٍّ
والكـفُّ يحتاجُ لأذرُعْ
والأذرُعُ يَلزمُها جسمٌ
والجسمُ يلزمُهُ مَوقِـعْ
والمَوقِعُ يحتاجُ لشعـْبٍ
والشعـبُ يحتاجُ لمَدفعْ
والمدفعُ في دِبر رجالٍ
في المتعة غارقة ٌ ترتـَعْ
والشعبُ الأعزلُ مِسكينٌ
مِن أينَ سيأتيكَ بمَدفع ْ؟!

عفواً فيروزٌ... سـَيّدتي
نـِزارٌ قـال مقـَولـتهُ
أكلـِّم نزاراً... فليسمع ْ:
إنْ كانَ زمانكَ مَهـزلةٌ
فهَوانُ اليومَ هـو الأفظع ْ
خازوقـُكَ أصبحَ مَجلسُنا
"يُخـَوْزقـنا" وله نـَركع ْ
خازوقـُكَ يشرب من دمنا
باللحم يَغوص، ولا يَشبَع ْ
خازوقـُكَ صغيرٌ لا يكفي
للعُـرْبِ وللعالم أجمَـع ْ!

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بطاقات عاشق في زمن الخوف - للشاعر عمر الفرا

البطاقة الأولى
ذاتَ يومٍ
رُبما ينسى البنفسجُ ...
عطرهُ
ذات يومٍ
قد يموتُ ...
الياسمينه
قد يموت الناس ...
كلُّ الناسِ ...
كلُّ الناسِ
إلا أنتِ ...
تبقينَ الوحيدهْ
في خيالي
تكتُبينَ الشعرَ للأطيارِ
والأطفالِ والعشاقِ
والشمسِ المضرّجةِ
الحزينةْ
في متاهاتِ المدينه
أنتِ حينَ الرُّعبُ
يحتاجُ المدائنْ
ويخافُ الطفلُ
من نظراتِ أمَّهْ
أنتِ في قلبيْ
سكينهْ
***
البطاقة الثانية
كنتُ في الشاطئِ
يوماً
أجعلُ الرَّملَ ... دفاترْ
ثمَّ أكتُبْ ...
كلماتٍ ... همساتٍ
لم أعُدْ أذكرُ ماذا
كيفَ كانتْ ...
إنَّها بضعُ خواطر
كنت أهديها
لعينيكِ الجميلةْ
فجأة تأتي
من الأمواجِ موجهْ
ثمَّ تمحو ... كلماتي
عندها أشعر أني
كنتُ لا شيء
وألقي كلَّ شيءٍ
ثًمَّ احتارُ بأمريْ
هلْ أنا المقُتولُ
أمْ أنتِ القتيلهْ
فكلانا ...
في زمانٍ
ضاعَ فيهِ ... ، كُلَّ شيءٍ
ضاعَ فيهِ ... ، كُلَّ شيءٍ
فتعاليْ
نحملُ الحبَّ حقيبهْ
ثمَّ نمضي ...
نتبعُ البحرَ المسافرْ ...
ونهاجرْ
***
البطاقة الثالثة
حين تجتاجُ العواصفُ
كلَّ شيءٍ
تقلعُ الأشجارَ
من أعماقها
وتغرقُ الأرضُ
بمنْ فيها وتُصبحْ
طللاً ... جُرحاً
على وجهِ الزمانْ
عندها يبقى فُؤادي
وعيونكْ ...
وبقايا من قصيده ْ.
تخلقُ الدنيا الجديدهْ
بمحبهْ
ليسَ فيها
غيرُ عينيكِ ... وقلبي
وسنابلْ ...
ومعاولْ ...
وبقايا من قصيدهْ

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الشعر شاب و لكن ما وهى جلدي - للشاعرالمناضل الراحل ناهض منير الريّس

الشعر شاب و لكن ما وهى جلدي
و لا قنعت بأمسي عن جهاد غدي

و لا تلون وجداني و لا بدرت
مني الدنية في ديني و معتقدي

خرجت ذات صباح أبتغي حلماً
و كان حلمي خلاص الشعب و البلد

فبعت لله نفسي و اشتريت بها
أجر المجاهد لم أنقص و لم أزد

أعف عن سقط الدنيا عفاف غني
كنزي فؤادي و ملكي خاطري و يدي

و ما سلكت الهدى خوفاً و لا طمعاً
و لكن يليق بمثلي مسلك الرشد

أحب شعبي حباً قد ذهلت به
عن لحظة الصفو بين الأهل و الولد

شعبَ تقلب في النيران معدنه
فان شحذت فقل يا كفي اتقدي

تصيدته الضوراي و هو صائدها
و حادت الدرب عنه و لم يحد

و حين شد الى الجوزاء خطوته
بنوا عليه سجون القهر و النكد

كم حطم السجن من أركانه و هوى
ضرباً على رأس جلاديه بالزرد

رأيته يتفدي بالروح أمته
فهان ما هو فوق الروح في خلدي

وهبته زهرة العمر الجميل و من
يعشق يكن في عطاه غير مقتصد

لكنني أستحي من جهد معسرة
اما تطاول بي عمري الى أمد

و أستحي لو ببذل الروح يسبقني
و بالوفاء له في الناس من أحد

.