Adonis Diaries

Archive for March 26th, 2010

Part Two: “When we befriend death”; (Mar. 23, 2010)


How Globalization can function adequately for the poorer countries? (Mar. 24, 2010)


Darling, your insufferable love; (Mar. 25, 2010)


Blue sea eyes; (Mar. 25, 2010)


Cuddling in my arms; (Mar. 25, 2010)


Hiroshima is my City like; (Mar. 26, 2010)


Medina, the first Islam City-State; (Mar. 26, 2010)

Cuddling in my arms; 

You are snoozing on my arm darling,

A kid sleeping over her schoolbook.

My arm is no longer mine darling:

It is an extension of your flesh, nerves, and warm heart;

It is part of your sorrows, wet eyelids, and soft breath.

Do you remember how often you threw snowballs at me?

And come rushing to cuddle in my arms for warmth?

You are no longer an extension of my arm darling:

Your love is deeply sculpted by knife in its nerves.

You came close and asked for my autograph;

You almost begged for a single line of poetry from me.

“A poem I could hide in my black long hair”, you said;

“And let it rest a baby over my soft pillow”.

I know, you the lovely warm and shiny springtime,

That the poems of my youth

Built beauty in every beautiful girl

And blossomed inanimate bosoms.

I know, the poems of my youth set afire stars,

Ruined kingdoms and marriages.

It is my hot heart that was behind my hands, ink, and papers.

This heart has retreated behind cigarette smokes.

Tis no time to be fooled my shiny springtime.

What you see is an empty temple,

In front of you stands a cold, cold crumbling column.

The poems that set your heart on fire are yours.

Melt them in your hear,

Get wild, go wild and set fires

Burn, burn this dried up world.

A new fresh dawn must arise with every generation.

Note: Two abridged poems combined in one from the Syrian poet Nizar Kabbani

Hiroshima is my City like;

You don’t want to approach Hiroshima.

You don’t need to visit my city like:

You touch a wall

You turn a rock.

What do you care of my city?

You will see but flies and road holes.

The only living friend

Is my gigantic boredom.

What should you care of my city like?

It was captured many times by hordes of Moguls and Tatars.

Every adventurer who set eyes on my city

Ended up suicidal.

Be careful my ignorant tourist.

Keep a distance of its broken columns,

Its hundred stone idols.

My heart is same as my closed in city like

Moonlight apprehends visiting it.

My heart is wet, a wet traveling kerchief,

A bird, for centuries lost in down pouring rain,

An empty bottle harassed on ocean waves.

Keep away from Hiroshima.

Tis no time turning a block of salt.

Note: An Arabic poem extracted with abridged liberty from the late Syrian poet Nizar Kabbany.

Medina, the first Islam City-State; (Mar. 26, 2010)

Many Moslems do not turn toward Mecca to get inspiration: They turn toward Medina where the Prophet Muhammad ruled, established his message, and was buried.  The Prophet Muhammad was buried in his green overcoat, in the ground, under the bed of Aicha, his most beloved wife, in this humble room apartment, a door opening directly to the first mosque.

The same small “apartment” where the Prophet head was in the mosque, extending his head through the door for Aicha to wash his long hair.

Muhammad had to flee Mecca in 622 after his powerful wife Khadija trespassed. Mecca had over 360 idols representing the Gods of countless tribes, paying pilgrimage every year and being scalped of every dime they carried with them on a week-long debauched festivities.

Muhammad was welcomed in Medina (Yathreb) as a prince after the two main tribes of Aws and Khazraj extended an invitation to settle after many years of negotiation. The immigrant Moslems from Mecca (the Muhajirun) had preceded their Prophet to Medina many months ahead of him.  The Muhajirun were the strangers and they were almost penniless; the tribes of Medina had to accommodate them within their residences and find them work in their fields to earn a living.

The first 4 years were glorious years: it was the period when recognition of individual rights and development as equal converts to Allah superseded tribal attachment and customs.  Women didn’t wear the veil and walked the streets unaccompanied my male relatives.

The veil was a custom in Mecca for the aristocratic women to be discriminated from common women and slaves.  Medina was an agricultural vast city extending for miles over several villages of clans and tribes. Women worked the field with men, and wearing veil was unheard of.

The women in Medina were working people and Medina was mainly a matriarchal society.  The wife had to simply lock the door of her tent for the husband to go find a sleeping place among his clan.

The muhajirun from patriarchal Mecca felt lost and appalled in this new community of traditions and customs, where sexuality was not a big deal and women had a say in city politics.

In the first four years, women demanded equality with men and got it in the Koran. The Prophet went at great length detailing heritage procedure and shares for every member of the family; even an orphan and a child born from a slave and a free person (regardless of gender) had a share as any other member of the family.

Muhammad insisted that at least one of his wives join him in his military expeditions to the grand dam of the masculine army.  People of both genders would visit the Prophet’s wives for clarifications and explanations on verses of the Koran and the daily routines of behavior.  There was no dividing space line between private and public life: And the Prophet was constantly harassed with countless queries even in his residence because the new converts wanted to learn the new message of change.

Then, Muhammad lost the battle of Uhud in 626 against a coalition of tribes under the leadership of Quraich of Mecca.

Three hard years of civil unrest in Medina followed.  Muhammad opted for defensive attitudes and no serious military campaigns “razzia” brought much loot for the survival of the growing followers in Medina.

Believing in Allah and his Prophet took serious shaking down and the incredulous turn to cynicism, calumny, and even open anger.  One clan leader entered the apartment of Aicha and Muhammad and demanded of the Prophet to swap Aicha with one of his wives.

The wives of Muhammad were apprehended in the streets with sexual overtones under the pretense that the “munafikeen” thought they were women slaves since they wore no veil.

The second Caliph Omar was the most intransigent misogyny “muhajer”:  he kept harassing the Prophet for demanding women to wear the veil and to refrain from dealing in public affairs.

People were becoming openly highly critical of Muhammad’s behaviors and his selection of newer wives.  This open space between private and public life was to tumble down gradually under the massive pressures of little military excursions and civil unrest.

Verses were pronounced to drop curtains in Muhammad’s apartment for visitors who were not invited.  Omar obtained that the wives of the Prophet start wearing veils when out of their residences.  The Prophet who never beat or slapped any of his wives had also to permit male ascendancy in the family.

Violent Omar was told by Muhammad “You may slap your wives but this would be the behavior of the unaccomplished Moslem

The next year to the battle of Uhud, Quraich tribes came back and set siege to Medina for 28 days.

For the first time in Arabia, a large ditch was dug around a city for defense purposes to enemy cavalry. Civil unrest in Medina grew and women avoided walking out their residences.  The Prophet had to give priority to political survival at the expense of equal rights to all converts, for both genders, for class differences, and for further emancipation of slaves.

Note:  I read and write in three languages English, French, and Arabic.  I read books, small and large, old and current, classical and common, biased and “balanced”.  I read dailies and their editorials. I read magazines, serious and tabloids, weekly, bi-weekly, and monthly issues.  I uncover nuggets in almost all my readings and then report themes after elaboration, analysis, and exercising my individual reflection.

My posts are no cut and paste gimmicks simply because I have no patience for navigating the net. You may start with the category “List of articles” and navigate from there.  Better yet, check the right hand side and select among my top posts of the week or the latest posted articles and then your are set for a lovely journey of over 1,600 articles.  Articles are so far grouped in 35 categories; I included the new category (Black culture/Creole).  Every new article is posted in the category “Finance/politics” before distribution into one of the categories. You will realize that I published two novels and my auto-biography.  I have nothing much to hide and I enjoy receiving detailed comments and feedback.

Since october 2008, I registered over 30,000 hits in total; I am averaging around 100 hits a day.  You may refer to my “About”: we may have met.  May reading lights your path.  Good reading.

Blue sea eyes; (Mar. 25, 2010)

On the deck of your blue eyes

Rain audible vibrating lights.

On the port of your blue eyes

From a tiny open window

A view

Of faraway birds sworming

Searching for yet undiscovered islands.

On the deck of your blue eyes

Summer snow is falling.

I am a kid jumping over rocks

Deeply inhaling the sea wind

And returns a weary bird.

On the port of your blue eyes

I dream of oceans and navigation.

If I were a sea farer

If anyone lent me a boat

I would surely ease my boat closer

To your blue sea eyes

Every sundown.

Note: An abridged free translation from Arabic of the famous late Syrian poet Nizar Kabbani.

Darling, your insuferable love; (Mar. 25, 2010)

Your love is a strange green bird

It grows on me like a bird grows

It pecks on my fingers and my eyelids

How did this beautiful green bird showed up?

I had no thought on the matter

Who is in love never thinks.

Your love is an insuferable baby

Who breaks everything on the way

He pays me visits on rainy days

He plays with my notebook and I am patient

He plays with my emotions and I am patient.

Your love is a trying baby

People sleep and he stays awake

A crying baby I have no heart to chastise.

Your love grows alone

Like wild flowers on my doorsteps

Your love is an island

Even dreams never reach it

No explanations and no words account for it.

What kind of love is yours my baby?

A burning candle?

Or a devastating storm?

All that I know of my emotions

Is you are my love.

Who is in love never ought to think.

Note: abridged free translation from Arabic of the late famous Syrian poet Nizar Kabbani




March 2010

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