Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Poems Mine

Doing the job right, even in Real Estates business

have I been doing what Realtors don’t do?

I dabbed for 5 years in the real estates business from 1995-2000). Although I had a PhD in Industrial/Ergonomics in engineering, I was Not able to find a job in any university or company due to my lack of resident status.

I had posted about 6 poems/songs related to Realtors and clients in my category “Poems Mine“.

While gathering the letters that I had sent to my parents I discovered a double pages on how I do business in that field. The letter is Not dated or sent to anyone specifically. I decided to post it anyway because the way I functioned  in this job meant a lot to me.

“I am doing what Realtors don’t do.

Once I get a Listing, which means a seller of his property asks me to market it in order to find a buyer for his property, I try to host open houses as frequently as I can.

An open house means that anyone passing by can enters and check the property. Everyone is welcomed to see the property during a specified span of time, on weekdays or weekends.

Realtors in general refrain from scheduling open houses because they consider this task a total waste of their time,  unless asked by the owner.

Realtors give all kinds of excuses and reasons why it is Not worth holding open houses.

I think Realtors are short-sighted on that account because they refuse to consider the many advantages to having an open house.

Here are a few advantages and benefits from frequent open houses:

  1. Sellers see that are doing your due diligence. If the house does Not sell within a specific period, they drop the price without me asking them. Usually, the sellers reduce the price below what I would have suggested. The lower the price, the quicker a property is sold. Frequent turnover is what generate profit.
  2. The quicker you sell, the more listing you obtain from a neighboring owner. Sellers hire Realtors who “perform”
  3. When I open houses, I canvass the neighborhood: I invite the neighbors to come and evaluate and compare what is being sold with their own properties.
  4. Eventually, a few owners had in mind to sell their properties and they call on me for an interview because they got to see and know me.
  5. During open houses, I use the property as my temporary office: I do my calls, mail letters to expired properties and answer my voice mails (That was before iPhone and sophisticated internet facilities). It is a very productive time from the crowded office.
  6. I do real estates in its most basic and essential forms: prospecting for listings and meeting buyers face to face.
  7. During open houses, many buyers who don’t like the property, I manage to to show them other choices on the market. I can show them any house listed for sale.
  8. Bottom line, open houses are my best tool to personally meet sellers and buyers

Once I have a listing, I make sure that all owners, within half a mile radius, know that I am a dedicated Realtors, who work hard and Not just Plant the Sign “For sale”

It is really Not a hard work because I do what I like to do: walk the streets, mail personalized letters, and meet people.

Many times, when I do not feel like walking, I can always read a book, write letters and poems during my open houses. I am the boss in a beautiful house.

It took me many years to rediscover the wheel of every techniques, but that is the only way to find the system that works best for me, and a system that I love applying consistently and without useless stress.

Realtors drop from the business in drove because it takes time, money and patience to make it in a competitive sphere where relatives and acquaintances play a good part in suggesting a Realtor.

I didn’t have any relative, family or support system to back me up during the harshest and hardest of years, but I knew this is a good business to become your own boss with steady income once you break in.

My clients are from everywhere, every race and every language. Being able to converse and write in 3 languages is a big advantage. Lebanese were Not my best clients for references and I soon desisted asking for their business.

Note 1: With the advent of internet technology, a sellers who is willing to show his property personally, does Not require a third party intermediary. All he does is to pst his property with all the details, pictures and videos of his property and wait to respond to calls.

Note 2: May read one of those songs https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2020/05/31/i-made-dreams-real-for-others-mine-has-to-wait/

 

We’re  letting go of nothing, “Mamfakinch”

The revolution, this evolving dream

In the midst of the this zone of turbulence

Borders deserted, reconquered,

Vast waiting zones to huddled masses for exit and egress

Running away from their dangerous shadows

Prisons stormed, police stations in flame..

As the dance of Spring advances

Love is in the air

Life continues, fear is shed off

We are breathing new emotions of connectedness

Citizens are learning instinctively to get engaged

Taking initiatives, everyone is expert in something,

Hope shines in the eyes

hand in hand, united in coming dreams

Dreams coming true, smiling of real

Dreams of liberty, regained dignity

Birds of gloom and disaster miles away

Can’t let go of anything

The masses reclaimed Tahrir Square

Reconquering what is their dues in human rights

Weeks of ardent patience and steadfastness, of authentic poems

Will not be swept away by the abrasive first sand wind

The splendid city of light is recaptured

Time for hating, time for war

Love forever

To reconstruct a better world

For every one of goodwill and good faith in others

We claim the liberty of conscience, our guiding rod…

The pen is all mine.

It delineate the Red Lines not to trespass

It satisfies my conscience

It does not submit to authority figures…

Our revolution is not the making of a moment of craziness

And we are not leaving the Square

Sorry citizens, we have been a bit late to react

But we are here to stay

We’re  letting go of nothing, “Mamfakinch

Free at last, free at last

Note: Inspired from a poem by the Tunisian Mahmoud Chalbi, extracted from the French book “Arab Springs, the breath and the words” (Riveneuve Continents)

Songs in Egypt Tahrir Square

My Spring in Winter (inspired from the poem of Kaddour Hadadi)

First lights of winter

First days of January

The reflections in your green eyes

Blossomed the olive trees

In the midst of the thousands

I saw you chanting and dancing.

The king and his army put down the arms and fled.

The wave of the crowd is carrying you

Under your feet a palace crumbled.

In Tahrir Square you demolished the ancient empire.

I can’t see you anymore

But I know now that you do exist.

I want to see you dancing and chanting again, so badly,

Tell me I ‘m not dead yet.

My spring in winter

Birds are not singing

The masses have dispersed

Wild bad herbs growing faster than wheat.

Smiles and hopes swept away by the sand wind.

Time keeps playing tricks on me

I can ignore time and snub it.

Your shadow overlapping my shadow

We are redesigning another world

What wild herbs want from me?

I won’t set fire on myself

I won’t forget

And I won’t step back…

Note: Inspired from Egyptian songs

The skipper-type.  Jennifer? Jo-Ann? Not Linda…Though very appropriate

It has been terribly cold these past two weeks,

Lebanon standard of cold.

We do enjoy central heating systems…

I cannot afford the fuel.

It is 2 am, and I am not sleepy, but cold is creeping in my bones.

I got inside my “warmer” bed, and could not sleep.

Memories flooding in, dispersing haphazardly, converging, diverging,

Refocusing on a beautiful face, a beautiful face I met 37 years ago.

It was winter of 1976.

A Friday, and about 8:30 pm.  Alone, I am to watch a foreign movie,

Shown by the University Film Club at the Microbiology department.

She showed up with her girlfriend. She is blonde, blue/green eyed, not tall, not skinny.

For my candid eyes, just the perfect beauty.

I cowered. I should have made haste, join her, and say: “Fair lady, have a good look at my face.

I need you to remember my face.

I need you to recollect that this face once told you

“You are the most beautiful girl around…”

The microbiology department, a stupid two flat floors, a couple of microscopes, and an auditorium.

The second “complex” by the Main Library, looking south,

The South long lawn, ideal for mass student demonstrations,

I used to demonstrate around it twice a week,  with a couple hundred of Iranian students,

Scanding: “Down with the Shah of Iran”, “Down with US imperialism“, Down with the Savak”…

Three years later, the Shah fled to exile.

Only Sadat of Egypt dared give him shelter.

No, I didn’t chicken out: I terribly lack conversational skills, and still do.

No, I didn’t chicken out: I had never carried out a conversation with a beautiful girl,

I didn’t understand girls, or human interconnection…

And time never came to the rescue in any important skills: It aches,

And the aches are exacerbated with time.

A couple of months later, I met her in my apartment.

I was returning at midnight from the library.

It was a cold night, and I must have biked or walked, no other alternatives.  And I had to piss badly and profusely.

I stepped out and this beauty had vanished like a mirage.

“Where is she?” I asked my room-mate Fouad.  “You know, the one I once told you was the most beautiful girl around that I met?”

Fouad looked me up in total surprise. “You mean Jennifer?”…

That’s another story: She was taking a pharmacy class with him…

Twelve years later, I met her at Zanzibar, a night club in the town of Norman.

She was sitting alone, at the bar, waiting for her new beau serving drinks,

She didn’t change a bit.

Twelve years later, and another round of “higher education” stint,

A stint that grew me old:

My Ph.D advisor told me: “At your age, I had married my three kids…”

And he didn’t look that old.

Some people mature fast and very soon.

Maturity? I am waiting for this phase to take a peek at me.

I am  the skipper-type:

From everlasting naive kid to rotten wise.

I sat by her and whispered her name: I could still recall her name.

I introduced myself and simply reminded her of the name of Fouad, my former room-mate.

She “recognized” me instantly.

Fouad must have told her about the devastating impression she made on me…

Count on a girl to retrieve a guy’s face, formed in a split-second,

Many years later, a face attached to “You are the most beautiful girl around…”

We had no conversation: She didn’t contribute.

She was selling pharmaceutical products…

I could have said: “Has one of the two bartenders invited you tonight? Are you intending to invite a particular bartender…?”

Any small talk, the most outrageous talk would have been swell…

This cavernous silence.  She didn’t change a bit

I bet, if I meet her again, another 37 years later, this girl will still be the same girl,

Unchanged, not a bit:

The eyes register the first impression,

And it was good.

My eyes: setting on the most beautiful girl around.

My eyes, refusing to sleep a wink tonight.

Adonis on How to Read ‘Real’ Arab Poetry

I am disseminating this article posted by mlynxqualey on July 17, 2011. I erased the commentary. I will add a few comments.

Poetry that reaches all the people is essentially superficial.

Real poetry requires effort:  it requires the reader to become, like the poet, a creator. Reading is not reception.”

Replying to one translator-poet Khaled Mattawa’s students who said that poetry was an insufficiently popular form, Poet Adonis s added, “I suggest you change your relationship to poetry and art in general.”

Elliott Colla translated Adonis’  “Ambiguity” in the new journal Asymptote.

Adonis writes (via Colla):

“Ambiguous is how a reader describes a text that he cannot grasp, or that he cannot master in a way that turns it into a part of what he knows…

Since Islam, Arab society has lived in a world of complete certainty…

In this manner, poetry, the verbal weapon of the Bedouins, was transformed into an instrument serving the mind, not unlike how a spoon serves the mouth.

The value of a tool-instrument lies in our trust and ability to rely upon it. It lies in the confidence we place in it: We lift the spoon to our mouth everyday without thought or effort. We wear shoes everyday without thought or effort. So too are we supposed to read and understand a poem: without thought or effort.

So poetry becomes a form that we can consume, like a Popsicle or pop song, without thought or effort. But why clarity?

Because clarity is a necessary function of the oral arts.  Oration is a form of articulation that imposes on the speaker a distinctive rhythm, a directness, simple words and clear ideas.

And the need for clarity was further solidified by Arabic poetry’s status as a “science”.

Arabic poetry began, like every science, to describe reality in terms of minute detail and what is adequate, and its primary value became tied to its use and benefit.

In this way, poetry began to move within an intellectual-rational framework, that is, it became a kind of reiteration, a mold, a subject to study and apply, something concerned with presenting “the truth” more than something concerned with innovation and invention.

Those were the “old” poets.  What is “real” poetry?

…The poet is a poet only on one condition: only insofar as he sees what others do not and that he discover and push forward.

And who is reading poetry?

…the reader who proceeds from memory, custom and received tradition, far from the spirit of constant advance and discovery, carries on in his thinking when faced with a poem as his body carries on when faced with a substance to consume: he does not consider himself the owner of the thing until he has consumed it. This kind of reader is good for everything but poetry.

The difference between reader and poet is a form of complementarity that compels the reader to become another creative genius, another poet. (End of quote)

What did I understand?  Even this short exposure, general in nature and needing many detailed example for proper comprehension, was good enough at the third reading for me to comment.

Most of us, start our hand at writing “poems”.  We believe that holding a diary to expressing our confused ignorance about our feelings, life and the universe, is a dangerous enterprise, it reveals our weaknesses, though life is ours and we are the stronger in hope and plans…

As we try to emulate the poems of our favorite poets, the feelings are gone, the diary is gone, our perseverance is gone, our emotions are hidden even deeper, and we missed the train.

What would have happened if Rimbaud failed to publish his work at this young age? Passed this great opportunity, Rimbaud lived in obscurity, nothing of value resurfaced.

A Poem is an excellent means to describing the confused emotions and feeling, describing the confusion, and not making sense of why we are confused. There are many different other expression forms to explain “what make sense”: Poetry is not one of them.

The good poems of pre-Islamic period were beautiful:  They were frank, bold, individualistic, and described accurately the environment and the customs.  They told stories and were downright slutty, as direct as folk songs.

The pre-islamic tribes didn’t enjoy a steady and timely communication with urban civilization, and the only innovation was displayed in more dramatic description of emotions…

After Islam, poems were inclined to becoming lyrical, general, sticking to the new culture of One God, and the sharia or the religious laws.  It became very difficult to be inventive since individuality was a dangerous tendency that was proscribed.

Poets needed the support of princes and emirs to survive in this most valued and appreciated job: memorizing poems was still a great tradition among people, and reciting poems was the best means to being recognized.  Poetry became an industry, with consensus standards, and becoming inventive and innovative in poetry style and topics was not profitable.

Even the most “revolutionary” poets had first to prove that they mastered the traditional style and language before they ventured into their own style. The content of poems didn’t vary much.  The urban poets mocked the life-style of the nomadic tribes, but could not resist boasting of belonging to a tribe, even a faked tribe of his own invention, though they have not linked with the tribe for decades and forgot entirely how to survive in a nomadic environment. For example, Abu Nawas.

You could read in a single poem many topics, and get confused what is the purpose of the poem, if not for targeting my doors, hopefully one of the topics will strike a chord in a rich provider.

For example, Abu Tammam, a 10th century poet, could be considered a modern poet: He focused on satisfying the wants of society, particularly, the caliph and princes who expected decent poems that won’t antagonize the perception of a divine authority.

So how modern poets, after Islam, could circumvent the restrictions if not taking refuge in sciences, and borrowing new terms that didn’t exist, and trying to explain the terms in poetical forms?

In translating poems, it is vital that the context be explained extensively in a note, unless it is a poem written by a youth, expressing the confusion in his emotions and feelings.

And you dare look me in the eyes, and censure me?

What a whirlwind of constant matter,

Never increasing or diminishing.

This constant matter, filling the vast void,

Transforming, emitting, recycling

Into forms, sounds, lights, animates, and inanimates…

What is this ridiculous probability

To be who I am?

And you dare blame my huge vanity!

Is the spirit eternal?

How should I know?

Why should I care?

Is one eternity not good enough?

Have you been by a dying person?

Have you heard anyone on his deathbed, looking straight at you and say:

“I know one thing to be absolutely true!”

Had you the guts to go on adventures?

Had you learned to read, and read all that came under your hands?

Had you written down your reflections?

Had you shared your thought, and listened carefully to feedback

Before you claim to form an opinion?

I may then disagree with your position,

But you got my respect.

Are you such a coward, and never left your hometown?

Do you want to believe that the world turns around you?

Were you pressured to learn to read

So that you may read in a single book?

Have you lived so long

Just to end up believing that all knowledge and wisdoms are found

In a single book?

And you dare look me in the eyes

And censure me?!

Emotions weaken my constitution, Love

You flashed in my mind, Love.

My eyes never crossed your path:

Are you tall, blonde, svelte, green-eyed…?

My ears never heard your voice, Love.

Is you voice soft, passionate, warm, cadenced…?

How could I find you,

The moment you knock on my door, Love

Would you be fluttering with white wings, red, yellow?

Would you be blossoming in springtime violet, blue attire, Love?

Would you be crawling in my dreams, night and waking dreams?

Would I be ready to sense your presence?

I am not one to hoard things.

All I care is to experience new sensations, once, one at a time.

Emotions weaken my constitution, Love.

Would you be gentle with my feelings?

Am I hard in the hearing?

Am I fuzzy in the vision, Love?

Do not despair, Love:

Keep talking, nudging, dancing, swinging, whispering.

Keep me alert, awake, alive, ready, Love.

Are you knocking Love?

As I open the door, do not manage my feelings.

Ashes dispersed against will and wish

How would you like to die, Sir?

A handful of ash, dirt, dust…

Eaten by worms, ants, crows, fishes, maggots, wolves…

Eaten by creatures that you despised, handled with disgust, crushed, trampled, maltreated, ignored…

How would you like to die, Sir?

In an individual grave, in mass grave, ignored in a desolate place, missing in action…

In bed, peacefully, in pain, in genocide, in cataclysm,

In preemptive war, in war of resistance, a martyr, by a sniper…?

How would you like to be buried, friends crying for a minutes, a day,

Celebrated as a groom, a bride, a virgin…?

How would you like to be remembered, your work recognized

Your work revisited for newer generations, every now and then, surviving for a while longer.

Ashes and dirt transferred, deposited, flown away, trampled, pissed upon

To unforgiving places, undesired, dangerous, while still alive,

Against will and wish.

And then mankind is wiped out from the surface of earth,

Insects, crawling creatures, grass, flowers, and plants flourishing,

A giant comet smashing on earth and splitting it,

Parts navigating away from the sun, carrying ashes,

To unknown places, never contemplated

Against will and wish.

I am not a pessimist:  I am thankful for being among the living.

A God, one of us, everyone of us,

Lacking shreds for any talents:  Just awfully curious

Observing, witnessing:  Surprised, stunned, understanding…

A God, one of us, not indifferent:  Just wanting to be forgotten and to forget.

I so often hear people say: “

Did I ever receive the grace?

Have I ever been in a state of grace?

Do I feel at peace with myself and with the universe…?

And I wonder “what is this state of grace thing”?

I go on with my busy daily work and chores

And then my mind takes short breaks and starts talking with itself like:

“I know that I am among the living;

With such little odds to being born and survive

Has hazard acquired any meaning?

What is the meaning of my life?

Should I expect life to have a meaning?…”

Moments the mind takes breaks, touched by grace.

My mind thinks I am God, one of us,

My mind has crossed the Rubicon River,

It crossed the red line to enemy territory.

My mind has to deal with the new situation, against all odds.

My mind has crossed all the red lines,

My mind is taking on its responsibility to behaving as a God should behave:

God is no longer going to be indifferent to his brother, neighbor, animals, trees…

God is to communicate his emotions, aspirations, hopes, errors…

God has to deal with all the troubles, problems, joys, excitements of his fellow-man…

God is to be involved and takes stands for the weak,

The humiliated, the downtrodden, the meek, communities of dying languages…

My mind-God has decided:

It is worth sacrificing once life defending another man’s rights

(all the rights that my mind wishes to acquire, exceeding the UN super laws in the Charters rights)

Against all odds and everybody.

Dying as a God is worth the entire universe.

Are you doing your best with compassion?

Thriving in kindness, continuing your education in humility?

How would you like to die, Sir?

A handful of ash, dirt, dust…

Eaten by worms, ants, crows, fishes, maggots, wolves…

Everything that you despised, handled with disgust, crushed, trampled, maltreated, ignored…

How else would you like to die, Sir?

How would you like to die, Sir?

Does every inanimate object that I perceive must have a mind (soul)?

So that my mind could perceive it?

Beautiful abstract notion that could change our behavior?

Would I be willing to give my life to support this drastic notion?

I so often hear people say: “

Did I ever received the grace?

Have I ever been in a state of grace?

Do I feel at peace with myself and with the universe…?

And I wonder “what is this state of grace thing”?

I go on with my busy daily work and chores

And then my mind takes short breaks and starts talking with itself like:

“I know that I am among the living;

With such little odds to being born and survive

Has hazard acquired any meaning?

What is the meaning of my life?

Should I expect life to have a meaning?…”

I tend to call these moments “mind-break touched by grace

I resume my hurley burly daily busy work

And these instants of “unprofitable” queries recur frequently.

There are moments my mind takes another kind of break,

An extention to the previous wondering mind,

This auto-questioning is driven to a dangerous step forward.

My mind is saying: “I know that each of my traits is shared by thousands human beings,

Probably by animals too,

And I feel that with all that sharing story,

I am still a unique individual.

Well, this “unique” attribute is shared by God too.

Can’t I deduce that I am sort of a God?”

My mind has crossed the Rubicon River,

It crossed the red line to enemy territory.

My mind has to deal with the new situation, against all odds.

In this short break, my mind acquired a new name:

“Mind-break in state of grace”.

And life never stopped and I continued the living, the  surviving, the pondering.

One day, my mind took a plunge and decides:

“Why not? I am one of the Gods.

Who else is better positioned but me to be a God?”

My mind is revolving in this new state of mind:

My mind is in the state of “mind-break in God”.

Sufis would call it “being in unity with God,

In unison with God,

Friend of God,

Lover of God… And I love my new status”

My mind has crossed all the red lines,

My mind is taking on its responsibility to behaving as a God should behave:

God is no longer going to be indifferent to his brother, neighbor, animals, trees

God is to communicate his emotions, aspirations, hopes, errors

God has to deal with all the troubles, problems, joys, excitements of his fellow-man…

God is to be involved and takes stands for the weak,

The humiliated, the downtrodden, the meek, communities of dying languages…

My mind-God has decided:

It is worth sacrificing once life defending another man’s rights

(all the rights that my mind wishes to acquire, exceeding the UN super laws Charters of rights)

Against all odds and everybody.

Dying as a God is worth the entire universe.

How would you like to die, Sir?

A handful of ash, dirt, dust…

Eaten by worms, ants, crows, fishes, maggots, wolves…

Everything that you despised, handled with disgust, crushed, trampled, maltreated, ignored…

How else would you like to die, Sir?

Just to remember better, heik, to feel better

I want to sense the well-being of youth

For a day and a night

For nothing much

Just to remember better

Feel better.

I want to have sinned big time

Just that I may cry

Limpid, fresh, clean water

Coming down softly, uninterrupted

To know how to feel the state of grace

to feel “how all sins are washed clean

And why not, to know how…

Etmana estarge3 3afiyat el chabab

Li yaom wa layla

Moush aktar, moush la shi

Heik, etzakkar ahssan.


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

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