Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Syrian poet

Downgraded Gypsy; (Apr. 17, 2010)

I am a hero… Where’s my people?

I am a traitor… Where’s my scaffold?

I am a pair of shoes… Where’s my road?

I walk Downtown mixing with busy souls

I am in no hurry; the masses don’t carry me:

I am a leader and I am searching for my way.

I rest a while on the pavement; is it illegal?

I rest my eating tin plate by my side;

A learned to recognize the chimes of dimes and nickels falling in the plate

I don’t complain; I say thanks when I feel reprieve tired of my condition.

I am a downgraded gypsy who burned his caravan

Quitted my clan, lured by greed in the city.

I extend my arms feeling for a sheltered wall

What’s a clear stream to a blind deer?

What’s horizon to a caged bird?

My ears learned to screen off piercing sounds

I can’t hear the wailing of bereaved mothers

I can’t hear the howling of frenzied mobs

I hear the moaning of latent pains permeating the smog

I hear the soft whistling of permanent suffering

Converging from all directions

From far away scorched lands.

Slaves chewed off their chains:

They are nostalgic for chains smelling molding bread.

Up north terrors; down south famine;

Dusty winds are clouding the east; and crows are obscuring the western horizon.

A little girl is sitting by this modern gypsy;

She dips her left small hand in a little bag and takes out a handful of dirt;

She grabs the dirt containing a strange specimen of earth wealth;

Dirt holding half a wing of a butterfly, a decapitated bee,

Shreds of shrapnel of cluster bombs,

A whiff of blood, a stench of urine;

Concentrated dirt of fear, human degradation,

Contaminated greed of a dying earth.

No more revolutions, no drastic changes,

No activities demanding eternal God given human rights;

Mankind is on his knees, in abject humiliation

Begging pardon of his executioner

For the swiftest relief.

Note: I borrowed a few images from the late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.

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.

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.




November 2022

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