And fragrances perfume themselves with her scent From Damascus, water begins. For wherever You lean your head, a stream flows And poetry is a sparrow spreading its wings Over Sham. And a poet is a voyager From Damascus, love begins. Nizar Qabbani (d.1998) is by far the most popular poet in the Arab world, and the world's best-selling Arab author. His poems have often been put into music.
- Feb 7, 2017 - Explore Oscob's board 'Nizar Qabbani', followed by 783 people on Pinterest. See more ideas about Arabic poetry, Words, Arabic quotes.
- Arabic language poetry and writings of Nizar Tawfiq Qabbani ( 1923 - 1998 ), the contemporary Syrian poet. His poetic style combines simplicity and elegance in exploring themes of love, eroticism, feminism, religion, and Arab nationalism.
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World Literature Today, the University of Oklahoma's bimonthly magazine of international literature and culture, opens a window to the world in every issue. Spanning the globe, WLT features lively essays, original poetry and fiction, coverage of transnational issues and trends, author profiles and interviews, book reviews, travel writing, and coverage of the other arts, culture, and politics as they intersect with literature. Now in its ninth decade of continuous publication, WLT has been recognized by the Nobel Prize committee as one of the 'best edited and most informative literary publications' in the world, and was recently called 'an excellent source of writings from around the globe by authors who write as if their lives depend on it' (Utne Reader, 2005). WLT has received a dozen national publishing awards in the past ten years, including the Phoenix Award for Editorial Achievement from the Council of Editors of Learned Journals in 2002.
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Nizar Qabbani Poetry
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Love Compared
I do not resemble your other lovers, my lady
should another give you a cloud
I give you rain
Should he give you a lantern, I
will give you the moon
Should he give you a branch
I will give you the trees
And if another gives you a ship
I shall give you the journey.
Back to Top
I have no power
'I have no power to change you
or explain your ways
Never believe a man can change a woman
Those men are pretenders
who think
that they created woman
from one of their ribs
Woman does not emerge from a man's rib's, not ever,
it's he who emerges from her womb
like a fish rising from depths of water
and like streams that branch away from a river
It's he who circles the sun of her eyes
and imagines he is fixed in place
I have no power to tame you
or domesticate you
or mitigate your first instincts
This task is impossible
I've tested my intelligence on you
also my dumbness
Nothing worked with you, neither guidance
nor temptation
Stay primitive as you are
I have no power to break your habits
for thirty years you have been like this
for three hundred years
a storm trapping in a bottle
a body by nature sensing the scent of a man
assaults it by nature
triumphs over it by nature
Never believe what a man says about himself
that he is the one who makes the poems
and makes the children
It is the woman who writes the poems
and the man who signs his name to them
It is the woman who bears the children
and the man who signs at the maternity hospital
that he is the father
I have no power to change your nature
my books are of no use to you
and my convictions do not convince you
nor does my fatherly council do you any good
you are the queen of anarchy, of madness, of belonging
to no one
Stay that way
You are the tree of femininity that grows in the dark
needs no sun or water
you the sea princess who has loved all men
and loved no one
slept with all men ... and slept with no one
you are the Bedouin woman who went with all the tribes
and returned a virgin
Stay that way.'
Back to Top
A Lesson In Drawing
My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the color gray I dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.
Astonishment fills his eyes:
'... But this is a prison, Father,
Don't you know, how to draw a bird?'
And I tell him: 'Son, forgive me.
I've forgotten the shapes of birds.'
My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.
I hold the pen
and draw a gun.
My son mocks my ignorance,
demanding,
'Don't you know, Father, the difference between a
wheatstalk and a gun?'
I tell him, 'Son,
once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks
the shape of the loaf
the shape of the rose
But in this hardened time
the trees of the forest have joined
the militia men
and the rose wears dull fatigues
In this time of armed wheatstalks
armed birds
armed culture
and armed religion
you can't buy a loaf
without finding a gun inside
you can't pluck a rose in the field
without its raising its thorns in your face
you can't buy a book
that doesn't explode between your fingers.'
My son sits at the edge of my bed
and asks me to recite a poem,
A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow.
My son licks it up, astonished, saying:
'But this is a tear, father, not a poem!'
And I tell him:
'When you grow up, my son,
and read the diwan of Arabic poetry
you'll discover that the word and the tear are twins
and the Arabic poem
is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers.'
My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in
front of me
and asks me to draw a homeland for him.
The brush trembles in my hands
and I sink, weeping.