بنيتُ لكِ في قلبي
كنيسةً صغيرة
ملأى باسمِكِ
~
In my heart
I built a small chapel
filled with your name
~
Her deep eyes
a perfect day
to fall in love
~
ما أحبَّ الرجلُ امرأةً إلا ولمسَ الشعرُ قلبهُ.
~
أنظرُ في عينيها
ثمَ أقبلها واحدةً واحدة
أزهارُ بشَرتِها
As I hold my pen
her skin under my fingers
stretches into a landscape,
each word I write
spins a little vortex,
a turning Sufi, a small flower,
all spreading across her skin,
spreading like a fire,
dripping into her soul
and coursing deep down,
filling her with more love
than she can understand,
with unbearable gentleness
opening her wide,
opening her to God,
opening her to the sky.
One by one I kiss
the flowers of her skin,
then look into her eyes.
In their eyes the stories
we’ve long forgotten –
animals in the wild
~
حتى بعد أن تستحم
تجد رائحتهُ
على بشرتها
~
Mon cœur
à chaque moment du jour
s’envole vers toi
~
وحيداً في الليل
لم يُبقِ الشعر مني
الا قلباً يرتجف
~
If I could choose
one place to touch you
it would be your heart
~
لو كان ليَ أن أختار
أن ألمُسَكِ في مكانٍ واحد
لاخترتُ قلبكِ
~
I do not write for readers; I do not write for the pleasure of writing; I write so I would not forget; I write to remember.
We do not know each other
yet the poem
has always connected us;
in a world of change
this poetry ebbing and flowing
between our hearts
is the only constant,
carrying secret messages
between our souls.
You and me
we’ve always had this conversation,
wordless and mystical,
formless and flowing with pure essence;
without beginning or end
we’ve always been wrapped
around each other,
and this pain that wounds our souls
is the evidence of the place
where we enter each other.
Now, in silence,
I send you this word
to travel on the wind
and find your lips.
Sensibilisé par la poésie l’être aime profondément, avec passion et en totalité.
~
I do not write
I only feel my heart quiver
as I touch your face
~
In my mother’s hands
there’s always a seed
growing roots and leaves;
my mother’s hands are always green.
~
I woke up today
to find myself aging,
and you still
a voice echoing
in the distance,
somewhere far away.
~
Poetry is the heir of the mystical essence of religion.
~
The road to the world has always seemed to me to lead through a deep wood.
~
The poem gives me eyes to look at the world beyond my own death.
~
ضاعت بنا السبل
فانتهينا عاشقين
كلٌّ في بلد
نكتبُ الشعرَ ليلاً
ونحنُ ننظرُ إلى النجوم
علّنا نجدُ فيها شيئاً
من بريقِ الأملِ
She didn’t feel
the frost on her skin
until it melted
under the warmth
of his fingertips
~
مشّطتُ شعرها على مهل
وقبّلت الندى على كتفيها
ثم جلست بينما استلقت هيَ
وأمسكتُ القلم وسال الشعر
حبرا على بشرتها
~
Things break,
people die,
friends and lovers
go into the night
and return no more.
This being human
a sheen of dew left
by dissolving mist
~
With poetry
everything I touch
is her skin
~
الشعر كان صلاته
ادخله متاهة الشوق
وأهداه إلى التجلي
Une soirée d’hiver
je la passe à contempler
l’âme d’une chandelle
Le corps de la flamme d’une chandelle, ce souffle de lumière, est si transparent qu’il est, en même temps, son âme. Cette métaphore, je la trouve convenante pour décrire ce que c’est le poème.
Everything begins
as I utter your name,
yet it is a name
that cannot be pronounced
as it is not made of letters –
it is an inner name,
one that dwells inside
the prayer, the music, the art,
it is an inner vessel,
to utter it is to feel
an opening in the heart
too immense to contain,
a sky and a sea blooming inside.
Regardant la pluie
tomber sur les champs
mon cœur se rempli d’une paix
que je n’ai jamais connu
entre les hommes
~
Regardant la rivière
j’ai vu ma vie
glisser vers la mer,
du temps il ne restait
qu’une feuille amère.
Like wine in a cellar
this art of touching her
is something that has brewed
for a lifetime within me;
now and then it comes out
as poetry,
now and then
when it cannot be contained
and its flashes
flood through my veins
and its wave carries me
to the wood where we always met
in the deepest recesses of my memory.
I remember to come back
to the future where we are
and I complete the circle
as I write to you know
this love that is within me.
أمسكت حبها
بقلب مرتجف
لم يعرف هذا العالم
الا كقصيدة مكتوبة
على ورقة خريف
~
Falling rain,
its sound
in my heart takes
the shape
of longing.
The rain is falling…
in silence we sit
listening to the rain
~
كالتائهِ في الليل
بين الكلماتِ أتبع الضو
الات من بعيد
~
Winter evening –
in my heart the slow burn
old memories…
~
Everyone have left
the road of my life
deepens into the sunset
I lost my sister to cancer on February 03, 2015. This week the doctor told me that my mother’s cancer is terminal, and that her life expectancy is a few months at best.
What I find deeply disconcerting about science is its will to reduce everything it touches into the realm of knowledge — i.e. utilitarian — thus dispelling existence of every shade of mystery. In such an atmosphere that is deeply antagonistic to poetry I find myself suffocating and unable to tolerate life. The good news is that this endeavour of science is futile, in that it is impossible to reduce everything into the realm of knowledge; the unknown remains, and the shade of mystery cannot be dispelled; poetry cannot be vanquished. The bad news is that science may well destroy life and the world before coming to this conclusion and admitting its childish aspirations. The link between poetry, mystery, and ecology is unmistakable. It is what we hope will one day bring science to its senses, making it aware of its own limitations. Hopefully that day won’t be too long in the future.
The phrases of the book
like twigs twist and turn in every direction,
and soon I am walking a thick forest
with no thought of return,
to find a cabin in a sunlit clearing
and live in it for a while.
But the book ends
as every journey must,
yet, leaving its forest,
I carry it with me,
feeling its sap of words
flowing through my veins,
and growing, silently,
for many months and years
new leaves of meaning.
This life is a journey
with footsteps lost
in winter snow
~
Winter night
with the fire of a book
I warm my heart
~
Like rivers in the night
his words travel
the curves of her skin
~
حبرُ كلِماتي
بذورٌ أزرعها
في تربةِ بشرتها
~
الشمسُ على بشَرِتِكِ
في فَمي تذوبْ
كخَمرٍ عُمرُهُ ألفَ عامْ
~
Like snow unmarred
the poem
I do not dare to write
~
Heavy rain…
my heart is just a window
on a sunlit plane
وضعت فمي على فمها
كأني بين شفتيها وجدت
مهد الشعر والنبيذ
~
نمش بشرتها
الخريطة التي بها
أعبر الى النجوم
~
أبدأ نهاري
وأنا أرتشف الدفىء
من شفتيك
~
كالثلج الأبيض
يستقر العمر
في شعري
Like white snow
age settles
on my hair
~
Tea on a cold night
finishing a book
and starting another
Falling autumn leaves
even the cat is looking
through the window
~
وحيدا عند الغروب
لم يأت أحدا ليراني
الا مطر الخريف
~
سَنَونَوات أيلول
كأنها من طفولتي تعود
بذكرياتٍ تناثرت في الريح
~
This cold autumn
my heart warmed
by the image of her face
Et je me suis endormi
envahi d’une étrange chaleur,
comme si la tête
de la femme que j’aime
reposait sur mon épaule,
comme si le poème
que j’avais lu le soir
s’était allumé en moi,
me réchauffant du dedans
par une étrange lumière.
~
يقول العلماء
أن أجسادنا مجبولة
من غبار النجوم؛
المسك
ويحن الغبار فينا
الى أصله،
فنتوهج قليلا
أنا وأنت،
ونشع بضوء
أضاء الكون
من ملايين السنين.
~
I kissed her wounds; I made love to her silence; I looked into her eyes, as into the endless sea; I felt her heartbeat, and I gave her my own.
~
La lumière des pensées se nourrit de la même nuit que celle des étoiles.
~
ما يربطهما
أعمق من الليل،
أوضح من النهار،
أبدي كالزمن،
متجدد أبدا كحقل ربيع،
كخرير ماء الجدول؛
ما يربطهما أغنية
أوسع من الحياة،
أغنية تدور كالصوفي
في قلب الله.
~
He attracted her slowly
like spring lures the flower
to unfold its petals
one by one
~
You can take the wolf out of the forest, but you cannot take the forest out of the wolf.
~
Night falls
and her skin fills
with a soft glow,
as though she had a moon
living inside.
~
Your name makes
a strange kind of flame
as I whisper it into
the darkness of the night
~
Rich beyond belief
if I had you now
here with me
Parfumé d’aurore
son souffle
me retient au monde
seulement pour écrire
un dernier poème
~
Waiting for no one
as dusk approaches,
still I watch the road
filled with yellow leaves
raked by the wind.
