Posted by Aziza
Nazik Al-Mala’ika (نازك الملائكة) is a famous female writer, poet and critic from Iraq. Nazik was born in Baghdad in 1922 to a literary family. Both her parents wrote poetry. Her father (صادق الملائكة) was a famous Iraqi poet and writer who edited a 20 volume encyclopedia. Her mother (سلمى عبد الرزاق) wrote poetry under the pseudonym. Nazik’s upbringing in a literary household encouraged her to start writing poetry at a very early age. She wrote her first poem at the age of 10.
Nazik was trained as a teacher of Arabic and graduated in 1944 in Baghdad. After that, she obtained a degree in music in 1949, and an MA in comparative literature from the University of Wisconsin in the USA in 1959. Later, she worked as a lecturer at the University of Baghdad and the University of Basra where she met her husband. Nazik knew Arabic, English, French German and Latin.
Nazik published some poems in newspapers and magazines during her university study, and she published her first poetry book in 1947 under the title (عاشقة الليل) “she who loves the night”. Nazik’s poetry is very sad, and deals with topics like death, disillusion, illness, etc. One of her best-known poems is (الكوليرا) ‘Cholera’, which is written in free verse. She liked to write religious and moralistic poetry. In addition, she translated poems by Byron, Thomas Gray and others.
Nazik is considered one of the most influential literary writers in the Arab world, and she is said to be among the first Arab poets to use free verse (الشعر الحر). She is also a very respectable critic (ناقدة) who contributed very important literary criticisms, e.g. “Issues of Contemporary Poetry” (قضايا الشعر المعاصر) and “Psychology of Poetry” (سايكولوجية الشعر). Nazik is also an advocate of women’s rights
Posted by Aziza
Ahmed Shawqi (أحمد شوقي) is a famous Arab poet and playwright. He is considered to be one of the most important Arab poets in the 20th Century. He is given the title (أمير الشعراء) “lit. The Prince of Poets” to reflect this status. Shawqi was born in Egypt in 1870 to a family of mixed-race. His paternal grandfather was Kurdish and his grandmother was Greek. Both his parents were born and brought up in Egypt.
Shawqi grew up in Cairo to a wealthy family. He studied law and graduated in 1887. The ruler (Abbas II) appointed him in his palace as head of the translation department, and then he awarded him a scholarship to study translation and law in France in 1893.
During his stay in France, Shawqi came to appreciate French theatre and poetry. He started a nationalist group to resist the British occupation of Egypt with colleagues in France, called (جمعية التقدم المصري) “the society of progress of Egypt”.
Shawqi returned to Egypt and continued his literary production which became of a more patriotic theme, and maintained a close friendship with leaders of nationalist movements in Egypt such as Mustafa Kamel.
In 1915, the British occupation decided to send him to exile, and he chose to go to Barcelona in Spain where he grew very nostalgic and appreciated the grandeur of Muslim civilization in Andalucía and wrote a large number of poems and plays about this great history and about his love for Egypt. He returned back to Egypt in 1920.
The literary production of Ahmed Shawqi is rich and varied. He wrote religious, patriotic, historic poems, as well as the distinctive plays he wrote in poetry. Some of the works of Ahmed Shawqi are still taught at schools. Here is a couple of lines from a poem I studied at school ages ago, can you understand them?
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النِّيلُ العَذْبُ هو الكوْثرْ
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والجنة ُ شاطئه الأخضرْ
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ريَّانُ الصَّفحة ِ والمنظرْ
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ما أبهى الخلدَ وما أنضرْ !
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Posted by Aziza
Arabic poetry is not only written in standard Arabic, but also in colloquial dialects. Colloquial poetry sometimes becomes songs. I believe that it is a very interesting genre, as it is closer to people’s lives, worries, dreams and trouble than Standard poetry, at least for me.
In Egypt, colloquial poetry has been an integral part of Egyptian culture. In this posting, I present excerpts from (رباعيات صلاح جاهين). This is a book of 4 lines poems; each one presents a moment of the life of Jahin, a philosophical statement, a thought, etc. Each little poem ends with the expression “I wonder!” They are very vivid and touching, and very difficult to translate.
| Why , darling, there is always a long distance between us
Our separation is a sin that cannot be forgiven
Why , my darling, there are always seas between us
Every time I cross one, I find a new one to cross
I wonder!
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ليه يا حبيبتي ما بيننا دايما سفر
ده البعد ذنب كبير لا يغتفر
ليه يا حبيبتي ما بيننا دايما بحور
أعدي بحر ألاقي غيره اتحفر
عجبي !!!
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| Behind each window, a thousand eyes watching
As you, my sad love, and I are walking
If we get closer, we die with a stone!
And if we get further, we die of agony!
I wonder! |
ورا كل شباك ألف عين مفتوحين
و انا وانتي ماشيين يا غرامي الحزين
لو التصقنا نموت بضربة حجر
و لو افترقنا نموت متحسرين
عجبي !!!
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| I was something, then became another thing, and a third thing
See, God is capable of doing everything
Trees shook their branches and whispered to me
One thing has to die for another thing to live!
I wonder! |
أنا كنت شئ و صبحت شئ ثم شــئ
شوف ربنا .. قادرعلي كل شـــــــئ
هز الشجر شواشيه ووشوشني قال :
لابد ما يموت شئ عشان يحيا شئ
عجبي !!
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The following link shows Jaheen reciting some of his Ruba’eyat poems, and some others that became songs.
Posted by Aziza
“ خمس رسائل إلى أميFive Letters To My Mother” is a beautiful poem from Nizar Qabbani.
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Five Letters To My Mother
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خمس رسائل إلى أمي
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Good morning sweetheart.
Good morning
My beautiful Saint
It has been two years, mother
since the boy has sailed
on his legendary journey.
Since hid within his luggage
the green morning of his homeland
and her stars, and her streams,
and all of her red poppies.
Since he hid in his cloths
bunches of mint and thyme,
and a Damascene Lilac.
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صباحُ الخيرِ يا حلوه..
صباحُ الخيرِ
يا قدّيستي الحلوه
مضى عامانِ يا أمّي
على الولدِ الذي أبحر
برحلتهِ الخرافيّه
وخبّأَ في حقائبهِ
صباحَ بلادهِ الأخضر
وأنجمَها، وأنهُرها،
وكلَّ شقيقها الأحمر
وخبّأ في ملابسهِ
طرابيناً منَ النعناعِ والزعتر
وليلكةً دمشقية..
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I am alone.
The smoke of my cigarette is bored,
and even my seat of me is bored
My sorrows are like sparrows
Still looking for a grain field
I knew the women of Europe,
I knew feelings of concrete and wood
I knew the civilization of toil
I toured India, and I toured China,
I toured the entire oriental world,
And nowhere I found,
A Lady to comb my fair hair.
And hides in her purse
A sugar candy for me
A lady that dresses me if I am naked,
and lifts me up when I trip.
Oh Mother
Oh Mother
I am that boy who sailed,
and still on his mind
Remains the sugar candy.
So how come or how have I, Mother,
become a father
And never grow up?
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أنا وحدي..
دخانُ سجائري يضجر
ومنّي مقعدي يضجر
وأحزاني عصافيرٌ..
تفتّشُ –بعدُ- عن بيدر
عرفتُ نساءَ أوروبا..
عرفتُ عواطفَ الإسمنتِ والخشبِ
عرفتُ حضارةَ التعبِ..
وطفتُ الهندَ، طفتُ السندَ،
طفتُ العالمَ الأصفر
ولم أعثر..
على امرأةٍ تمشّطُ شعريَ الأشقر
وتحملُ في حقيبتها..
إليَّ عرائسَ السكّر
وتكسوني إذا أعرى
وتنشُلني إذا أعثَر
أيا أمي..
أيا أمي..
أنا الولدُ الذي أبحر
ولا زالت بخاطرهِ
تعيشُ عروسةُ السكّر
فكيفَ.. فكيفَ يا أمي
غدوتُ أباً..
ولم أكبر؟
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Good morning from Madrid.
How is the ‘Fullah’?
I beg you to take care of her,
That baby of a baby.
She was the dearest love to Father.
He spoiled her like his daughter.
He used to invite her to coffee.
And water her
And feed her,
and cover her with his mercy.
And he died,
She still dreams of his return.
She still looks for him in his room.
She asks about his cloak,
and asks about his newspaper,
and asks, when the summer comes,
about the blue colour of his eyes,
so that she can throw within his palms,
her golden coins.
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صباحُ الخيرِ من مدريدَ
ما أخبارها الفلّة؟
بها أوصيكِ يا أمّاهُ..
تلكَ الطفلةُ الطفله
فقد كانت أحبَّ حبيبةٍ لأبي..
يدلّلها كطفلتهِ
ويدعوها إلى فنجانِ قهوتهِ
ويسقيها..
ويطعمها..
ويغمرها برحمتهِ..
.. وماتَ أبي
ولا زالت تعيشُ بحلمِ عودتهِ
وتبحثُ عنهُ في أرجاءِ غرفتهِ
وتسألُ عن عباءتهِ..
وتسألُ عن جريدتهِ..
وتسألُ –حينَ يأتي الصيفُ-
عن فيروزِ عينيه..
لتنثرَ فوقَ كفّيهِ..
دنانيراً منَ الذهبِ..
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I send my best regards
I send my best regards
to a house that gave us love and mercy.
To your white flowers,
the joy in the neighbourhood.
To my desk,
To my books,
to all of the kids in our alley.
To the walls we covered
with our messy writings.
To the lazy cats
Sleeping on the balcony.
To the lilac climbing bush the neighbour’s window.
It has been two long years, Mother,
with the face of Damascus
A sparrow digging within our conscience,
biting at my curtains,
and picking gently at our fingers.
It has been two years Mother,
since the nights of Damascus,
the Jasmine of Damascus,
the houses of Damascus,
living in our imagination.
The pillars of mosques guiding our sails.
As if the pillars of the Amawi,
have been planted in our hearts.
As if the apple orchards
perfuming our conscience.
As if the lights and the rocks,
have all traveled with us.
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سلاماتٌ..
سلاماتٌ..
إلى بيتٍ سقانا الحبَّ والرحمة
إلى أزهاركِ البيضاءِ..
فرحةِ “ساحةِ النجمة”
إلى تختي..
إلى كتبي..
إلى أطفالِ حارتنا..
وحيطانٍ ملأناها..
بفوضى من كتابتنا..
إلى قططٍ كسولاتٍ
تنامُ على مشارقنا
وليلكةٍ معرشةٍ
على شبّاكِ جارتنا
مضى عامانِ.. يا أمي
ووجهُ دمشقَ،
عصفورٌ يخربشُ في جوانحنا
يعضُّ على ستائرنا..
وينقرنا..
برفقٍ من أصابعنا..
مضى عامانِ يا أمي
وليلُ دمشقَ
فلُّ دمشقَ
دورُ دمشقَ
تسكنُ في خواطرنا
مآذنها.. تضيءُ على مراكبنا
كأنَّ مآذنَ الأمويِّ..
قد زُرعت بداخلنا..
كأنَّ مشاتلَ التفاحِ..
تعبقُ في ضمائرنا
كأنَّ الضوءَ، والأحجارَ
جاءت كلّها معنا..
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This is September, Mother,
and here is sorrow bringing me its gifts.
Leaving at my window
tears and concerns.
This is September, where is Damascus?
Where is my father and his eyes.
Where is the silk of his glances,
and where is the aroma of his coffee.
May God bless his grave!
And where is the space of our house,
and where is its comfort.
And where is the stairwell laughing at the tickles of blooms,
and where is my childhood.
Dragging the tail of the cat,
and eating from the grape vine,
and snipping from the lilac.
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أتى أيلولُ يا أماهُ..
وجاء الحزنُ يحملُ لي هداياهُ
ويتركُ عندَ نافذتي
مدامعهُ وشكواهُ
أتى أيلولُ.. أينَ دمشقُ؟
أينَ أبي وعيناهُ
وأينَ حريرُ نظرتهِ؟
وأينَ عبيرُ قهوتهِ؟
سقى الرحمنُ مثواهُ..
وأينَ رحابُ منزلنا الكبيرِ..
وأين نُعماه؟
وأينَ مدارجُ الشمشيرِ..
تضحكُ في زواياهُ
وأينَ طفولتي فيهِ؟
أجرجرُ ذيلَ قطّتهِ
وآكلُ من عريشتهِ
وأقطفُ من بنفشاهُ
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Damascus, Damascus,
What a poem
We wrote within our eyes.
What a pretty child that we crucified.
We kneeled at her feet,
and we melted in her passion,
until, we killed her with our love.
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دمشقُ، دمشقُ..
يا شعراً
على حدقاتِ أعيننا كتبناهُ
ويا طفلاً جميلاً..
من ضفائرنا صلبناهُ
جثونا عند ركبتهِ..
وذبنا في محبّتهِ
إلى أن في محبتنا قتلناهُ…
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Posted by Aziza
Nizar Qabbani (نزار قباني) is a famous Arab poet, who is very well known for his romantic and feminist poetry. He was born in Damascus on 21 March 1923. Nizar was born to a middle class family, and his father owned a sweets shop. He liked arts, particularly drawing and music in his childhood, but later on he focused on poetry. He graduated from the Faculty of Law at Damascus University n 1942. After his graduation, he worked as a diplomat in various countries, including Lebanon, Egypt, Turkey, Spain, the UK, among others. During his work at the Syrian Foreign Ministry, he published many collections of poems, critical studies, etc. In 1966, he decided to quit his diplomatic work and to dedicate all his time to writing; he also established a publishing house in Beirut.
Nizar enjoyed a very happy childhood in a big warm family. However, at the age of 15, he was traumatized when his elder sister committed suicide, to avoid being forced to marry a man whom she did not love. This incident affected him deeply, and he started to write about feminism and women’s rights. Nizar married twice. His first wife was his Syrian cousin, and he had a son and a daughter by her. His son died at the age of 17, due to a heart condition, and his death was another trauma in Nizar’s life. His second wife was Iraqi, and her name was Balqis. They had two children together. His second wife was killed in a bombing of the Iraqi embassy in Beirut. Her death depressed him deeply, and he spent most of his life in Europe after her death.
Qabbani wrote 35 books of poetry between 1944 and 1991. Nizar is very famous for his romantic poetry, yet his nationalist poetry has been very important and influential as well, especillay poems that criticized Arab societies and that demanded change, e.g. “bread, cannabis and moon” (خبز وحشيش وقمر) published in 1956.
The following link shows a clip from a soap on his life, and recites one of his most famous poems “I Admit” (أشهد).
