Concept · for Kam's review
Close ×
Words · Poetry
The diary.
Tap to openكلماتWordsAhmad Kammoun
دَفْتَركَلِمَات
هُنَا كَلِمَاتٌ كَتَبْتُهَا حِينَ لَمْ يَكُنْ لِلْكَلَامِ مَكَانٌ آخَرُ.
بَعْضُهَا غَنَّيْتُهُ، وَبَعْضُهَا مَا زَالَ يَنْتَظِرُ صَوْتًا.
اِقْرَأْهَا بِبُطْءٍ… كَمَا كُتِبَتْ.
These are words I wrote when there was nowhere else for them to go. Some of them I sang. Some are still waiting for a voice. Read them slowly, the way they were written.
أَحْمَدالفهرس
- إِلَى مَنْ يَهُمُّهَا الْأَمْرُ٤
- حَتَّى يَنْطِقَ الحَجَرُ٦
- يَا لَيْل٩
- شَعَائِرُ حُبٍّ١٠
- رَجَاءُ الرَّاجِي١٢
- ثُورِي١٤
- وَهَلْ يُعْقَلْ؟١٦
- لَوْ١٨
- عَلَى قَيْدِ الانْتِظَارِ٢٠
- أَلَمْ يَكُنْ إِبْلِيسُ جَمِيلًا٢٥
- نِصْفُ الْفَنِّ كَذِبٌ٢٦
- بَرِيءٌ يُعْدَمْ٢٨
- عَلَى ضِفَافِ الْغَرَقِ٣٠
١حُلْمDream
إِلَى فَتَاةٍ لَمْ أَعْرِفْهَا بَعْدُ
إِلَى مَنْ يَهُمُّهَا الْأَمْرُ
إِلَى فَتَاةٍ لَمْ أَعْرِفْهَا بَعْدُ، وَإِنْ وَجَدْتُ قَلْبِي يُنَاجِيهَا. إِلَى حَالِمَةٍ مِثْلِي، قَلْبُهَا مِئْذَنَةٌ، فِي دِفْئِهِ صَلَاةٌ أُصَلِّيهَا. إِلَى حَسْنَاءَ أَحْبَبْتُهَا غَيْبًا، وَعَشِقْتُهَا قَبْلَ أَنْ أُلَاقِيَهَا. إِلَى مَنْ تُيِّمْتُ بِهَوَاهَا، فَامْتَنَعْتُ عَنْ مَلَذَّاتِ الدُّنْيَا وَمَا فِيهَا. إِلَى مُحَدِّثَتِي، مُلْهِمَتِي، حَبِيبَتِي، إِلَى مَنْ سَأَكْتُبُهَا شِعْرًا، وَأُغَنِّيهَا.To whom it may concern
To a girl I have not met yet, though I find my heart already whispering to her. To a dreamer like me, whose heart is a minaret, and in its warmth, a prayer I pray. To a beauty I loved unseen, and adored before I ever met her. To the one whose love has enthralled me, so I turned away from the pleasures of the world and all it holds. To the one I talk to, my muse, my love, to the one I will write into poems, and sing.
أُحِبُّكِ، يَا سَيِّدَتِي…
أَسْرِعِي نَحْوِي،
فَذِرَاعِي تَعِبَتْ،
تَنْتَظِرُكِ شَوْقًا
لِتُوَاسِيَهَا.
وَأَحْلَامِي،
وَأُمْنِيَاتِي،
وَثَوْرَاتِي،
ذَبُلَتْ… خَفَتَتْ،
وَمَا مِنْ أَحَدٍ غَيْرُكِ
يُحْيِيهَا
I love you, my lady…
hurry to me,
my arms are tired,
waiting for you with longing
to be comforted.
And my dreams,
my wishes,
my revolutions,
have withered… dimmed,
and no one but you
can bring them back to life.
A rendering, not a translation.
٥
حَتَّى يَنْطِقَ الحَجَرُ
يَا حَسْنَاءَ قَادَهَا الْكَوْنُ نَحْوِي يَا فَاتِنَةً خُلِقَتْ مِنْ وَحْيِ الْقَدَرْ يَا مَلِكَةً جَسَّدَ الْخَالِقُ فِيهَا جَنَّتِي وَجَمَعَ فِي عَيْنَيْهَا الْكَوَاكِبَ وَاخْتَصَرْ! يَا مَنْ فِي اسْمِهَا الرَّوْضَاتُ وَالْحَدَائِقُ وَالْحَبَقُ وَالْيَاسَمِينُ وَالرَّيْحَانُ وَفِي ثَغْرِهَا جَمِيعُ الْكَلِمَاتِ.. وَالصُّوَرْ! يَا مَنْ لَوْ لَمْ تَكُنْ… لَرَسَمْتُهَا وَكَتَبْتُهَا وَصَوَّرْتُهَا وَاخْتَرْتُهَا مِنْ بَيْنِ كُلِّ الْبَشَرْ! يَا مُنْقِذَةَ أَحْلَامِي يَا مَنَارَةً فِي نُورِهَا اسْمِي يُنَادِينِي، يُوَاسِينِي، يُرَاقِبُنِي فِي بِحَارٍ هَوْجَاءَ عَاصِفَةٍ تَعْلُوهَا أَمْوَاجُ الشَّوْقِ.. وَتَنْكَسِرْ!Until the stone speaks
O beauty the universe led to me, O enchantress made from the inspiration of fate, O queen in whom the Creator gave my paradise a body, and gathered the planets in her eyes, and held them there! O you whose name holds meadows and gardens, basil, jasmine and myrtle, and whose lips hold every word.. and every image! O you who, had you not existed… I would have drawn you, written you, pictured you, and chosen you from among all people! O saviour of my dreams, O lighthouse in whose light my name calls me, comforts me, watches over me through wild and stormy seas where waves of longing rise.. and break!
يَا كَاهِنَتِي الَّتِي اعْتَكَفْتُ فِي هَوَاهَا
حَتَّى آمَنَ بِحُبِّنَا كُلُّ مَنْ كَفَرْ!
أَحِبِّينِي!
أَحِبِّينِي حَتَّى تَجِفَّ الْبِحَارُ وَتَنْطَفِئَ الشُّمُوسْ
حَتَّى تَتَقَابَلَ الْأَقْطَارُ وَتَخْتَفِيَ الطُّقُوسْ
وَيَنْطِقَ فِي عِشْقِنَا الْحَجَرْ!
O my priestess, in whose love I withdrew in devotion
until all who disbelieved believed in our love!
Love me!
Love me until the seas run dry and the suns go out,
until the horizons meet and the rituals vanish,
and the stone itself speaks of our love!
A rendering, not a translation.
٧
٢وِصَالUnion
ذِرَاعَايَ أَعْيَاهُمَا الوُصُولُ
يَا لَيْل
أَبْطِئْ مِنْ عَزْمِكَ يَا لَيْلُ وَأَسْرِفْ بِسَاعَاتِكَ لِلْأَبَدِ اُحْضُنْ فِي عَتْمَتِكَ قَلْبًا مِنْ نَارِ الشَّوْقِ مُتَّقِدِ دَعْنِي أَسْكَرُ مِنْ شَفَتَيْهَا وَأَنْتَشِي مِنْ حُمْرَةِ الْخَدِّ أَشْتَاقُ لِهَمْسِهَا وَضِحْكِهَا لِصَمْتِهَا وَصَوْتِهَا وَشَعْرِهَا الْأَسْوَدِ أَمْسَتْ فِي غُرْبَتِي مَوْطِنًا فِي حِضْنِهَا مَلَاذِي كَالْمَهْدِ يَا لَيْلُ لَا تَسْتَعْجِلِ الْفِرَاقَ وَتَأَنَّ عَلَى فَطْرِ الْقَلْبِ وَالْكَبِدِ حِلْمًا عَلَيَّ وَصَبْرًا لَوْعَةُ الْفِرَاقِ تَنْهَشُ كَالْأَسَدِ وَالْحُزْنُ فِي الْبُعْدِ مَوْتٌ كَالرُّوحِ حِينَ تُنْزَعُ مِنَ الْجَسَدِO night
Slow your resolve, O night, and spend your hours freely, forever. Hold in your darkness a heart ablaze with the fire of longing. Let me grow drunk on her lips and lose myself in the red of her cheek. I long for her whisper and her laugh, her silence, her voice, her black hair. In my exile she became a homeland; in her embrace, my refuge, like a cradle. O night, do not hurry the parting; go gently on a heart and soul split open. Mercy on me, and patience; the ache of parting tears like a lion. And grief in distance is a death, like the soul as it is pulled from the body. A rendering, not a translation.Listen soon
شَعَائِرُ حُبٍّ
يَا صَاحِبِي دَعْنِي أَتْلُو عَلَيْكَ مِنْ سِنِينِي قِصَّةً تَنْجُو بِبَصِيصِهَا وَتَهْتَدِي وَإِنْ لَمْ تَرَ فِي حِكْمِهَا مَرْجِعًا فَدَعْكَ مِنِّي وَاشْرُدِ إِنْ أَرَدْتَ فِي الْعِشْقِ مَضْجَعًا أَمْ قَصَدْتَ الْحُبَّ لِمَوْعِدِ وَسِرْتَ فِي الْهَوَى غَاسِقًا حَتَّى صَارَ لَيْلُكَ بِسَرْمَدِي وَإِنْ رَاقَ لَكَ الْمُحَيَّا مَهْجَعًا وَصَدْرُهَا الدَّافِئُ كَمَرْقَدِ أَقْبِلْ عَلَى ثَغْرِهَا مُولِجًا لَهْفَةَ الْمُسْتَهَامِ الْمُتَكَتِّمِ اِسْرِقْ مِنْ خَصْرِهَا قَبْضَةً تُسْكِرُهَا لَذَّةً فَتُتَمْتِمِ وَاجْعَلْ مِنْ نَحْرِهَا قِبْلَةً لِصَلَاةِ عَاشِقٍ مُتَمَرِّدِRites of love
My friend, let me recite to you a story from my years, by whose glimmer you will be saved, and find your way. And if you find no guidance in its wisdom, then leave me be, and wander off. If in passion you looked for a place to lie, or set out toward love for a meeting, and walked through desire into the dark until your night had no end; and if her face pleased you as a place to rest, her warm chest as a bed, then come to her lips, carrying the hunger of the lovesick who keeps his secret. Steal from her waist a handful that makes her drunk with pleasure, and she murmurs. And make of her throat a qibla for the prayer of a rebel lover.
لَا يُجْفِلْكَ أَنِينُهَا خَوْفًا
فَهَذَا احْتِدَامٌ بِلَا مَرَضِ
قَبِّلِ الْمَلْمَسَ مُسْرِفًا
وَحَتَّى مَا اسْتَتَرَ مِنَ الْجَسَدِ
انْزِعْ مِنَ الْمَلْبَسِ مُقْتَطِعًا
كَجُوعٍ سَنَّ أَنْيَابَ الْأَسَدِ
رِقَّةٌ تَلْوَى شِدَّةً حِينًا
تُشْعِلُ نَارَهَا فَتَنْتَفِضِ
وَإِنْ جِئْتَ تَغْمِسُ الْآهَ مُحْتَرِبًا
أَكْمِلِ الطَّعْنَ لِلتَّنَهُّدِ
وَإِذْ جَادَكَ اللَّيْلُ تَكْرَارًا
فَهَذِهِ شَعَائِرُ حُبٍّ مُتَّقِدِ.
Do not let her moan startle you into fear;
this is a blaze, and no sickness.
Kiss every touch, without restraint,
even what the body keeps hidden.
Pull the clothes away, tearing,
like a hunger that sharpened a lion’s teeth.
Tenderness bends to force at times,
lights her fire, and she trembles.
And if you come, plunging into the sigh, at war,
see it through until the breath gives way.
And when the night is generous with you, again and again,
these are the rites of a burning love.
A rendering, not a translation.
١١
Listen soon
رَجَاءُ الرَّاجِي
تُقْتَلُ الأَحْضَانُ قَهْرًا فَتَنْزِفُ القُلُوبُ حُزْنا، مَاضٍ يَبْتَسِمُ وَيَمْضِي وَحَاضِرٌ يَبْكِي لِمَا كُنَّا. فِي عُنُقِهَا مَلَاذُ خَدِّي هَوَتْ لَهُ الرُّوحُ سُكنى عَجَّ صَدْرِي شوقاً أَخْفَى أنينهُ الصّدْرُ.. وَغَنَّى كَقَيْسٍ يَهْذِي بِلَيْلَاهُ فَأَضْنَاهُ الفِرَاقُ جُنُونا يَا حَسْنَاءُ.. مَا لَكِ لَا تَزُورِينَ وَقَدْ زَارَنِي الأَنَامُ هَوْنا ذِرَاعَايَ أَعْيَاهُمَا الوُصُولُ كَمَصْلُوبٍ أُنَاجِي العَوْنَا أَطْبَعُ فِي الخَيَالِ رجاءً ورجاءُ الرَّاجِي.. حُضْنَThe hope of one who hopes
Embraces are killed by sorrow, and hearts bleed grief. A past smiles, and walks on, a present weeps for what we were. In her neck, my cheek's refuge; my soul fell into it, a home. My chest roared with longing, the chest hid its moan.. and sang. Like Qays, raving of his Layla, worn by parting into madness. O beautiful one.. why do you not visit, when the world has visited me, gently? My arms are worn out from reaching; like one crucified, I call out for help. In my imagination I print a hope, and the hope of one who hopes.. an embrace. A rendering, not a translation.٣رَحِيلLeaving
مَاتَ الوَعْدْ، وَمَاذَا بَعْدْ
ثُورِي
ثُورِي ثُورِي وَاقْتُلِينِي نَثْرًا دَمِّرِينِي شِعْرًا بَعْثِرِينِي غَضَبًا فَوْقَ السُّطُورِ ثُورِي فَقَلَمُكِ سِلَاحٌ يَزِيدُنِي جِرَاحًا يَغُوصُ فِي عُرُوقِي فَتَسْتَلِذِّينَ بِالسُّرُورِ تَحَرَّرِي مِنِّي عَسَى حُرِّيَّتُكِ هٰذِهِ تُعِيدُ لِقَلْبِكِ بَعْضَ النَّبْضِ وَسَأَبْقَى أَنَا وَحِيدًا خَلْفَ قُضْبَانِ الْوَرَقِ سَجِينًا لِلْأَبَدِ عَلَى مَدَى الدُّهُورِRise up
Rise up. Rise up, and kill me in prose, destroy me in verse, scatter me in anger across the lines. Rise up. Your pen is a weapon that deepens my wounds, that dives into my veins, and you savour the joy of it. Break free of me. Perhaps this freedom of yours will give your heart back some of its beat, and I will stay alone behind the bars of paper, a prisoner forever, for all the ages.
ثُورِي
وَاعْقِدِي الرَّحِيلَ
أَضِيعِينِي
فَرُبَّمَا عِنْدَمَا أَضِيعُ مِنْكِ.. سَتَجِدِينَكِ
وَتَجِدِينَ فَنَّكِ
وَسَتَعْرِفِينَكِ كَمَا عَرَفْتُكِ أَنَا
وَألِفُتُكِ كَالْوَطَنِ
فَأَصْبَحْتِ لِيَ وَطَنا
كُلَّ يَوْمٍ فِي عِشْقِكِ عِيدٌ
وَكُلُّ مُغْرَمٍ فِيكِ شَهِيدٌ
وَكُلُّ قَصَّاصٍ غَفُورْ
فَثُورِي!
Rise up,
and set out on your leaving.
Lose me.
Perhaps when I am lost to you.. you will find yourself,
and find your art,
and know yourself the way I knew you,
and grew used to you, like a homeland,
until you became my homeland.
Every day of loving you is a feast,
every lover lost in you, a martyr,
and every avenger, forgiving.
So rise up!
A rendering, not a translation.
١٥
وَهَلْ يُعْقَلْ؟
يُقالُ إِنَّ الهَوَى قَصْرٌ جَمِيلْ فِي أَرْوِقَتِهِ الأَرْوَاحُ تَمِيلْ وَتَهِيمُ بِنَشْوَةٍ إِلَى مَنْ يَهْوَاهَا أَيْنَ الحُبُّ، أَيْنَ القَلْبُ، وَبِأَيِّ ذَنْبٍ كَانَ يُقْتَلُ يُقالُ إِنَّ العِشْقَ مَدْرَسَةُ القُلُوبْ فِي صُفُوفِهَا الأَفْئِدَةُ تَذُوبْ مِنْهَا مَنْ يَحْيَا وَمِنْهَا مَنْ يُثْكَلْ مَاتَ الوَعْدْ وَمَاذَا بَعْدْ أَنَنْسَى العَهْدْ وَهَلْ يُعْقَلْ؟ آه… أَنَنْسَى العَهْدْ وهَلْ يُعْقَلْ؟Can it be?
They say love is a beautiful palace; in its halls, souls lean in and drift, intoxicated, toward the one who loves them. Where is love, where is the heart, and for what sin was it killed? They say passion is the school of hearts; in its classrooms, hearts melt. Some of them live, and some are left bereaved. The promise has died, and what comes after? Do we forget the vow? Can it be? Ah… do we forget the vow? Can it be? A rendering, not a translation.٤غِيَابAbsence
كُلُّ شَيْءٍ فِي مَكَانِهِ، إِلَّا أَنَا
لَوْ
لَوْ كَانَ لِلشَّوْقِ وَزْنٌ لَكَانَ كَالْجَبَلِ ثِقْلَاهُ فِي قِمَّتِهِ ذِئْبٌ يَعْوِي يَنُوحُ، يَبْكِي مَثْوَاهُ مُسْتَقِرٌّ فِي رُبُوعِهِ الثَّرَى جَافٌّ يَسْتَنْجِدُ سُقْيَاهُ لَوْ كَانَ لِلشَّوْقِ عُمْرٌ لَأَهْلَكَ الدَّهْرُ مُحَيَّاهُ عُرُوقٌ فِي عُنُقِهِ تَحْكِي مَا ضَجَّ فِي صَدْرِهِ وَأَخْفَاهُ كَشِعْرٍ يَرْجُو أَنْ يُكْتَبَ فَضَّهُ الْأَلَمُ وَمَحَاهُIf
If longing had weight, its burden would be a mountain’s; on its peak a wolf howls, mourning, weeping for its resting place. The soil settles across its lands, dry, begging to be watered. If longing had an age, time would have ruined its face; veins in its neck tell what clamoured in its chest, and what it hid, like a poem hoping to be written, broken open by pain, and erased.
لَوْ كَانَ لِلشَّوْقِ صَوْتٌ
لَبَكَى الصَّمْتُ مِنْ نَجْوَاهُ
وَارْتَجَفَ اللَّيْلُ إِنْ نَادَى
وَغَابَ الْفَجْرُ عَنْ مَرْآهُ
كَدُعَاءٍ تَاهَ فِي صَدْرٍ
فَلَا يَنْطِقُ وَلَا مَنْ يَسْمَعُ نِدَاهُ
لَوْ كَانَ لِلشَّوْقِ وَطَنٌ
لَكَانَ قَلْبُكِ مَأْوَاهُ
يَعُودُ إِلَيْهِ كُلَّمَا تَاهَ
وَيَضِيعُ حِينَ لَا يَلْقَاهُ
وَمَا أَوْجَعَ الشَّوْقَ إِلَّا
أَنَّ مَنْ يَهْوَاهُ لَا يَهْوَاهُ
If longing had a voice,
silence would weep at its whisper,
the night would shudder when it called,
and dawn would vanish from its sight,
like a prayer lost inside a chest
that cannot speak, with no one to hear it call.
If longing had a homeland,
your heart would be its shelter;
it returns there whenever it is lost,
and is lost when it cannot find it.
And nothing hurts longing more
than that the one it loves does not love it back.
A rendering, not a translation.
١٩
عَلَى قَيْدِ الانْتِظَارِ
وَإِذَا بِالوَعْدِ يَتَعَلَّمُ الرَّحِيلَ دُونَ أَنْ يَقُولَ الوَدَاعَ مَا كُنْتُ أَعْرِفُ أَنَّ الغِيَابَ قَدْ يَكُونُ ثَقِيلًا إِلَى هَذَا الحَدِّ كُنْتُ أَظُنُّهُ مَسَافَةً فَإِذَا بِهِ ضَيَاعٌ فِي البُعْدِ تَرَكْتِ البَيْتَ وَبَقِيَ صَوْتُكِ مُعَلَّقًا فِي الجُدْرَانِ كُلُّ شَيْءٍ فِي مَكَانِهِ إِلَّا أَنَاAlive in the waiting
And suddenly the promise learns to leave without saying goodbye. I did not know that absence could weigh this much. I thought it was a distance, and it turned out to be a loss inside the far. You left the house, and your voice stayed hanging on the walls. Everything is in its place except me.
كُوبُكِ
مَا زَالَ يَنْتَظِرُ
وَالسَّرِيرُ
يَعْرِفُ أَنَّ النَّوْمَ
لَمْ يَعُدْ يَأْتِي هُنَا
وَأَمْشِي فِي البَيْتِ
كَأَنِّي ضَيْفٌ
أَطَالَ البَقَاءَ
وَنَسِيَ الرَّحِيلَ
أَفْتَحُ النَّوَافِذَ
لَعَلَّ الهَوَاءَ
يُعِيدُ شَيْئًا مِنْكِ
فَلَا يَدْخُلُ
سِوَى المَزِيدِ مِنَ الغِيَابِ
وَأُحَاوِلُ أَنْ أَنْسَى
فَتَخُونُنِي التَّفَاصِيلُ
رَائِحَةٌ فِي ثَوْبٍ
شَعْرَةٌ عَلَى الوِسَادَةِ
وَاسْمُكِ
كُلَّمَا أَرَدْتُ أَنْ أَقُولَ
شَيْئًا لِأَحَدٍ
Your cup
is still waiting,
and the bed
knows that sleep
no longer comes here.
I walk through the house
like a guest
who stayed too long
and forgot to leave.
I open the windows
hoping the air
might bring back something of you,
but nothing comes in
except more absence.
I try to forget,
and the details betray me:
a scent on a shirt,
a hair on the pillow,
and your name
whenever I want to say
something to anyone.
٢١
لَمْ أَكُنْ أَعْلَمُ
أَنَّ لِلذِّكْرَى يَدًا
تَمْتَدُّ فِي اللَّيْلِ
لِتُوقِظَ مَا ظَنَنْتُهُ نَائِمًا
أُحَدِّثُكِ أَحْيَانًا
وَأَنْسَى
أَنَّكِ لَسْتِ هُنَا
أَسْأَلُكِ عَنْ يَوْمِكِ
ثُمَّ أَنْتَظِرُ
وَكَأَنَّ الصَّمْتَ
سَيَرُدُّ عَلَيَّ
إِنْ أَمْهَلْتُهُ قَلِيلًا
وَكُلَّمَا دُقَّ البَابُ
يَسْبِقُنِي قَلْبِي إِلَيْهِ
ثُمَّ يَعُودُ
أَكْثَرَ وَحْدَةً مِنِّي
يَقُولُونَ
إِنَّ الوَقْتَ يُعَلِّمُنَا النِّسْيَانَ
وَهَا أَنَا
أَتَعَلَّمُ كُلَّ يَوْمٍ
كَيْفَ أَعِيشُ
دُونَ أَنْ أَنْسَى
I did not know
that memory has a hand
that reaches out at night
to wake what I thought was asleep.
Sometimes I talk to you
and forget
that you are not here.
I ask about your day,
then I wait,
as if the silence
would answer me
if I gave it a moment.
Whenever someone knocks at the door
my heart gets there before me,
then comes back
lonelier than I am.
They say
time teaches us to forget.
And here I am,
learning every day
how to live
without forgetting,
٢٢
وَكَيْفَ أَضَعُ رَأْسِي
عَلَى وِسَادَةٍ
مَا زَالَ نِصْفُهَا
يَنْتَظِرُكِ
وَكَيْفَ يَمُرُّ العُمْرُ،
وَلَا يَمُرُّ ذَلِكَ اليَوْمُ
الَّذِي خَرَجْتِ فِيهِ
وَأَخَذْتِ مَعَكِ
شَيْئًا مِنِّي
لَمْ أَعْرِفِ اسْمَهُ
إِلَّا حِينَ فَقَدْتُهُ
وَالآنَ
حِينَ يَسْأَلُونَنِي
كَيْفَ أَنَا
أَقُولُ
بِخَيْرٍ
لِأَنَّنِي لَا أَعْرِفُ
كَيْفَ أَشْرَحُ لَهُمْ
أَنَّ الإِنْسَانَ
قَدْ يَبْقَى فِي مَكَانِهِ
وَيَرْحَلُ
كُلُّ مَا فِيهِ.
how to lay my head
on a pillow
whose other half
is still waiting for you,
how a lifetime passes
and that day does not pass,
the day you walked out
and took with you
something of me
I did not know the name of
until I lost it.
And now,
when they ask me
how I am,
I say
fine,
because I do not know
how to explain to them
that a person
can stay where he is
while everything in him
leaves.
A rendering, not a translation.
٢٣
٥صَحْوَةAwakening
فَانْهَضْ، وَدَعْ لِلرِّيحِ حِمْلَ مَا مَضَى
أَلَمْ يَكُنْ إِبْلِيسُ جَمِيلًا
تَقْتَاتُ عَلَى دُمُوعِي تِلْكَ الْوُعُودْ وَتَنْهَشُ مِنْ أَحْزَانِي مَا تَتَشَهَّى تَنْحَرُ وَتَغْرِسُ أَنْيَابَهَا كَالْأُسُودْ وَمِنْ دِمَاءِ فُؤَادِي كَالسَّبِيلِ تُسْقَى عَلَى شِفَاهِ كُلِّ لَيْثٍ جَحُودْ حُمْرَةٌ غَنَّاءُ كَالدِّهَانِ تَبْقَى وُحُوشٌ نَكْرَاءُ فِي خُبْثِهَا اللَّدُودْ صَدِيقٌ أَبْكَمُ وَآخَرُ أَعْمَى كَمْ مِنْ خِلٍّ ادَّعَى الْوَدُودْ وَكَانَ فِي عَبَقِ صَمِيمِهِ الْمَكْرُ يَتَرَاءَى لَكَ لِلْعُدْوَانِ صُدُودْ وَهُوَ الْعُدْوَانُ وَالطَّعْنُ وَالْفِرْقَى تَحْسَبَنَّ الشَّمْسَ نُورًا خَمودْ وَالشَّمْسُ فِي حَمِيمِهَا الْبَلْوَى لَيْسَ كُلُّ جَمِيلٍ يَا صَاحِ حَمُودْ أَلَمْ يَكُنْ إِبْلِيسُ جَمِيلًا فَأَغْوَى؟Wasn't Iblis beautiful
Those promises feed on my tears, and tear from my sorrows whatever they crave. They slaughter, and sink their fangs like lions, and drink my heart’s blood as if from a fountain. On the lips of every ungrateful lion a lush red lingers, like paint. Hideous beasts in their bitter malice: one friend mute, another blind. How many a companion claimed to be loving, while deceit was the scent of his core. He seems to turn away from aggression, yet he is the aggression, the stab, the parting. You would think the sun a light gone out, yet in the sun’s own heat lies the ordeal. Not all that is beautiful, my friend, is praiseworthy. Wasn’t Iblis beautiful, and so he led astray? A rendering, not a translation.نِصْفُ الْفَنِّ كَذِبٌ
قَالَتْ: مُبَالَغَتُكَ هَذِهِ.. تُشْعِرُنِي بِالْغَثَيَانِ. أَتَعْلَمُ.. فِي الْبِدَايَةِ/ أَوْ حَتَّى مَا قَبْلَ فَصْلِ التَّصَنُّعِ الَّذِي تَمُرُّ بِهِ شَدَدْتَنِي كَقِطْعَةٍ فَنِّيَّةٍ غَيْرِ مَفْهُومَةٍ وَلَيْسَتْ كَامِلَةً وَاثِقَةٍ مِنْ قِيمَتِهَا.. بِلَا عُرُوضٍ تَرْوِيجِيَّةٍ بَسِيطَةِ الْأَلْوَانِ.. عَمِيقَةِ الْمَعْنَى لَا تَتْبَعُ أَيَّ مَعَايِيرَ.. كُنْتَ أَنْتَ.. أَنْتَ وَكَفَى.Half of art is a lie
She said: This exaggeration of yours.. makes me feel sick. You know.. at the beginning/ or even before this season of pretending you are going through, you drew me in like a work of art, not understood, and not complete, sure of its worth.. with no promotional offers, simple in colour.. deep in meaning, following no standards.. you were you.. just you, and that was enough.
فَرَدَدْتُ:
لِصَرَاحَةٍ اعْتَدْتِهَا مِنِّي..
مُرَادِي أَنْ أَكْرَهَ كَلَامَكِ الْمُبَعْثَرَ هَذَا وَهُوَ يُحَاوِلُ أَنْ يَخُطَّ الْمَعْنَى دُونَ جَدْوَى
وَأُقَطِّعَهُ حَرْفًا حَرْفًا ثُمَّ أَنْثُرَهُ فِي جَحِيمِ الرُّومَانْسِيَّةِ الْمَنْسِيَّةِ
أَوْ فِي بَطْنِ حُوتٍ يَغُوصُ إِلَى أَعْمَاقِ الْبِحَارِ
بَعِيدًا عَنْ شَوَاطِئِي النَّرْجِسِيَّةِ
فَلَا أَنَا بِتَابِعٍ لِأَيِّ مَعَايِيرَ
وَلَا مُرَوِّجٍ لِنَفْسِي بِعُرُوضٍ بَلْهَاءَ
وَلَسْتُ حَتَّى بِقِطْعَةٍ فَنِّيَّةٍ
بَلْ أَنَا نَتِيجَةُ دَهْرٍ وَمَا سَوَّاهُ
أَفَلَا تَعْلَمِينَ بِأَنَّ الْعَيْنَ تَرَى مَا يَبْتَغِيهِ الْفُؤَادُ؟
حِينًا ابْتَغَى الْفَنَّ فَانْتَشَى، وَأَحْيَانًا عَبَثُ الضِّحْكَةِ أَغْوَاهُ
فَلَا تَلُومِي مُبَالِغًا إِنْ بَالَغَ بِفَنِّهِ
فَنِصْفُ الْفَنِّ كَذِبٌ
وَنِصْفُهُ الْآخَرُ فِي قُرَّةِ مَنْ يَرَاهُ.
So I replied:
With the frankness you are used to from me..
what I want is to hate these scattered words of yours as they try, in vain, to write a meaning,
to cut them up letter by letter, then scatter them in the hell of forgotten romance,
or in the belly of a whale diving to the depths of the seas,
far from my narcissistic shores.
I follow no standards,
I do not sell myself with foolish offers,
I am not even a work of art;
I am what an age made, and all it shaped.
Do you not know the eye sees what the heart desires?
At times it desired art, and was elated; at times the play of a laugh seduced it.
So do not blame one who exaggerates in his art:
half of art is a lie,
and the other half is in the delight of whoever sees it.
A rendering, not a translation.
٢٧
بَرِيءٌ يُعْدَمْ
بَرِيءٌ يُعْدَمْ، بِالنَّارِ يُضْرَمْ رَايَةٌ بَيْضَاءُ تُرْفَعُ، جَبَّارٌ يُهْزَمْ ذَاكَ الشَّابُّ الَّذِي شَابَ كَاهِلٌ عَاهِلٌ مُحَطَّمْ نَبْضُ قَلْبِهِ يَخْفِتُ، وَضِحْكَتُهُ تُكْتَمْ مِنْ جَوْفِ صَدْرِهِ صَرْخَةٌ بَيْنَ أَضْلُعِهِ تُدْفَنْ كَانَ لَهُ حُلْمٌ يُدَاعِبُ مُقْلَتَيْهِ وَكَانَ لَهُ غَدٌ، قَبْلَ أَنْ يُعْدَمْ فَمَا ذَنْبُ مَنْ لَمْ يَعِشْ بَعْدُ أَنْ يُوَارَى قَبْلَ أَنْ يَحْلُمْ؟ وَفِي صَمْتِ الْجُمُوعِ تَضِيعُ حِكَايَتُهُ فَلَا شَاهِدٌ يَنْطِقُ، وَلَا الشَّهِيدُ يَعْلَمْ كَأَنَّ مَوْتَ الْبَرِيءِ خَبَرٌ عَابِرٌ يُرْوَى قَلِيلًا، ثُمَّ يُنْسَى وَيُرْدَمْAn innocent executed
An innocent is executed, set alight by fire; a white flag is raised, a tyrant brought down. That young man who turned grey, a shoulder, a king, broken. The beat of his heart fades, and his laughter is muffled; from deep in his chest a scream is buried between his ribs. He had a dream that played across his eyes, and he had a tomorrow, before he was executed. So what is the crime of one who has not yet lived, to be buried before he could dream? In the silence of the crowds his story is lost: no witness speaks, and not even the martyr knows, as if the death of an innocent were passing news, told for a moment, then forgotten under rubble.
وَإِنْ أَخْمَدُوا فِي عَيْنَيْهِ ضَوْءَ الْحَيَاةِ
فَلَيْسَ كُلُّ نُورٍ بِالْمَوْتِ يُعْدَمْ
قَدْ يُدْفَنُ الْجَسَدُ تَحْتَ التُّرَابِ
لَكِنَّ ذَنْبَ الْقَاتِلِ لَا يُدْفَنْ.
فَهَذِي الطُّغَاةُ فِي رُبُوعِهِ تَمْشِي
أَهِيَ وُحُوشٌ تَنْهَشُ أَمْ مَلَائِكَةٌ تَطْعَنْ؟
And if they put out the light of life in his eyes,
not every light is ended by death;
the body may be buried beneath the soil,
but the killer’s crime is never buried.
So these tyrants walking through his land:
are they beasts that maul, or angels that stab?
A rendering, not a translation.
٢٩
عَلَى ضِفَافِ الْغَرَقِ
أَرَاكَ رَسَوْتَ فِي حِضْنِ الْمَآسِي عُمْرًا فَتَشْقَى هَلْ قَادَكَ الشِّرَاعُ إِلَيْهِ أَمْ رَاقَ لَكَ الْمَرْسَى؟ حِينًا تُصَارِعُ الرِّيَاحَ لِكَيْ تَنْجُو وَأَحْيَانًا يُدْمِيكَ الِاسْتِسْلَامُ فَتَنْسَى أَرَاكَ رَافِعًا رَايَاتٍ بِيضًا، مُنَادِيًا لِسَامِعٍ أَوْ لِشَاهِدٍ تُنَاجِيهِ الْأُنْسَ. دَعْكَ مِنْ هَمٍّ ذُقْتَهُ دَمْعًا يُوَارَى... وَغَنِّ فَدُمُوعُ الْهُمُومِ، يَا صَاحِ، جَلَامِيدُ لَا تُحْصَى. وَمَا كُلُّ مَنْ أَرْخَى شِرَاعًا قَدِ اسْتَرَاحَ وَلَا كُلُّ مَنْ لَامَسَ الشُّطْآنَ قَدْ نَجَا فَبَعْضُ الْمَرَافِئِ تُخْفِي فِي سُكُونِهَا بِحَارًا مِنَ الْحُزْنِ لَا تُرَى فَانْهَضْ، وَدَعْ لِلرِّيحِ حِمْلَ مَا مَضَى وَارْفَعْ شِرَاعَكَ وَلَا تَخْشَ الْمَدَى فَلَيْسَ الْغَرِيقُ مَنْ عَانَقَ الْمَوْجَ يَوْمًا بَلْ مَنْ رَأَى الشَّطَّ، وَاخْتَارَ أَنْ يَبْقَىOn the banks of drowning
You anchored a lifetime in the arms of sorrow, and so you suffer. Did the sail lead you there, or did the harbour please you? At times you wrestle the winds to survive, and at times surrender wounds you, and you forget. I see you raising white flags, calling out to a listener or a witness, begging for company. Leave the sorrow you tasted as hidden tears... and sing, for sorrow’s tears, my friend, are countless boulders. Not everyone who lowers a sail has found rest, nor has everyone who touched the shore been saved; some harbours hide in their stillness seas of grief that cannot be seen. So rise, and leave the wind the weight of what has passed, raise your sail, and do not fear the distance, the drowned is not the one who once embraced the waves, but the one who saw the shore, and chose to stay. A rendering, not a translation.٣١
AK.ahmadkammoun.com
Coverكلمات
Tap a page, swipe, or use the arrow keys