Bolero in Najd

                     Bolero in Najd

Bolero was there

dear Najd

under your bluer

than blue skies

under your old

and young stars

for you

and only you

to hold dear

and cheer

For you to wear

and to carry afar

and to leer

that lonely scar

with no one to share

Bolero was there

dear Najd

Bolero was there

From your high and low lands

high and low years

and their tears

were born

one precious drop by one

unfeathered and lonely

like your desert flower

a rare arabian beauty

from this earth laced its solemn

Shy like your desert rain

among your ageless wadis

Jumana was born

Jumana of Najd

as she will always be known

singular and blessed

a rare arabian beauty

on this earth as in heaven

In Najd

Jumana was everywhere

like its sun

in its moving sand

and in its restless air

Jumana was everywhere

in its stubborn wadis

that she wears as beauty scars

across this sacred land

adored with heavenly stars

its stand

against time and bliss

Jumana was everywhere

like a cosmic

eternal kiss

upon this land of

Najd

Jumana was everywhere

before time learned onto who to stare

and with whom to share

her eternal beauty

and her celestial grace

her gift and bounty

to her chosen place

Jumana of Najd 

Eyes meet across time

Jumana's and his

two novae not of this earth

a singular moment of an unwritten history

a moment of birth

a beginning of another surreal Najd story

to be written by both

like none before

or since

save

Leila and her Kayss

Eyes meet across time

Jumana's and his

in a timeless land

under timeless skies

a moment of birth

of an eternal prize

from this giving land

that is Najd

Now feathered and together

Jumana and he

take to the skies

still sands and

white air

below

and above

all the heavens to show

Sphere onto sphere

they roam

as princess

and her emir

suns young and old steal a glance

with light from their distance untrue

Do you see Miro

molding his Milky Way

dear Jumana? he calls

or Dali dragging his Virgo?

Can you spell Leila in the stars of Hydra

dear Jumana? he calls

or Kayss chasing those rays for you in Antlia

like Duchamp's dream brush

one primal ray by ray

one rebellious star by star

he trawls

all provoked together for you to wear

in extreme lush

a necklace

for a princess

made in the heavens

for you dear Jumana

he sighs just for you

To steal a tethered stare

on your journey home

to the land of Najd

streaming hair in starry wind by hair

stripped bare

of envious space and time

only primal meaning and rhyme

will tie you always to me

he sighs

like your gentle smiles that hide our dreams from the night  

dear Jumana

till our desert sky disinherits this ancient sea

and our desert sun its lucent light

Bolero's tunes

were there

through Jumana of Najd

in those hidden chimes in her skies

and in her forbidden morphing dunes

in Jumana's eyes

playing those tunes

with her silent

rhythmical sighs

Bolero's tunes

were latent

in your dunes

Najd

and nascent

in Jumana's tears

tunes of drops gently falling onto dunes

drop by drop

dunes sculpt the desert image

of a celestial gift

Jumana's tears

and Bolero's tunes are one

with your dunes

a cosmic union

re-written anew in Najd

to usher in tear and silt

her unrehearsed

impending death

that looms closer and closer

to be the fore

of a triad

that is forever unversed

Jumana of Najd

you have been chosen to soar

In a singular moment of an unwritten history

unfolds a new surreal Najd tragedy

his Jumana ascends to skies he cannot reach

to heights Bolero cannot climb

and depths no tunes can breach

Jumana of Najd

can you hear me? he calls

Silent and abandoned

he falls

as does his meaning and rhyme

never stopped searching for that boundary

between the real and the imaginary

where he has seen her face countless times

in stars

dead and alive

and in his empty words and orphan rhymes

and has sensed her eyes countless flights

in cosmic sighs

near and far

but never close enough

to arrive

Can you hear me? he calls

his Jumana of Najd

He lolls for an answer

a whisper

enough to alter

this reality

of a singular moment of history

of a singular tragedy

whose lyrics were woven

by Jumana and he

to the tunes of Bolero

for a story stolen

and was never meant to be

because of one ascended

and the other subtended

in a surreal Najd tragedy

Jumana of Najd can you hear me? he calls

silent and abandoned

he falls

a final fall

to his abyss

his meanings shattered

and his rhymes torn

sands shifted

in the only form they know

death to call

less

his Jumana unborn

and an orphaned

Bolero in Najd

for all.

The Color of Our Zayt and Za'tar

The Color of Our Zayt and Za'tar


When the celestial colors fuse
they choose yours
an unforgiving cosmic green
with depths and wounds (un)seen 
as it has always looked
gleamed off your homeless eyes
and will always do
till time dies (un)foreseen
To us 
zaytooni and fest
yet dark and distant
to the rest
When they blink in hymn
those homeless eyes
two celestial fires 
are lit by them 
and sent far and near
across a dream sphere
where colors mingle and dance in cheer
looking for that qamar
that is our zayt and za'tar
Sheltered they shall find it
on the surreal side 
of those homeless eyes
from us
from time
and from the rest
who had long lost that polished guise
while they roamed
for that ancestral home
those homeless eyes 
who made zayt and za'tar
with light 
love
color and
sighs
Sheltered they shall find it
atop the celestial dome
waiting
a quiet fetal wait
of a frozen fate
in those homeless eyes
that have always embraced all
truths and lies
with no history to revise
and no future to surmise
Zaytooni they cry
tears now void of how and why
that cut a primal (un)holy river
across the dream sphere
through it they (un)flow
(un)chosen sad and bitter
on land barren
and under skies of fear
Destinies (un)reached
and promises breached
they (un)flow
their traceless steps (un)fold
despite time
despite fate
and despite all myths that are told
and sold
with both love and hate
Yours is the zaytooni
I seek
that some claim and others (un)claim
but both wreak
all that (un)holy fame
and shame
upon the color of
my zayt and za'tar
Yours is the zaytooni 
I wish to become
a timeless color
in a timeless dictum
of a word
of a poem
that belongs to another
who will never know
be or see
the color of our zayt and za'tar. 

Without a Protocol

    Without a Protocol


The blue sun shines down 
like it did for millennia
Its striped rays slice a bewildered landscape 
of half memories and orphaned reality   
Stripes of alternating blue   
covers my land and time 
In absentia  
where time is collated and 
my land 
violated 
without a protocol 


Of which half is half memories?
The shade of blue which I cannot name
or the dark one that hides in shame 
Which half is true?  
Which half is blue?
They stare at me as equal
as dual
I stare back 
but without a measure
or a protocol
the verdict is cruel
and one half cannot rule 


Collated time cannot carry events
that stretch across two scapes
two calendars
or two fates
It can carry half memories
across two suns
one blue and the other
less true
whose fates were once interwind
one of the other
but now severed
without a protocol



The orphaned reality endures
Its event streams 
and dreams
are gathered blindfolded
on a half stage 
and scolded 
under the blue sun
under the cusp of empty cheers
for what remains
to kneel and be one
with the half-forgotten realities 
and half memories
quietly and  
without a protocol  


Where do memories go to die?
Like dreams under the blue sun
or ether 
onto a sky
that fell?
Where does the other half dwell?
Our hearts
minds
or forever condemned to wander
both parts
without a protocol.



 

An October Birthday

                                     An October Birthday

Atop a special hill many, many years ago when I was nine or so, I sat cross legged among the graceful pines of the lost homeland, dressed in new clothes my mom had bought the day before, along with a wrapped gift. The gift on my lap, I gazed onto the windows and yard of a marble house downhill -  a cool breeze sweeping the pines, sunset yellow and orange reflecting off its windows with silhouettes and murmurs traffic chasing each other.   I had just left the house and the birthday party inside it and walked up the hill to sit among the pines.  The birthday party was for a nine years old girl who lived with her family in our neighborhood, but on the other, gentler side.   I knew the girl but not that well. We may have spoken once or twice before, but it was all from a distance, and always interrupted by everything and everyone else. Our moms, I suspect knew each other well.  The fathers were off in the gulf, working. 


Me and the other boys in our part of the neighborhood often talked about her.  I remember her being stunningly beautiful, graceful, to us nine or ten years old boys.  The older boys in the neighborhood invented myths surrounding her and her family's wealth.  Brazil and Canada are two destinations still resonate in my head. Since she did not go to our school, these myths were the unchallenged currency in our part of the neighborhood. She went to the other school, you see, on the gentler side of town, where the teachers, pupils, even the janitors, spoke only "ingleezy", one of the boys always was keen to remind us.   I mostly listened and nodded when one of them would invent his own, personal story about her, with her, about the two of them.   I kept my own stories to myself.  On few occasions I would glance her from our building, crossing the wide street with her mom, to our side, to my world.  I would keep staring until they both are lost in the crowd beneath our window, and I in my day dreams.   For few passing moments, for real or invented images that I still recall to this day. 

I had arrived at her house dressed in my new clothes, a gift in hand and a wide smile.  I do not remember being nervous or even restless, just anxious may be, with hope and anticipation.  I rang the big green metal door, her mom opened the door revealing a well lit hallway and a large dining room in the background with dark, oversized furniture, along with a colorfully decorated table in the middle with gifts on it and balloons and kids in bright looking new clothes all around it. The mom pointed me to the big room and dashed off.  For whatever reason, I expected her to open the door. She did not.  I expected her to be in the middle of that big room, she was not.  I toured the house, gift in hand and a frozen smile looking for her. She was no where to be found.  Suddenly, I hear a familiar laugh coming from outside the house. I rushed to the "baranda" and looked over the yard, and there she was.  Surrounded by no less than a dozen boys and girls, in loud but cheerful voices and chaotic gestures.  I began to open my mouth, to raise my arm, to alert her to my presence, up here, on the "baranda". I did not though.  I must have felt it was futile, or too late. I looked at the wrapped gift and headed to the table to put it there, next to the other gifts.  I did not. I headed to the front door instead, down the wide stone stairs and  around the house, then up the hill to the pines.

I sat cross legged between the pines gazing down at the house.  I could feel the commotion downhill, coming from the house, but could not see or hear any one, not her.  I found a twig I used to a dig a small hole that I was able to bury the unopened gift in.  I gathered few brisk pine needles to cover the dirt with. I got up, moved down the hill in the other direction of the house and headed home.  I do not recall my mom or any one else asking about the birthday party, the unopened gift, her, then or since.  Thirty years later on a visit to give a talk to the local university, I went back to the pines and the hill.  I could spot the big house (among many new ones) but not the exact spot where the unopened gift was buried.  I gather someone else had found it, and had given it (back) to her, eventually.  Or not.

I do not know how to under-analyze or over-analyze this October birthday story of mine which, I suspect, every boy at one point or another in his life collected a similar one, every October.  Time again, and again.

I see the passage of time not as an arrow but as a series of footprints, in the sand. Fleeting, disconnected events in an otherwise placid, infinite extant of Octobers. Few are mine to claim.

With those few, I am destined to have a cyclic, ritual dance with two profound sets of footprints in my little corner of this lonely extant. Every October.  They come to be in October by chance. They come to be my destiny may be by chance, may be not, I will never know.  My dance, however, is not.  It is my choice, my whisper, my ritual.  

The dance of those singular footprints, becomes "the arrow", tracing back and forth to where it was, where it could have been.  Where it started and where it ended.  Where it was born and where it was buried.

I fear that I lose a little every October.  I forget a step here, or a whisper there, every October.  One tear less every October.  

How many Octobers are there? Eight or nine? Thirty or forty five? Countless few? How many are truly mine?

Every October, there is a birthday or two.  One (was) mine.

To the Children of Syria (from my safe distance)

                               To the Children of Syria 
                        (from my safe distance)


In whose name they allow themselves to hurt you?
To what end?  To what beginning?  
Have they said as much to you?
Have they counted your tears?
Have they wiped your fears?

From my safe distance I see a tear
in frozen moments and muted fear
among the smoke 
in the rubbles  
Tiny hands clinching
tiny legs racing  
from them 
to them

In whose name they allow themselves to hurt you?
Slogans your tender minds discard
Gestures your tiny big hearts deride  
Silent prosecution
and a noisy salutation
Have they counted those tears? 

From my safe distance I see a tear
a horizon away
from a warm embrace
a touch
a smile
a hug
Did they count those tears?
Did they wipe those fears?

From my safe distance I hear the silence
yours and theirs
canceling each other
forever
Now in Syria

From my safe distance I hear the chant 
for a peace 
that will come
paid 
with your tears
your fears
little ones
Now in Syria

From my safe distance I drop one
or two
for you
little ones
As I did before 
in Basra
and Gaza
Now in Syria

From my safe distance I wonder
now and forever
what have you done to deserve this?
in whose name can anyone answer?
in whose name can anyone muster?
the might to wipe
tiny smiles
hearts 
and tears
In whose eyes can they look counting those tears?

From my safe distance I decree
Now in Syria
innocence is being exchanged
for a past 
for a future
only the little ones can see
despite the smoke
and rubbles
where tears are counted in pairs
and fears
like my safe distance
in light years.

"My Tribute to the Teacher: Fahim Qubain (1924-2012)"

           "My Tribute to the Teacher: Fahim Qubain (1924-2012)"

Heroes and giants amongst us come from near and from afar, across time and space, big and small. They respond to a calling often only they seem to hear and see, while resonating to those needs and aspirations fewer still hold high and dear.  They see beyond the tear and hear beyond the fear.  They see hope where many see despair, tire, and futility. They love when love becomes scarce, impure, and mobile. It has been said that a teacher ("ustaz") is almost a prophet; this is one of those few precious, archiac sayings that must be true. 

Ustaz Fahim, I first met you with that same big smile I see today in my mind's eye.  Little I knew though of the big heart that big smile belonged and returned home to, day after day, after every success and every failure, and after every seed of hope tucked in and lullabied.  Little I knew that I was in the presence of a hero we now celebrate - forgive me, Ustaz.  What I unmistakably saw also was a man who belonged, a man who cared. A man filled with paternal care, with its sweet but tough tenderness. A man who traversed both holy and less-than-holy lands, and who saw holy and less-than-holy injustices.  A man who saw wrong as transient, and right as inevitable as this celebration, this passing, this moment.      

Ustaz Fahim, your journey was long and arduous.  On those parts which I have had the pleasure and honor of witnessing and interacting with you, they seemed alive, colorful, and purposeful.   In and through those fleeting encounters-reflected in your eyes, I could see the color of hope.  Where black and white no longer dominated, no longer dictated.  They became like the others - mere colors. Hope has a color after all, I was taught by Ustaz Fahim. A color like no other, however.  For hope is seeing hope after the dream.  Hope is knowing the road continues after the turn which we cannot see. Beyond the distances which we cannot travel.  Beyond the time which we cannot survive.  Beyond the hearts which we cannot soften.  And, beyond the many injustices which we cannot understand.     

Ustaz Fahim, you have achieved what many of us can only dream of. When Gibran asked, "What destiny will the giants bring the world at the end of their struggles?", Gibran was asking you, Ustaz Fahim; for you, like giants do, have changed the lives of many.  You have made real what was not. You have made alive what was not. You have given so much and shared so dear. For us, the disinherited, whether here in this mahjar or another, you have written the chapter in our enduring saga on love, dedication and vision, amid the rubbles of disinheritance and despair.   Ustaz Fahim, we now understand, "fahmein," like you did.  We now feel like you did.  We now see like you did. This hope that you have breathed life onto, yet once again, cannot but go on, just like that legacy that is "Fahim Qubain." 

                                                                             May 6, 2012

"Consolation for a Silly Day" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                     "Consolation for a Silly Day"


Darkness is approaching from the endless horizon
another strange day is gone
its echoes gone to the caves of memories
and tomorrow shall go as well
just like my life
a thirsting lip and a cup
its bottom reflecting the color of its smell
and when my lips touch it
joy of remembrance they shall not find
pieces, remnants they shall not find

The strange day is gone
it's gone and even the guilts wept
and I wept
and the silly things I call memories wept
it's gone and nothing is left except
the memory of a melody
screaming from the deepest core of me
conosoling all but me
for a  life, for a day of my youth
that is lost
in the valley of the mirages
in the fog

It was a day of my life
lost, I found it
where the pieces of my youth were heaped
where the hill of memories
atop thousands of hours were wandering
in the fog
and in the aisles of departing nights

It was a strange silly day
for the clock to strike and count
moments and days that were never mine
it was a horrible interrogation
for the torn up remnants of my past
by the grave of dead hope
beyond the years and myself

It was a strange silly day till the evening
the hours passed in hidden tears
passed till the evening
when a voice I had lost called me
while darkness stared at the horror
of the horizon
and when all my pains and guilts were gone
and the voice was gone
darkness carried its echoes 
away, from heart's eyes
and nothing is left but
memories and the echoes of a strange day
that like my weaknesses will never return

                                  * * * * 

"Trophies" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                                   "Trophies"

Pass by, if you wish, visionless wordless
pass by, with deepest of the slow silence within you
and the face of the Sphinx carried by you
dragging the ordeals of a heart of ice
be, if you wish, taseless
be, if you wish, autumn
oh! but...throw a shadow

And let your eyes stretch like a horizon
with no light
and fill the universe with the empty laughter of idiots
and never understand the tears
then close your eyes despite pride
and let them be emptiness
a horizon away from any meaning
oh! but...give a colour

And let your past be dead
and hidden by the years and mud
no passion in your heart
but traces of disgraced feelings
let your love be gone with yesterday
oh! but...save a memory

And let the shadow of tomorrow
be death and darkness
and let us live every wound
while time sucks the bones
and leaves them in ruins
let tomorrow be black fog
oh! but...give a dream

Let the secrets of the humiliated past be revealed
and to all eyes legends are exposed
and what time had concealed
were remnants with no structure
let it be clear as never before
oh! but...keep a secret

Let you be a travelling spirit
in a painful silence
with childhood dreams torn by vengeance
of an old wound
and be gone to damn every star and horizon
and melt the night into cups of poison 
let you be remnants with no trace
not even within yourself
oh! but...redeem a heart

In the horror of the night
we have lost the path of tomorrow
and forgotten the serenity of two hearts
of a near yesterday
listen to the whisper of guilts
in a universal silence
and take, if you wish, the cup
and spill what is left
oh! but...save a drop.


                                        * * * *

"Myths" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                      "Myths"

They said life
is the color of dead eyes
is the footsteps of a killer in disguise
and it's wrinkled days
are poisoned garment that shouts of death
and our dreams
are the smiles in ailing eyes
that await their end

They said hope
is the pout of thirsting lips
that taste water in the cup
in a painting on the wall
is the sad wing of the single bird
who circles his fallen nest, and waits
for morning and miracle
that will turn the pieces into home

They said silence
is the stupid myth brought by nobody
that listens with both ears and then
leaves his soul hidden beneath the ashes
the screams of fences that he heard not
and pieces of torn paper, dust
chairs of ancient rooms, and glass
covered with webs of an aging spider
and a coat hung on the wall

They said youth,
but when I asked they spoke of years
that when they come fog escapes
and they spoke of a heaven
behind a mirage
and of an oasis
that when I reached I found the dreams of tomorrow
crucified at the slammed door
of the oasis

They said eternity,
I found it a shadow lying chill
over the cemeteries where life contracts
I found it a word on singing lips
damning their past
singing and dying frivolously 
thay said eternity, I found nothing but death

They said and said
thoughts the winds took up
where death tracks the dull words
the tired who never rest
the lost who nowhere will ever get
that said and I said and nothing to say
such a myth is imagination's irony

                                   * * * *

"The Enemies" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                    "The Enemies"

We are enemies then
from a world without feelings
that does not understand the song of the eyes
the eyes that have no secrets,
and love is a story that is told
of a yesterday that is embraced
by soil and hatred

We are enemies then
vast worlds apart
with lost and vague limits
that make our roads impossible,
but through the long dry ages
we walk
searching for the gate
seduced by our fading love
to the desert

We are enemies then
memories sleeping deep within us
confused paralyzed and lost
shadowed by hatred
and stripped of every shape
and the spell of days
in pieces left every dream

We are enemies then
though by dreams we are bound
dreams from a past left behind
and things forgotten and empty eyes
on fading faces and no sound
like a distant star
receding in the dark

We are enemies then
though with passion we are filled
awake but yet
worlds apart
worlds we feel and know
like the dead beneath the humiliated soil
feel the steps and noise
of life above

                                      * * * * 

"The Beautiful" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                            "The Beautiful"

Crying beyond distances beyond the land
letting your hair fall your hands your tears
against the pillow
why do you cry? Does a beautiful cry?
did they not give you the melodies and songs?
did they not not feed you the letters?
did they spare the words?
oh! beautiful, what the tears for then?

We spared not each lip
to describe your wounds
the description that hurt us and our ears
and when you carried the heavy chains
and thirsty lips longed to a drop of water
and gathered the themes
then said we
shall sing for her
along the nights

Then said we
they made her drink blood with flame
they crucified her on the woods of a cross
while we sang for heroism
"we shall save her"
"we shall save her"
and drowned beyond the horizon of "shall"
amongst the glittering words
and we woke
"long live the beautiful"
"long live the beautiful"

We adored and melted in her smiles
the beauty of the love that chains killed
shall we feed our words
with meanings from her wounds?
is this a place for songs?
hence songs will be shame
and shame let them be
and let them melt against
the nobel wounds of hers

They made her carry the wounds of knives
while we made her carry the wounds of distant
meanings with smiles
oh, shame shame
of the wounds of a beautiful 
   
                                                    * * * *