What is pulling me to poetry more and more as the Syrian trsgedy continues to spiral towards the ultimate, is that poetry invents it own language and speaks with a logic that defies logic in its attempt to confront pain with vision and reality with insight, thus shifting reality to a plane of existence where healing is possible and where the future creates its own imperatives and likelihoods.
When the world fall apart
The Poet
When the world falls apart
When beauty is undone
When love dies
When all feelings are extinguished
When the planet collapses upon itself
When time is shattered and is lost
When fear is upon me
And my soul fragments
When history is expired
And the private and the public are dissolved,
The poet stands atop the ruins of the world
And plucks his kithara
Then he sings
Then he chants
The song of life.
The poet and Ruins of the world
الشاعر
عندما ينهار العالم
عندما يداس البهاء
عندما يموت الحب
عندما يسحق الوجدان
عندما تقف الدنيا هالعة فوق ركامها
عندما ينكسر الزمان ويضيع
عندما ياخذني الروع
وتتفتت روحي
عندما يفنى التاريخ العام والخاص
يركع الشاعر فوق الاطلال
ويشد اوتار قيثارته
ثم يغني ودموعه تضمخ الارض
ثم يغني
ثم ينشد
ثم ينشد انشودة الحياة
The poet and the owls
The poet stood and sang to the stars:
“It all started with poetry
And it shall end with poetry
As befits a poet.”
The poet sang and sang
The poet sang to the sea
And to the owls that
Stood in the pines gazing
Gazing with jewelled eyes.
“I did it, the poet cried. I did it
I returned to Syria the wanderer
For I am love the magician
I move my wand of talismans
And the one that was lost is found
The one with the gift of words is saved.
Then the poet bent his head sorrowfully
And walked into the lonely night,
Lonely are those who love
Lonely are those who carry
The wand that conjures life
For those who are laden with gifts
Are destined to be rent
From heart to soul.
Mankind cannot bear too much reality.
©Alisar Iram
alisariram 