Damascene Poem Nizar Qabbani
This is Damascus
And this is a glass of spirit (comfort)
I am in love – but I am aware of the fact That certain kinds of love Can slaughter you in wrath
I am a Damascene if you dissect me into halves You will have but grapes and apples falling in your path
Open my veins with scalpels Hear ancestral chants
If heart transplants can Cure some of the passionate Why does mine stay torn in half then?
Minarets crying tears of absence when hugging me And like trees their souls speak
For civil rights to live amongst tiers of jasmine As house cats take naps relaxing
Coffee grinders crackling Childhood reminders – back How can I forget?
When my reaction to cardamoms’ strong fragrance yet and still finds attraction
As proud fathers wait For a sweet daughter’s face
I am asking If my roots, heart and language are here
How am I supposed to make myself any more clear? Is clarification necessary With love so dear?
I am asking If my roots, heart and language are here
How am I supposed to make myself any more clear? Is clarification necessary With love so dear?
How many Damascene bracelets were Sold for this poetry here?
Apologising to the willow Wondering if my little siblings can hear
My parts have been scattered across coasts of years Lanterns on horizons floating
Tossed around in shore-less oceans Only to be haunted down by devils and demonic ghosts
I battle ugliness with my poetry and prose Until nawar and beauty open to them
Identity of Arabness resembling a widow though Is there no happiness for the rest of us history books can show?
What will remain of poetry’s originality if so Many liars and deceivers get to have complete control?
How are we ever going to write a verse With locks over our mouths? And when killers still approach?
I bore the burden of my words upon my back until I grieved What shall remain of poetry when it is finally relieved?
Damascene Poem Nizar Qabbani