Arabian Love Poems Nizar Qabbani Pdf Writer

Download Ebook Arabian Love Poems Nizar Qabbani nizar qabbani easily from some device to maximize the technology usage. As soon as you have contracted to create this collection as one of referred book, you can allow some finest for not by yourself your simulation but in addition to your people around. Review: Arabian Love Poems by Nizar Qabbani This translation of Nizar Kabbani’s poetry is accompanied by the striking Arabic texts of the poems, penned by Kabbani especially for this collection. Kabbani was a poet of great simplicity – direct, spontaneous, musical, using the language of everyday life.

Arabian Love Poems Nizar Qabbani Pdf
Arabian Love Poems Nizar Qabbani Pdf Writers

The defeat marked a qualitative shift in Qabbani's work – from erotic love poems to poems with overt political themes of rejectionism and resistance. For instance, his poem Marginal Notes on the Book of Defeat, a stinging self-criticism of Arab inferiority, drew anger from both the right and left sides of the Arab political dialogue.

Granada: A Poem by Nizar Qabbani

A figure by a pool at the Alhambra by Henry Stanier

Granada by Nizar Qabbani

Translated by Habeeb Salloum/Contributing Writer

After touring the Alhambra Palace in Granada with a beautiful Andalusian guide, the Syrian poet Nizar Qabbani wrote:

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting,
How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.
Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing,
Generating after-effects from the past ages afore.
Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring,
She said: Granada is the city where I was bore.
Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering,
In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.
And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying,
Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour.
How strange is history, how is it to me returning?
A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore.
With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing,
The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.
I saw a room in our old house with a clearing,
Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.
And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining,
With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour.
Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing
It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore.
In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing
The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore.
In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming,
Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour.
She came with me and her hair behind her flowing,
Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.
The long earrings on her neck were glittering,
Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.
Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding,
And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.
The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing,
And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow.
She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing,
Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.
Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering,
And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.
If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing,
The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.
When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going,
I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

Alhambra of Granada

A ceiling in Alhambra

Alhambra of Granada

Granada: A Poem by Nizar Qabbani

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting,

How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.

Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing,

Generating after-effects from the past ages afore.

Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring,

She said: Granada is the city where I was bore.

Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering,

In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.

And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying,

Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour.

How strange is history, how is it to me returning?

A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore.

With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing,

The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.

I saw a room in our old house with a clearing,

Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.

And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining,

With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour.

Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing

It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore.

In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing

The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore.

In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming,

Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour.

She came with me and her hair behind her flowing,

Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.

The long earrings on her neck were glittering,

Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.

Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding,

And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.

The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing,

And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow.

She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing,

Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.

Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering,

And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.

If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing,

The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.

When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going,

I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

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