لما إنت ناوي

لما انت ناوي تغيب على طول مش كنت آخر مره تقول
بالليل اسيب نفسي لهمي ولأفكاري افضل افكر فيك وانت ما انت داري

maskeen

مسكين وحالي عدم من كتر هجرانك
ياللي تركت الوطن و الاهل على شانك
قول لي على ورد خدك
و قول لي على حالك
اسمح وطمن فؤادي يا ضياء عيني
وجود بقربك وخليني على بالك


I have always had a love hate relationship with this song for as long as I can remember. I hate the victimization tone, turns me off, but maybe it is Abdelwahab's performance that makes it less weak/pleading than it sounds.

اللي على الناس بيجرى

غاير من اللي هواك قبلي ولو كنت جاهله
يا هل ترى نال رضاك وصادف الحب أهله
مين ده اللي متع عينيه وقلبه بالحب قبلي
ومال فؤادك إليه وصان لك الود مثلي

إن قلت مات اللي فات والقلب عاش من جديد
أقول وفين الثبات وفين صيانة العهود
نسيت غيري وبكره تنسى وأشوف الأسيه
واللي على الناس بيجرى لا بد يجرى علي

أحمد رامي و محمد عبد الوهاب

my problem with Nizar

I have always had a problem with Nizar's poetry. There was something that bothered me but I just could not pinpoint it. So the man loves women, to the point of adoration even, what is MY problem with that exactly?

I cannot deny I liked some of his poetry. I would not seek it though, I would only read what comes my way -whether by chance or recommended-. I have one small booklet for him that a friend bought for me last year (as a joke I think, or as a symbol).

And then, a couple of days back, Mourid Barghouthi is on TV with Radwa Ashour, and he refers to Nizar's opinion about women, and I finally get what has been bothering me. Nizar talks about the perfect woman:

يصف نزار قباني على إنه شاعر الذكر العربي، الذي يصور المرأة دائما ككائن من "مرمر ودانتيل" فلا يعكس في شعره الوجود الواقعي للمرأة ترتدي نظارة أو تقرأ جريدة

This is EXACTLY it. When this person/friend referred me to Nizar, that was my issue. I do not want the "woman/muse" model.. I do not have an issue with being an inspiration or a muse, in fact who wouldn't want to! But I do have an issue with this being what defines me. I have an issue with this forming a screen between "who I am" and "how you perceive me to be". Because I must stay young, and lovely, and sweet, and happy. I _must_ stay this person. I must not worry or doubt or question. I must not feel insecure. Even when you like my imperfections, you like them as part of my muse-being, just like you would admire a chip in the body of a lovely sculpture, just like you admire Venus without arms.


Thank you, 3ammo Mourid.

Letters to Dead Men

لا شك أنني أحتاج عاماً من الهلوسة ولابد أن أقول لأبي إن الرجل الوحيد الذي فتتني من الرغبة فيه كان يشبهه تماماً

وأن أخبر أصدقائي: عندي صور مكتملة لوجهي، كلها حقيقي، وكلها يخصني، وسأوزعها عليكم تباعاً

لابد أن أقول لحبيبي: أشكر خياناتي المباركة، لولاها.. ما انتظرت كل هذا الوقت لأكتشف فضاء استثنائياً في ضحكتك أما بالنسبة لي، فأكاد أجزم أنني أفضح نفسي لأختبئ وراءها
- إيمان مرسال

Dear Man-

I miss your stories.. both real and made-up.. mostly made-up, mostly real.

I seek you -or little parts of you- in others.

I do not need lecturing about my daddy issues. The daddy issue is a daddy issue, and is deceased. But the other is only dead in soul.

I do not need lecturing about letting go.

Also, free falling is not for me.

The borders get blurred and all (both? all?) men merge into one. And he is dead. And you are dead.

And I walk.

some Neruda love

ما يحكمشي

Dear Picasso: You Lied.

Mon cher Picasso-

Quand j'ai confié mes peurs, tu as tenu ma main et m'a regardé dans les yeux et m'a menti.

Tu m'as écrit un message dans une bouteille, mais -comme d'habitude- tes mots appartiennent à des profondeurs de la mer.


Merci, pas pour moi.

Gros bisous,
Moi.

Home

يفهم_ قال لي_ إنّ الوطن

أن أحتسي قهوة أمي

أن أعود في المساء..

سألته: و الأرض؟

قال: لا أعرفها

و لا أحس أنها جلدي و نبضي

مثلما يقال في القصائد

و فجأة، رأيتها

كما أرى الحانوت..و الشارع.. و الجرائد

سألته: تحبها

أجاب: حبي نزهة قصيرة

أو كأس خمر.. أو مغامرة

_من أجلها تموت ؟

_كلا!

و كل ما يربطني بالأرض من أواصر

مقالة نارية.. محاضرة!

قد علّموني أن أحب حبّها

و لم أحس أن قلبها قلبي،

و لم أشم العشب، و الجذور، و الغصون..

_و كيف كان حبّها

يلسع كالشموس ..كالحنين؟

~ محمود درويش، جندي يحلم بالزنابق البيضاء ~

(excerpt)

Secret Message from Salomé

"If you have no more happiness to give, give me your pain."

~ Lou Andreas-Salomé

لا مشكلة لدي

أحلامي رَكِبَتْ، أمسِ، قِطارَ الليلِ

ولم أعرف كيف أودعها

وأَتَتْني أنباءُ تَدَهْوُرِهِ في وادٍ ليس بذي زرعٍ

(ونجا سائقُه من بين الركّاب جميعاً)

فحمدت الله، ولم أبكِ كثيراً

فلديَّ كوابيسٌ صغرى

سأطوِّرها، إن شاء الله، إلى أحلامٍ كبرى

لا مشكلة لدي

أتلمَّس أحوالي منذ وُلدتُ إلى اليوم

وفي يأسي أتذكر

أن هناك حياةً بعد الموتِ

هناك حياة بعد الموت

ولا مشكلة لدي

لكني أسأل:

يا الله!

أهناك حياةٌ قبل الموت؟

The Beginning of the Affair

“A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. I say ‘one chooses’ with the inaccurate pride of a professional writer who - when he has been seriously noted at all - has been praised for his technical ability, but do I in fact of my own will choose that black wet January night on the common, in 1946, the sight of Henry Miles slanting across the wide river of rain, or did these things choose me? It is convenient, it is correct according to the rules of my craft to begin just there, but if I had believed then in a god, I could also have believed in a hand, plucking at my elbow, a suggestion, ‘speak to him: he hasn’t seen you yet.’”

~ Graham Greene, The End of the Affair


There are little triggers that nudge our memories, calling back certain thoughts or ideas, or certain scenes to the mind. This memory came to me uninvited (as intrusive as memories are): the stocking.. I remember that specific scene from a movie, a guy taking a stocking off the legs of his lover, telling her he is jealous of the stocking because it gets to stay all day with her, and he hates the shoes because they take her away from him.. and slowly bits and pieces came back to me, and the resemblance was too much to ignore. The affair vs. the relation, with one person wanting one type and the other needing the other. There and then, I knew I wanted to get the book, and I knew I wanted to give it away when I finished it..


So there it is, a book about Catholicism, conjugal love, divine love, and promises one makes to self and to God. A story about the melange of love and hate until you can no longer distinguish one from the other. A story about the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end, and that exact moment when you just know there is no more.

Blueberry Girl

*If I ever get a baby girl, I won't have a more beautiful prayer for her*

Ladies of Light, Ladies of Darkness,
and Ladies of Never-You-Mind,
this is a prayer for a Blueberry Girl;
First: May you ladies be kind.
Keep her from spindles and sleeps at sixteen;
Let her stay waking and wise.
Nightmares at three, or bad husbands at thirty;
These will not trouble her eyes.
Dull days at forty, false friends at fifteen;
Let her have bright days and true.
Let her go places that we've never been;
Trust and delight in her youth.

Ladies of Grace, and Ladies of Favour,
and Ladies of Merciful Night,
this is a prayer for a Blueberry Girl,
Grant her your clearness of sight.
Worlds can be worrisome, people complex;
Motives and manners unclear.
Grant her the wisdom to choose her path right,
Free from unkindness and fear.
Let her tell stories, and dance in the rain,
Somersault, tumble, and run;
Her joys must be high as her sorrows are deep,
Let her grow like a weed in the sun.

Ladies of Paradox, Ladies of Measure,
Ladies of Shadows-That-Fall;
this is a prayer for a Blueberry Girl,
Words written clear on a wall.
Help her to help herself, help her to stand,
Help her to lose, and to find.
Teach her we're only as big as our dreams,
show her that fortune is blind.
Truth is a thing she must find for herself,
precious, and rare as a pearl;
Give her all these, and a little bit more,
give this for a Blueberry Girl.


~ Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman knocks me out again in "I Google You"

(to listen to this beauty go to http://www.myspace.com/perilyons)

I Google you
late at night when I don’t know what to do
I find photos
you’ve forgotten
you were in
put up by your friends

I Google you
when the day is done and everything is through
I read your journal
that you kept
that month in France
I’ve watched you dance

And I’m pleased your name is practically unique
it’s only you and
a would-be PhD in Chesapeake
who writes papers on
the structure of the sun
I’ve read each one

I know that I
should let you fade
but there’s that box
and there’s your name
somehow it never makes the pain
grow less or fade or disappear
I think that I should save my soul and
I should crawl back in my hole
But it’s too easy just to fold
and type your name again
I fear

I google you
Whenever I’m alone and feeling blue
And each scrap of information
That I gather
says you’ve got somebody new
And it really shouldn’t matter
ought to blow up my computer
but instead….
I google you

~ Neil Gaiman

Mahmoud Darwish

Mahmoud Darwish passed away tonite.. I cant find anything more to say here, except that I never really was fond of poetry nor of politics, and -thru the beautiful music of Marcel Khalife- this man gave me both in such style..


Bless his soul..

TP Update

On December 11, 2007, Terry Pratchett, writer of the Discworld series, announced that he has "a very rare form of early onset Alzheimer's"..

From TP's blog:

P.S. I would just like to draw attention to everyone reading the above that this should be interpreted as 'I am not dead'. I will, of course, be dead at some future point, as will everybody else. For me, this maybe further off than you think - it's too soon to tell.
I know it's a very human thing to say "Is there anything I can do", but in this case I would only entertain offers from very high-end experts in brain chemistry.