A Letter From A Stupid Woman

Charlotte Matou um Cara - Não Aceito

 (A Letter to a Man)

 (1) 

My dear Master,

This is a letter from a stupid woman 

Has a stupid woman before me, written to you?

 My name? Lets put names aside

 Rania, or Zaynab

 or Hind or Hayfa

 The silliest thing we carry, my Master - are names

 (2)

 My Master:

 I am frightened to tell you my thoughts

 I am frightened - if I did - 

 that the heavens would burn

 For your East, my dear Master, 

confiscate blue letters

 confiscate dreams from the treasure chests of women

 Practices suppression, upon the emotions of women

 It uses knives… 

and cleavers… 

to speak to women 

and butchers spring and passions

 and black plaits 

And your East, dear Master, 

Manufactures the delicate crown of the East 

from the skulls of women 

(3) Don't criticize me, Master 

If my writing is poor

 For I write and the sword is behind my door

 And beyond the room is the sound of wind and howling dogs 

My master!

 'Antar al Abys is behind my door!

He will butcher me

 If he saw my letter

 He will cut my head off

 If I spoke of my torture

 He will cut my head off

 If he saw the sheerness of my clothes

 For your East, my dear Master, 

Surrounds women with spears 

And your East, my dear Master

 elects the men to become Prophets, 

and buries the women in the dust. 

(4) 

Don't become annoyed! 

My dear Master, from these lines 

Don't become annoyed! 

If I smash the complaints blocked for centuries 

If I unsealed my consciousness

 If I ran away… 

From the domes of the Harem in the castles

 If I rebelled, against my death…

 against my grave, against my roots… 

and the giant slaughter house…. 

Don't become annoyed, my dear Master, 

If I revealed to you my feelings 

For the Eastern man

 Is not concerned with poetry or feelings

 The Eastern man - and forgive my insolence - does not understand women

 but over the sheets. 

(5) 

  I am sorry my master -If I have insolently attacked the kingdom of Men 

  for the great literature of course -

  is the literature of men 

And love has always been

 the allotment of men…

 And sex has always been 

a drug sold to men

A senile fairytale, the freedom of women in our countries

 For there is no freedom 

Other than, the freedom of men… 

My Master 

Say all you wish of me. It does not matter to me: 

Shallow.. Stupid.. Crazy.. Simple minded. 

It does not concern me anymore.. 

For whoever writes about her concerns… 

in the logic of Men is called

 a stupid woman

 and didn't I tell you in the beginning

 that I am a stupid woman?

por: Nizar Qabbani

fonte: https://www.poemhunter.com/nizar-qabbani/ebooks/?ebook=0&filename=nizar_qabbani_2004_9.pdf

A Lesson In Drawing

vá e veja (1985)

 My son places his paint box in front of me

 and asks me to draw a bird for him.

 Into the color gray I dip the brush

 and draw a square with locks and bars.

 Astonishment fills his eyes: 

'… But this is a prison, Father,

 Don't you know, how to draw a bird?' 

And I tell him: 'Son, forgive me. 

I've forgotten the shapes of birds.' 

My son puts the drawing book in front of me

 and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.

 I hold the pen and draw a gun. 

My son mocks my ignorance, 

demanding,

 'Don't you know, Father, the difference between a 

wheatstalk and a gun?' 

I tell him, 'Son, 

once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks

 the shape of the loaf 

the shape of the rose

 But in this hardened time

 the trees of the forest have joined

 the militia men

 and the rose wears dull fatigues

 In this time of armed wheatstalks

 armed birds

 armed culture

 and armed religion

 you can't buy a loaf

 without finding a gun inside

 you can't pluck a rose in the field

 without its raising its thorns in your face

 you can't buy a book

 that doesn't explode between your fingers.' 

My son sits at the edge of my bed

 and asks me to recite a poem, 

A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow. 

My son licks it up, astonished, saying:

 'But this is a tear, father, not a poem!' 

And I tell him: 

'When you grow up, my son, 

and read the diwan of Arabic poetry

 you'll discover that the word and the tear are twins

 and the Arabic poem

 is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers.'

 My son lays down his pens, his crayon box in

 front of me

 and asks me to draw a homeland for him. 

The brush trembles in my hands

 and I sink, weeping

por: Nizar Qabbani

fonte: https://www.poemhunter.com/nizar-qabbani/ebooks/?ebook=0&filename=nizar_qabbani_2004_9.pdf

Excerto de A State of Siege, 2

Sekigun-P.F.L.P: Sekai sensô sengen (1971)

A woman said to a cloud: cover my dear one,
for my clothes are wet with his blood.

If you are not rain, o dear one,
then be a tree,
fertile and verdant. Be a tree.
And if not a tree, o dear one
be a stone
laden with dew. Be a stone.
And if not a stone, o dear one,
be the moon itself
in the dreams of she who loves you. Be the moon itself.

por: Mahmoud Darwish, 2002
fonte: https://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/darwish/2002/siege.htm

Excerto de A State of Siege, 1

The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise,” 1791.

This siege will persist until we teach our enemies

models of our finest poetry

the sky is leaden during the day

and a fiery orange at night... but our hearts

are as neutral as the flowery emblems on a shield

here, not "I"

Here, Adam remembers the clay of which he was born

He says, on the verge of death, he says,

"I have no more earth to lose"

Free am I, close to my ultimate freedom, I hold my fortune in my own hands

In a few moments, I will begin my life

born free of father and mother

I will chose letters of sky blue for my name

Under siege, life is the moment between remembrance

of the first moment, and forgetfulness of the last

here, under the mountains of smoke, on the threshold of my home,

time has no measure

We do what those who give up the ghost do...

we forget our pain

Pain is when the housewife forsakes hanging up the clothes to dry and is content

that this flag of Palestine should be without stain

por: Mahmoud Darwish, 2002

fonte: https://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/darwish/2002/siege.htm

Identity Card

 

Como era gostoso o meu francês (1971)

Write down!

I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books from the rocks...
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew

My father ... descends from the family of the plough
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather ... was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!

Write down!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks ...
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore!
Write down on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware ...
Beware ...
Of my hunger
And my anger!

por: Mahmoud Darwish, 1964

fonte: https://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/darwish/1964/identity-card.htm

Give me a daughter with your stubborn heart

anjos caídos (1995)

Give me a daughter with your stubborn heart, or your even temper.

Give our children your dark-bright eyes, or your enchanted smile.

So that even when we are gone, the world will find within them all of the reasons why I loved you

por: Nizar Qabbani

fonte: https://medium.com/@thesahar.space/difference-between-arabic-vs-urdu-farsi-poetry-my-friend-pontificates-1bff9d0dc77c

May You Be Happy This Morning, Worn Traces!

Buffalo 66 (1998)

How many a day, a night I'd spend

with a woman, stark as a statue outlined,

her face aglow as she turns to her mate

like softly radiant candle light;

her breast like the flare of a generous fire

by chilled men lit in the desert at night in the wind come roving across the hills,

north, south, at the caravan staging posts.

Clear-cheeked, in her teens, so playful yet

that she makes me forget my clothes when I leave;

with rounds like the dunes that as children we loved

to tread for their smooth and velvety touch.

When her lover strips her, wanting all,

she leans to him lightly, holding back;

slim at the waist and firm as she twists

with quickening breath from intoxicant lips.

por Imru' al-Qais , 500-535

fonte:https://www.middleeasteye.net/discover/arab-poets-poems-10-writers-classic-and-modern-you-need-read