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

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