The Wrathful

O pupils of Gaza...
Teach us...
A little of what you have
For we have forgotten...
Teach us...
To be men
For we have men...
dough they become...
Teach us...
How the rocks become
in the children's hands,
precious diamond...
How it becomes
The child's bicycle, a mine
And the silk ribbon...
An ambush...
How the feeding bottle nipple...
If detained not
Turns into a knife....
O pupils of Gaza
Care not...
about our broadcasts...
And hear us not...
Strike...
Strike...
With all your powers
And firmly in your hands take matters
And ask us not...
We the people of arithmetic...
And of addition...
And of subtraction...
Your wars do carry on
And abstain from us...
We're the deserters
from the service,
Your ropes do bring
And hang us...
We're mortals...
Who possess not tombs
And orphans...
who possess not masters
We kept already to our rooms...
And we asked you
To fight the dragon...
We've diminished, before you
A thousand century...
And you've grown
Within a month-Centuries...
O pupils of Gaza...
Return not...
To our writings... And read us not
We're your fathers...
Do resemble us not...
We're your idols...
Do worship us not...
We engage in
Political lies...
And repression...
And we build graves...
And jails...
Liberate us...
From the fear problem in us...
And expel
The opium from our heads...
Teach us...
The art of adherence to the Land,
And leave not...
The Messiah saddened...
O our beloved children
Salam...
May Allah render your day
Jasmine....
From the cracks of ruined earth
You emerged forth
And planted in our wound
Musk rose...
This is the revolution of notebooks...
And ink...
Do become on the lips
melodies...
Shower us...
Heroism, and pride
And from our ugliness wash us
Wash us...
Fear neither Moses...
Nor Moses' spell...
And ready yourself
To harvest the olives
Verily this Jewish age
is an illusion...
That shall collapse...
Albeit sureness we possess....
O madmen of Gaza...
A thousand welcome....
in madmen,
If they liberate us
Verily the age of political reason
has long bygone....
Do teach us madness....

Nizar Qabbani

Nizar Qabbani was a Syrian diplomat, poet, writer, publisher, and one of the most revered contemporary poets in the Arab world. Renowned for his evocative and sensual poetry, he has written extensively on themes of love, eroticism, feminism, and Arab nationalism. His literary works have left a significant impact on Arabic literature and culture, making him an iconic figure whose legacy persists beyond his lifetime.

Nizar Qabbani

We Are Accused Of Terrorism

Nizar Qabbani, Simple Poetry

A Brief Love Letter

Nizar Qabbani, Simple Poetry

The Fortune Teller

Nizar Qabbani, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Verse

1

Friends
The old word is dead.
The old books are dead.
Our speech with holes like worn-out shoes is dead.
Dead is the mind that led to defeat.

2

Our poetry has gone sour.
Women's hair, nights, curtains and sofas
Have gone sour.
Everything has gone sour.

3

My grieved country,
In a flash
You changed me from a poet who wrote love poems
To a poet who writes with a knife

4

What we feel is beyond words:
We should be ashamed of our poems.

5

Stirred by Oriental bombast,
By boastful swaggering that never killed a fly,
By the fiddle and the drum,
We went to war,
And lost.

6

Our shouting is louder than out actions,
Our swords are taller than us,
...

Nizar Qabbani

The Hasteners

The last walls of shame fell,
And we rejoiced...
And we danced...
And we were blessed with the signing of the peace of the cowards...
Nothing terrifies us any more.
And nothing shames us.
For the veins of pride have dried within us.


Fell...
For the fiftieth time our virginity...
Without being shaken...or crying...
Or being terrified with the sight of blood...
We entered the age of haste...
And stood in lines, like sheep before the guillotine
We ran...and panted..
And raced to kiss the boots of the murderers..


For fifty years they starved our children
And at the end of the fast, they threw to us...
An onion..


Grenada fell
For the fiftieth time
From the Arabs' hands.
History fell from the Arabs' hands....

Nizar Qabbani

The Face Of Qana

The face of Qana
Pale, like that of Jesus
and the sea breeze of April...
Rains of blood... and tears...

2

They entered Qana stepping on our charred bodies
Raising a Nazi flag
in the lands of the South
and rehearsing its stormy chapters
Hitler cremated them in the gas chambers
and they came after him to burn us
Hitler kicked them out of Eastern Europe
and they kicked us out of our lands

3

They entered Qana
Like hungry wolves
Putting to fire the house of the Messiah
Stepping on the dress of Hussain
and the dear land of the South

4

Blasted Wheat, Olive-trees and Tobacco
and the melodies of the nightingale
Blasted Cadmus in his bark
Blasted sea and the gulls
Blasted even hospitals
eve...

Nizar Qabbani

I Am With Terrorism

We are accused of terrorism:
if we defended rose and woman
and the mighty verse...
and the blueness of sky...
A dominion... nothing left therein...
No water, no air...
No tent, no camel,
and not even dark Arabica coffee!!


We are accused of terrorism:
if we defended with guts
the hair of Balqis
and the lips of Maysun
if we defended Hind, and Da`d
Lubna and Rabab...
and the stream of Kohl
coming down from their lashes like the verses of revelation.
You will not find with me
a secret poem
or a secret logos
or books I put behind doors.
I do not even have one poem
walking down the street, wearing veil.


We are accused of terrorism:
if we wrote about the ruins of a homeland
torn, weak...
a homeland ...

Nizar Qabbani

Damascus, What Are You Doing to Me?

1

My voice rings out, this time, from Damascus
It rings out from the house of my mother and father
In Sham. The geography of my body changes.
The cells of my blood become green.
My alphabet is green.
In Sham. A new mouth emerges for my mouth
A new voice emerges for my voice
And my fingers
Become a tribe

2

I return to Damascus
Riding on the backs of clouds
Riding the two most beautiful horses in the world
The horse of passion.
The horse of poetry.
I return after sixty years
To search for my umbilical cord,
For the Damascene barber who circumcised me,
For the midwife who tossed me in the basin under the bed
And received a gold lira from my father,
She left our house
On that day in March of 1923
Her hands stain...

Nizar Qabbani

Five Letters to my Mother

Good morning sweetheart.
Good morning my Saint of a sweetheart.
It has been two year mother
since the boy has sailed
on his mythical journey.
Since he hid within his luggage
the green morning of his homeland
and her stars, and her streams,
and all of her red poppy.
Since he hid in his cloths
bunches of mint and thyme,
and a Damascene Lilac.



I am alone.
The smoke of my cigarette is bored,
and even my seat of me is bored
My sorrows are like flocking birds looking for a grain field in season.
I became acquainted with the women of Europe,
I became acquainted with their tired civilization.
I toured India, and I toured China,
I toured the entire oriental world,
and nowhere I found,
a Lady to comb my golden hair.
A Lady...

Nizar Qabbani