كتب الكاتب الفاتح جبرا المتوفرة بمعرض الدوحة
|
|
 Muhammad al-Fayturi : To Two Unknown Eyes
|
To Two Unknown Eyes
Here is one of favorite Arabic poem by. It is titled ” To Two Unknown Eyes”
Mistress…
Should these enamored words chance to meet your eyes
Or pass between your lips
Then forgive me; it was your eyes
In whose shade one evening I leaned resting
And snatched brief slumber
In their repose I caressed the stars and moon
I wove a boat of fancy out of petals
And laid down my tired soul
Gave to drink my thirsty lip
Quenched my eye’s desire.
***
Mistress…
When we met by chance as strangers meet
My sorrow too was walking on the road
Bare, unveiled
With heavy tread
You were my sorrow.
Sadness and loss
Silence and regret
Were embracing a poet consumed by struggle.
For poetry, mistress, is a stranger in my land
Killed by emptiness and void
My spirit trembled saw you
I felt suddenly as if a dagger delved into my blood
Cleanse my heart, my mouth
Prostrated me with soiled brow and supplicating hands
In the shade of your sweet eyes.
***
Mistress…
If suddenly we meet
If my eyes see those your eyes
High-set, green, drowned in mist and rain
If on the road by another chance we meet
And what is chance but fate?
Then would I kiss the road, kiss it twice
|
|
 
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Re: Muhammad al-Fayturi : To Two Unknown Eyes (Re: ibrahim fadlalla)
|
تنويه : الترجمة أعلاه من النت ، ولا أعلم �سم المترجم ...
وهنا النص الأصلي للقصيدة ..
Quote:
�لى عينين غريبتين
سيّدتي ..
لو لامست عينيك هذي الكلمات العاشقات
صدفة .. لو عبرت خلال الشفتين
فاعتذري عنّي لعينيك
لأنّني اتّكأت في ظلّهما ذات مسا�
سرقت غفوه ..
داعبت في سكونها النجوم و القمر
نسجت زورقاً خرافياً ، من ورق الزهر
وسّدت روحاً متعباً
سقيت شفة لاهثه
أطفأت شوق عين .
سيّدتي ..
حين التقينا صدفة لقا� الغربا�
كانت كآبتي مثلي ، تمشي في الطريق
عارية بلا قناع
مشقوقة القدم ..
كانت كآبتي أنتِ
و كان الحزن ، و الضياع
كان الصمت ، و الندم
يعانقان شاعراً أنهكه الصراع
و الشعر يا سيّدتي في وطني غريب
يقتله الفراغ ، و العدم
و انتفضت روحي حين أبصرتك يا سيّدتي
شعرت فجأة ، كأنّ خنجراً يغوص في دمي
يغسل قلبي ، و فمي
يطرحني مخضّب الجبين ، ضارع اليدين
تحت ظلال مقلتيك الحلوتين
سيّدتي لو التقينا فجأة ..
لو أبصرت عيناي تلكم العينين
الأفقين الأخضرين الغارقين في الضباب و المطر
لو جمعتنا فرصة أخرى على الطريق
و كلّ صدفة قدر
فسوف ألثم الطرق مرّتين . |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Re: Muhammad al-Fayturi : To Two Unknown Eyes (Re: ibrahim fadlalla)
|
Sorrows of the Black City
------------------------------------------------
by Muhammad al-Fayturi
----------------------------------------------------
When night casts its net of shadows over the streets of the city
shrouding it in grief,
you can still see them —
slumped in silence, staring at the cracks.
And you think they are calm,
but you're wrong — they're on fire!
When darkness raises its statues of marble
on the streets of the city
then smashes them in fury
then the city will lead all the people
down the spiral staircase of the night
into the deep distant past.
The past with its ambergris shores
is dreaming of memories
too deeply to be roused.
And inside everyone something begins to stir —
a fresh wall made of clay,
stuck with diamonds and desires.
When night sleeps and day wakes
raising its candles in the dark
peace ebbs back to its home in the grave.
At that, the heart of the city
turns futile and wretched —
it is an oven at noon, a lamp for the blind.
Like ancient Africa, the city is truly
an old woman veiled in frankincense,
a great pit of fire, the horn of a ram,
an amulet of old prayers, a night full of mirrors,
the dance of black women, naked,
shouting their black joy.
This coma of sins was kept alive by the master,
ships filled with slave girls,
with musk, ivory and saffron —
gifts, all without joy, despatched by the winds of all ages
to the white man of our time
to the master of all time.
A plantation stretches out in imagination
to clothe the naked, to loosen their clothes,
flowing like its ancestors through the veins of life,
dyeing the water, and dyeing God's face,
its sorrows on every mouth
breeding tyrants and iron and slaves,
breeding chains, every day breeding some new horror….
And yet, on the streets of the city,
when night constructs
its barriers of black stone — they stretch out their hands,
in silence, to the balconies of the future.
They are locked-up cries
in a locked-up land.
Their memories are stab-wounds.
Their faces are sad, like the faces of the blind.
Look, there they are,
######### slumped in silence. And you think they are calm.
But you're wrong. Truth is, they're on fire….
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The literal translation of this poem was made by Anna Murison
The final translated version of the poem is by The Poetry Translation Workshop
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
ibrahim fadlalla
rummana
فيس بوك
تويتر
انستقرام
يوتيوب
بنتيريست