Arabian Love Poems Nizar Qabbani Pdf Writer

Granada: A Poem by Nizar Qabbani

A figure by a pool at the Alhambra by Henry Stanier

WRITERS, artists, intellectuals across the Arabic-speaking world are lamenting Nizar Qabbani, the master of love, defamation and lament verse who died on Thursday at the age of 75 in London. Nizar Qabbani (d.1998) is by far the most popular poet in the Arab world, and the world's best-selling Arab author. His poems have often been put into music. Qabbani was definitely a genius- his Arabic poetry so piercing and straightforward, and yet profound with meaning and emotions with charming, sensual imagery. As I Published posthumously, this book is a collection of Qabbani's love poems, with its pages split in two- one side of the pages had Nizar's original poetry in Arabic, and on the. Nizar Kabbani’s poetry has been described as 'more powerful than all the Arab regimes put together' (Lebanese Daily Star). Reflecting on his death in 1998, Sulhi Al-Wadi wrote (in Tishreen), 'Qabbani is like water, bread, and the sun in every Arab heart and house. In his poetry the harmony of the heart, and in his blood the melody of love.'

Granada by Nizar Qabbani

Translated by Habeeb Salloum/Contributing Writer

After touring the Alhambra Palace in Granada with a beautiful Andalusian guide, the Syrian poet Nizar Qabbani wrote:

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting,
How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.
Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing,
Generating after-effects from the past ages afore.
Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring,
She said: Granada is the city where I was bore.
Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering,
In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.
And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying,
Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour.
How strange is history, how is it to me returning?
A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore.
With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing,
The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.
I saw a room in our old house with a clearing,
Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.
And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining,
With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour.
Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing
It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore.
In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing
The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore.
In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming,
Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour.
She came with me and her hair behind her flowing,
Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.
The long earrings on her neck were glittering,
Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.
Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding,
And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.
The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing,
And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow.
She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing,
Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.
Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering,
And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.
If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing,
The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.
When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going,
I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

Alhambra of Granada

A ceiling in Alhambra

Alhambra of Granada

Alhambra of Granada

Granada: A Poem by Nizar Qabbani

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting,

How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before.

Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing,

Generating after-effects from the past ages afore.

Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring,

She said: Granada is the city where I was bore.

Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering,

In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.

And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying,

Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour.

How strange is history, how is it to me returning?

A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore.

With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing,

The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Sucad once more.

I saw a room in our old house with a clearing,

Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.

And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining,

With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendour.

Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing

It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore.

In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing

The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore.

In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming,

Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour.

She came with me and her hair behind her flowing,

Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.

The long earrings on her neck were glittering,

Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.

Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding,

And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row.

The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing,

And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow.

She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing,

Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.

Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering,

And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.

If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing,

The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.

When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going,

I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.

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