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Best Famous Arabic Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Arabic poems. This is a select list of the best famous Arabic poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Arabic poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of arabic poems.

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Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

Memorial Day For The War Dead

 Memorial day for the war dead.
Add now the grief of all your losses to their grief, even of a woman that has left you.
Mix sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history, which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread, in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.
" No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day.
Bitter salt is dressed up as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes, for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly, like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads with the swimming movements of the dead, with the ancient error the dead have about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages: Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying all through the night under the jasmine tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.
"
Written by Mahmoud Darwish | Create an image from this poem

Under Siege

 Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time 
Close to the gardens of broken shadows, 
We do what prisoners do, 
And what the jobless do: 
We cultivate hope.
*** A country preparing for dawn.
We grow less intelligent For we closely watch the hour of victory: No night in our night lit up by the shelling Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us In the darkness of cellars.
*** Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.
*** On the verge of death, he says: I have no trace left to lose: Free I am so close to my liberty.
My future lies in my own hand.
Soon I shall penetrate my life, I shall be born free and parentless, And as my name I shall choose azure letters.
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*** You who stand in the doorway, come in, Drink Arabic coffee with us And you will sense that you are men like us You who stand in the doorways of houses Come out of our morningtimes, We shall feel reassured to be Men like you! *** When the planes disappear, the white, white doves Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession Of the ether and of play.
Higher, higher still, the white, white doves Fly off.
Ah, if only the sky Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].
*** Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting The sky from collapse.
Behind the hedge of steel Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank— And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass.
.
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*** [To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim’s face And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way to find one’s identity again.
*** The siege is a waiting period Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.
*** Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.
*** We have brothers behind this expanse.
Excellent brothers.
They love us.
They watch us and weep.
Then, in secret, they tell each other: "Ah! if this siege had been declared.
.
.
" They do not finish their sentence: "Don’t abandon us, don’t leave us.
" *** Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes.
And fifty olive trees.
.
.
Added to this the structural flaw that Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.
*** A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved For my clothing is drenched with his blood.
*** If you are not rain, my love Be tree Sated with fertility, be tree If you are not tree, my love Be stone Saturated with humidity, be stone If you are not stone, my love Be moon In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon [So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral] *** Oh watchmen! Are you not weary Of lying in wait for the light in our salt And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound Are you not weary, oh watchmen? *** A little of this absolute and blue infinity Would be enough To lighten the burden of these times And to cleanse the mire of this place.
*** It is up to the soul to come down from its mount And on its silken feet walk By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime Friends who share the ancient bread And the antique glass of wine May we walk this road together And then our days will take different directions: I, beyond nature, which in turn Will choose to squat on a high-up rock.
*** On my rubble the shadow grows green, And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat He dreams as I do, as the angel does That life is here.
.
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not over there.
*** In the state of siege, time becomes space Transfixed in its eternity In the state of siege, space becomes time That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow.
*** The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day And questions me: Where were you? Take every word You have given me back to the dictionaries And relieve the sleepers from the echo’s buzz.
*** The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse I did not look For the virgins of immortality for I love life On earth, amid fig trees and pines, But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure.
*** The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me.
I first, I the first one! *** The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I have changed.
I put a gazelle on my bed, And a crescent of moon on my finger To appease my sorrow.
*** The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement that does no harm, in fullest liberty! *** Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health, The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease: The disease of hope.
*** And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me.
*** Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the Blackness of this tunnel! *** Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces: Greetings to my apparition.
*** My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me, A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees A marble epitaph of time And always I anticipate them at the funeral: Who then has died.
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who? *** Writing is a puppy biting nothingness Writing wounds without a trace of blood.
*** Our cups of coffee.
Birds green trees In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall To another like a gazelle The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us Of the sky.
And other things of suspended memories Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid, And that we are the guests of eternity.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

Temporary Poem Of My Time

 Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats: You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert, The trees bend in the wind, And stones fly from all four winds, Into all four winds.
They throw stones, Throw this land, one at the other, But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988, Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites, Evil men throw and just men throw, Sinners throw and tempters throw, Geologists throw and theologists throw, Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw, Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw, Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone, Stones shaped like a screaming mouth And stones fitting your eyes Like a pair of glasses, The past throws stones at the future, And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones, Even God in the Bible threw stones, Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown And got stuck in the beastplate of justice, And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.
Oh, the poem of stone sadness Oh, the poem thrown on the stones Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land A stone that was never thrown And never built and never overturned And never uncovered and never discovered And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers And never turned into a cornerstone? Please do not throw any more stones, You are moving the land, The holy, whole, open land, You are moving it to the sea And the sea doesn't want it The sea says, not in me.
Please throw little stones, Throw snail fossils, throw gravel, Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek, Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods, Throw limestone, throw clay, Throw sand of the seashore, Throw dust of the desert, throw rust, Throw soil, throw wind, Throw air, throw nothing Until your hands are weary And the war is weary And even peace will be weary and will be.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

The Return

 All afternoon my father drove the country roads
between Detroit and Lansing.
What he was looking for I never learned, no doubt because he never knew himself, though he would grab any unfamiliar side road and follow where it led past fields of tall sweet corn in August or in winter those of frozen sheaves.
Often he'd leave the Terraplane beside the highway to enter the stunned silence of mid-September, his eyes cast down for a sign, the only music his own breath or the wind tracking slowly through the stalks or riding above the barren ground.
Later he'd come home, his dress shoes coated with dust or mud, his long black overcoat stained or tattered at the hem, sit wordless in his favorite chair, his necktie loosened, and stare at nothing.
At first my brothers and I tried conversation, questions only he could answer: Why had he gone to war? Where did he learn Arabic? Where was his father? I remember none of this.
I read it all later, years later as an old man, a grandfather myself, in a journal he left my mother with little drawings of ruined barns and telephone poles, receding toward a future he never lived, aphorisms from Montaigne, Juvenal, Voltaire, and perhaps a few of his own: "He who looks for answers finds questions.
" Three times he wrote, "I was meant to be someone else," and went on to describe the perfumes of the damp fields.
"It all starts with seeds," and a pencil drawing of young apple trees he saw somewhere or else dreamed.
I inherited the book when I was almost seventy and with it the need to return to who we were.
In the Detroit airport I rented a Taurus; the woman at the counter was bored or crazy: Did I want company? she asked; she knew every road from here to Chicago.
She had a slight accent, Dutch or German, long black hair, and one frozen eye.
I considered but decided to go alone, determined to find what he had never found.
Slowly the autumn morning warmed, flocks of starlings rose above the vacant fields and blotted out the sun.
I drove on until I found the grove of apple trees heavy with fruit, and left the car, the motor running, beside a sagging fence, and entered his life on my own for maybe the first time.
A crow welcomed me home, the sun rode above, austere and silent, the early afternoon was cloudless, perfect.
When the crow dragged itself off to another world, the shade deepened slowly in pools that darkened around the trees; for a moment everything in sight stopped.
The wind hummed in my good ear, not words exactly, not nonsense either, nor what I spoke to myself, just the language creation once wakened to.
I took off my hat, a mistake in the presence of my father's God, wiped my brow with what I had, the back of my hand, and marveled at what was here: nothing at all except the stubbornness of things.
Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

Insect Heads

These insects golden
And Arabic sailing in the husks of galleons 
Their octagonal heads also
Hold sand paintings of the next life.
Written by Alan Seeger | Create an image from this poem

Maktoob

 A shell surprised our post one day 
And killed a comrade at my side.
My heart was sick to see the way He suffered as he died.
I dug about the place he fell, And found, no bigger than my thumb, A fragment of the splintered shell In warm aluminum.
I melted it, and made a mould, And poured it in the opening, And worked it, when the cast was cold, Into a shapely ring.
And when my ring was smooth and bright, Holding it on a rounded stick, For seal, I bade a Turco write Maktoob in Arabic.
Maktoob! "'Tis written!" .
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.
So they think, These children of the desert, who From its immense expanses drink Some of its grandeur too.
Within the book of Destiny, Whose leaves are time, whose cover, space, The day when you shall cease to be, The hour, the mode, the place, Are marked, they say; and you shall not By taking thought or using wit Alter that certain fate one jot, Postpone or conjure it.
Learn to drive fear, then, from your heart.
If you must perish, know, O man, 'Tis an inevitable part Of the predestined plan.
And, seeing that through the ebon door Once only you may pass, and meet Of those that have gone through before The mighty, the elite -- --- Guard that not bowed nor blanched with fear You enter, but serene, erect, As you would wish most to appear To those you most respect.
So die as though your funeral Ushered you through the doors that led Into a stately banquet hall Where heroes banqueted; And it shall all depend therein Whether you come as slave or lord, If they acclaim you as their kin Or spurn you from their board.
So, when the order comes: "Attack!" And the assaulting wave deploys, And the heart trembles to look back On life and all its joys; Or in a ditch that they seem near To find, and round your shallow trough Drop the big shells that you can hear Coming a half mile off; When, not to hear, some try to talk, And some to clean their guns, or sing, And some dig deeper in the chalk -- - I look upon my ring: And nerves relax that were most tense, And Death comes whistling down unheard, As I consider all the sense Held in that mystic word.
And it brings, quieting like balm My heart whose flutterings have ceased, The resignation and the calm And wisdom of the East.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

AN EVENING WITH JOHN HEATH-STUBBS

 Alone in Sutton with Fynbos my orange cat

A long weekend of wind and rain drowning

The tumultuous flurry of mid-February blossom

A surfeit of letters to work through, a mountain

Of files to sort, some irritation at the thought

Of travelling to Kentish Town alone when

My mind was flooded with the mellifluous voice

Of Heath-Stubbs on tape reading ‘The Divided Ways’

In memory of Sidney Keyes.
“He has gone down into the dark cellar To talk with the bright faced Spirit with silver hair But I shall never know what word was spoken there.
” The best reader of the century, if not the best poet.
Resonant, mesmeric, his verse the anti-type of mine, Classical, not personal, Apollonian not Dionysian And most unconfessional but nonetheless a poet Deserving honour in his eighty-fifth year.
Thirty people crowded into a room With stacked chairs like a Sunday School A table of pamphlets looked over but not bought A lacquered screen holding court, a century’s junk.
An ivory dial telephone, a bowl of early daffodils To focus on.
I was the first to read, speaking of James Simmons’ death, My anguish at the year long silence from his last letter To the Christmas card in Gaelic Nollaig Shona - With the message “Jimmy’s doing better than expected.
” The difficulty I had in finding his publisher’s address - Salmon Press, Cliffs of Moher, County Clare - Then a soft sad Irish woman’s voice explained “Jimmy’s had a massive stroke, phone Janice At The Poet’s House.
” I looked at the letter I would never end or send.
“Your poems have a strength and honesty so rare.
The ability to render character as deftly as a painter.
Your being out-of-fashion shows just how bad things are Your poetry so easy to enjoy and difficult to forget.
Like Yeats.
‘The Dawning of the Day’ so sad And eloquent and memorable: I read it aloud And felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle An unflinching bitter rhetoric straight out Hence the neglect.
Your poem about Harrison.
“He has to feel the Odeons sell Tickets to damned souls, that Dante’s Hell Is in that red-plush darkness.
” Echoed in Roy Fisher's letter, “Once Harrison and I Were best mates until fame went to his head.
” James, your ‘Love Leads Me into Danger’ Set off my own despair but restored me Just as quickly with your sense of beauty’s muted dance.
“passing Dalway’s Bawn where the chestnuts are, the first trees to go rusty, old admirals drowned in their own gold braid.
” The scattered alliterations mimic so exquisitely The random pattern of fallen conkers, The sense of innocence not wholly clear The guilt never entirely spent.
‘The Road to Clonbarra’, a poem for the homecoming After a wedding, the breathlessness of new beginning.
Your own self questioning, “My fourth and last chance marriage,” Your passionate confessions of failure and plea for absolution “His thunder storms were in the late night bars.
Home was too hard too dry and far the stars.
” You were so urgent to hear my thoughts on your book And once too often you were out of luck, Heath-Stubbs nodded his old sad head.
“Simmons was my friend.
I’d no idea he was dead.
” Before I could finish the poem John Rety interrupted “Can you hurry? There’s others waiting for their turn!” I muttered to my self, but kept my temper, just.
.
.
Eventually Heath-Stubbs began - poet, teacher, wit, raconteur and man Of letters - littering his poems with references To three kinds of Arabic genie The class system of ancient Egypt The pub architecture of the Edwardian era.
From the back row I strained to see his face.
The craggy jaw, the mane of long white hair.
The bowl of daffodils I’d focused on before.
He spoke but could not read and Like me had no single poem by heart.
In his stead a man and woman read: I could forgive the man’s inability to pronounce ‘Dionysian’ But when he read ‘hover’ as ‘haver’ My temper began to frazzle The woman simpered and ruined every line As if by design, I took some amitryptilene And let my mind float free.
‘For Barry, instead of a Christmas card, this elegy I wrote last week.
Fond wishes.
Jeremy.
.
’ “So often, David, I still meet Your benefactor from the time: her speedwell-blue eyes, blue like yours, with recollection, while we talk through leaf-fall, with its mosaic mottling the toad-spotted wet street.
” I looked at Heath-Stubbs’ face, his sightless eyes, And in a second understood what Gascoyne meant “Now the light of a prism has flashed like a bird down the dark-blue, At the end of which mountains of shadow pile up beyond sight Oh radiant prism A wing has been torn and its feathers drift scattered by flight.
Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Create an image from this poem

From the Arabic: AN IMITATION

MY faint spirit was sitting in the light 
Of thy looks my love; 
It panted for thee like the hind at noon 
For the brooks my love.
Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight 5 Bore thee far from me; My heart for my weak feet were weary soon Did companion thee.
Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed Or the death they bear 10 The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle in the darkness in the need Shall mine cling to thee Nor claim one smile for all the comfort love 15 It may bring to thee.
Written by Keith Douglas | Create an image from this poem

Cairo Jag

 Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries do not disturb their application to slumber all day, scattered on the pavement like rags afflicted with fatalism and hashish.
The women offering their children brown-paper breasts dry and twisted, elongated like the skull, Holbein's signature.
But his stained white town is something in accordance with mundane conventions- Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare with the cabman, links herself so with the somnambulists and legless beggars: it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world the vegetation is of iron dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery the metal brambles have no flowers or berries and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions clinging to the ground, a man with no head has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Create an image from this poem

From the Arabic an Imitation

 MY faint spirit was sitting in the light 
 Of thy looks, my love; 
 It panted for thee like the hind at noon 
 For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee.
Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care; In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee.
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