Best Arab Poems
From Tripoli to Cairo
I saw the intifada leftover
After Tunisia and Yemen
Like a dam broken
After it had sucked life from dry sand
Morocco, Kuwait, Djibouti and Oman
I heard birds singing at the cliff
Falsetto dawn
In the rift valley of religion
And water pouring from each sweat
Flood the root of the poisoned tree
Not Regina
Not Phoenix dactylifera
Not if the honey killed the bee.
Some have fallen
Shaken by the protest of the wind
Some stay uneasy
For it is the season of orchestrated discontent
I see nothing to applause
Except that stability
And the availability of corn
Are rare in democracy there.
For culture is soil and climate
That every root begins with
And nothing strange may grow
In a rich soil's barren love.
Heroes there and villains
Have ridden sand forever
They do no swim this mediation well
Spring rain brings flash floods
And then vulture upon vulture
Circling the corner of the eye.
Too bad the spring
Shook the blossoms off in breeze
I smell the empty branches
The resin bleeding in the new night
Hot summer's dead piled up
Against a Syrian wall.
I pray for the autumn worm
And the bones winter white
My sajada is Mecca strewn
And in my head the adhaan
The adhaan, an intoxicated bell
Calls me out of grief.
A gigantic sail looms, above the sea,
Anchored by steel braces, of creativity,
Start of a journey, from an island beyond the surf,
Into the hour, of the twenty-first century turf.
High above the mast, the yard hangs free,
For ‘sailor guests’ to dine, in exclusivity,
They watch boats set sail, on the sea,
And relinquish the skyline, of an exotic city.
Beyond the yard, on a perch, ‘round’,
‘Manmade butterflies’, often touchdown.
Utilised on occasions, for symbolic games,
To convey delight, across continents.
The rich and the famous, ride to the deck,
In royal carriages, drawn by animals long dead,
They alight at the Galway, lined with palm trees,
Suited chaperons’ welcome, with warm sea breeze.
They look around, through the dazzle, to see;
Stacked, decked cabins, of outlandish luxury,
The centre of its universe, is the extension of the sea,
Exotic free fishes pace in, with moving galaxies,
The glitterati with grace, pace all around,
Meetings take place between gilded crowns,
Heaven of magical illusions on worldly ground,
That steps out into a sea, for unknown bound.
Humanity’s expressions of beauty epitome,
Few strokes symbolic of an iconic guest home,
Humility of a creator to sail into the unknown,
With the analogy drawn to a white marble tomb.
It all began with a man who owns a cart,
And the Tunisian government took it away.
Now a martyr, having no idea what would start,
The Arab Spring began on that day,
Causing the Tunisian leader to give way.
The revolt then spread to neighboring Egypt.
Thousands gathering in Tahrir Square,
But President Mubarak refused to give up,
So more and more people protested there,
Until finally, was forced to leave his chair.
By now revolts in Yemen, Libya, and Bahrain
Spread like a forest fire, larger by the hour.
The electronic media is mostly to blame
To organize the revolt against those in power,
And cleanse all corruption like a rain shower.
In Libya, there’s Gadhafi trying to hold on,
With the thousands of people massed in forces,
But the rebels have just gotten too strong,
With the aid of NATO changing their courses,
And Gadhafi, the next to fall to the ashes.
Now in Syria, the government is fighting still
To hold on to power and deny human rights,
With the people trying to match their will,
And spread humanity through the Damascus’ lights.
What will be next… the Golan Heights?
By Greg Stanley
February 1, 2012
For Francine’s “Spring Day” Contest
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
It all began with a man who owns a cart,
And the Tunisian government took it away.
Now a martyr, having no idea what would start,
The ‘Arab Spring’ began on that day,
Causing the Tunisian leader to give way.
The revolt then spread to neighboring Egypt.
Thousands gathering in Tahrir Square,
But President Mubarak refused to give up,
So more and more people protested there,
Until finally, was forced to leave his chair.
By now revolts in Yemen, Libya, and Bahrain
Spread like a forest fire, hotter by the hour.
The electronic media is mostly to blame
In organizing the revolt against those in power,
And cleansing all corruption like a thundering shower.
In Libya, there’s Gadhafi trying to hold on,
With the thousands of people massed in forces,
But the rebels have just gotten much too strong,
With the aid of NATO changing their courses,
Then Gadhafi: the next to fall to the ashes.
Now in Syria, the government is fighting still
To hold on to power and deny human rights,
With the people trying to match their will,
And spread humanity through the Damascus’ lights.
How long will this last… how many nights?
I now must understand, this will never end,
As it started long before the man with the cart.
It is human nature to fight and defend,
Even at the cost of tearing everything apart
And losing all love from his ever-changing heart.
By Greg Stanley
February 1, 2012
Modified on June 26, 2012
Along Iran's alluvial fan,
spanned a virgin, untested
train
A scourging blight the tender,
fecund suckers did restrain
A heartier tulip bloomed on
Tunisia's arid plain
A docile wave the royal
Jasmine blight to stain
Transplanted in Egypt; a more
fertile strain
Leaching the arid soil, the
tyrannical oasis did drain
A hybrid sprouted on Libya's
fallow terrain
Fertilized by a torrential,
nitrous rain
To Oman's tepid steppes,
uncultivated varieties shrouded
fenced row and lane
Disparate pods releasing
incendiary seeds seeking an
aggregate gain
In Syria's suburban parks a
mutant variety skirted eminent
domain
With underground cisterns to
water it's hostile mane
In desolate Sudan, a floral
chalice did simulated hope
contain
Anon, pilfering hands it's
potting soil did obtain
A pockmarked plane atop the wooden box
tilts as it dips in the Syrian void,
its hollow compartment lining the faults like
a silver ball which never rests but always
rolls, always weary those worrisome holes
that chisel the quarry to calcified clumps.
Six years spent fighting, flushing freedom
from his nepotistic keep, have rendered al-Assad
a face full of age, nights free of sleep,
and lucid dreams of an Arab Spring
flooding the fields his brother plowed.
There he stands, slaying the wakened womb
that would bury its own for stable graves, aware
there’s a million more marching outside his door.
5/25/17
The Arab Spring
Saddam Husain, Mubarak and soon Assad
will go… and we can be jubilant and call it
democracy and freedom.
But this does not include the Christians,
In Iraq there are hardly any left, in Egypt
they are under attack and when Assad falls
the Christian Arab will hounded, those who
are no able to escape…killed.
The rebels in Syria we now supply weaponry
to will, like they are doing in Egypt, be ready
to enforce their odious idea of Islam.
We, in the west must, if we are upright take
In the refuges and not let them fester in some
camps and fed by the Red Cross.
Give our Christian brothers a new spring, far
from the battlefield of hate and ignorance.
Five Arab Men
In the dead of night, asleep in my bed
Suddenly, upon a hill as bright as day
A vision before me, or am I misled
On this asphalt road,to the left, a tractor trailer stands
Waiting as if impatient
Cloisters, old fort on the right, playing of the bands
Down below, a city of black glass skyscrapers rise
As if by an artist hand, shooting into the sky
To stand beside this scene may not be wise
The front of the vehicle, watches over the city
And midway beside the machine, I stand
A lamb to the slaughter, do not pity
I must go, it is my destiny
Walk to cab of vehicle, five Arab sitting
As if waiting for a sign
Uneasy feeling taking hold of me
Hurry back some distance, still close
Step out , two men coming
Men look intensely in my direction
Overcome with fear, I stand my ground
Cannot see me, as a spirit in the night
Walk right through me, as if blind
Climb in vehicle, remove tarpaulin
A long-range ballistic missile, so unkind
Unhurried action, missile moves
Pointing to the sky
Must wake up, must not see what is yet to come
William Morrissey 6/5/01
We the off-springs of deserts
Rules by decades of fears
With our fists and guts
Shackled by servitude
Our minds corrupted by monarchies
Fooled and pulled by tyrants
Today, we ooze our blood for fraternity
Painting our deserts with tears
Saying no to insanity
In the corridors of their bullets,
We bully the bulls' bullets
With a speck of grit
We greet
Dreadfulness and death
With determinations
For the sake of children we shall
Bleed to death, than have them in power
Tell Africa, it is Arab Spring.
Awoh Awoh
In the seven hundreds, we traded salt
Arab and Berber traders
Were gold and ivory graders
Horses and tigers bartering came to a halt
Cloth, swords, and books traded for chocolate malt.
Drogue, Rogue.
Arab beauty.
Special Heir.
Jump up-down.
Slice like an Arab Ninja.
What is the blade?
Sharp point with Arab Brittle.
Separate from the end.
Muller Tick-Tock.
Poison the Tyrant.
Bomb the Oppressors
And, swordplay.
Dormant aspirations lie in winter's fallow ground
Burgeoning freedom furrowed in shallow soil; sovereign elements do pound
Infertile seeds in barren hearths tightly wound
A cold wind from on high scourges each, desolate mound
A dreary drizzle from hovering, satin crowns seeps deep; hopes are drowned
Nutrients for spawning growth are leached; blighting tentacles surround
Ambition suppressed, inactive period of malaise doth abound
In due season, warming rays of light shine thawing frozen hearts
Incubating innate desire to fulfill individual destinies, from chained depth departs
In destitute minds, a burgeoning sprout of liberty starts
Branching forth into fertile souls, intestinal fiber imparts
Taking root, it spreads deep, penetrating shielded ramparts
A fragile frond from each wavering limb darts
Triumphing in tyrannous environment, a fruitful future charts
From the white citadel on the hill
Subtle and suffused glory
The light of freedom fountains spill
In streets muddy and gory
And the rain of seeded clouds aloft
By torrent floods wet the land
Old roots are tumbled out, and no raft
Carries the stones that make the sand.
Obdurate mountains like empires gone
The street dancing tonight likr dawn
The stag watches the still trembling fawn
The winds bring fertile seeds to spawn
And I from afar smell spring afresh
The old climate for planting
And the cyclic reaping of the flesh
And flowers bloom for sniffing
Let nature plant and the hills shall want
Nothing for the free harvest
Of fall. O but beauty still grows scant
Among the gathering of pest
And the old eyes that read the blank stars
Tell by the moon the new change
Is only fireflies in crystal jars
The moon is sad, and so sadly strange.
Laughing more than necessary
And beginning from Beginning,
Jane about Joan and accessory:
"She'd looked like one a game winning,
Her blouse ungodly and real scary;
To even far - off eyes lots meaning,
Warden to reject stories fairy:
Breasts like ones a new baby weaning,
Still, a nose ring but bare back
And as she walked oft looked back...
"Are these what you might show Brethren;
And not win fires of cauldron?"
Devoted Christian De half Nude;
If she stayed back at home not good
But ushered into the fold a feud
Fold would be lucky if it withstood...
Its a tongue with ring for the Hymn
And a Joan sure it's good for Him.