Archive for September, 2011

Short Story: A Lover’s pleas.

Listen to: Jóhann Jóhannsson – Krókódíll. 

“It’s done, it’s over, we’re through” he said as he shook his head in remorse.

“No we’re not” she replied softly.

For the first time, her vivid voice did more than just allure him, it shocked him, “Why not..?” he calmly said.

“Because my heart still beats for you, and you, you feel me too” she confidently said.

He could not reply, for she had won this battle of scars. They stood there, staring at each other in complete silence while both their hearts shattered to million pieces within.

“You do not understand…” he murmured, “but I do…” she interrupted.

He reached out for her hand and grasped it roughly, she gasped in fright. He held her palm with both his hands, and placed it on his chest, right about above his heart.

“Then explain this to me…” he whispered in her ear.

“I canno..” she could finish her sentence, for her chain of thoughts were interrupted by his fast heartbeat. Her entire being shivered with every beat of his heart. This was it, she thought. This was the moment she had feared for so long. He knew, he always knew the time would come, they both did in fact.

Yet, with all the raw emotions soaring around them, neither one of them was strong enough to walk away or weak enough to stay. They just stood there. Hallow as they were – staring into one another’s naked soul without a single spoken word.

Right when his clenched hands began to ease, she pulled her hand swiftly and hid it behind her back. She took a few steps back. He almost stepped forward, almost. He did not. He hesitated. She witnessed as his devils and angels minced him apart. She feared it. She feared him. She took another step backwards, only this time, to see if he’d suppress his devils and step forward. He froze, entirely. For moment, he could not blink. His hands shivered. His shirt was soaked with sweat. ‘What am I doing here’ he thought to himself, ‘what is happening here’ he asked himself.

He knew if she stepped one more step away from him, she would no longer be his. It was that damned pride of hers that always stood in her heart’s way. He was well aware that the girl who stands before him in tears and shivers is his soul mate, though, God Forbid he believes in such myths. ‘Let me go… let me be’ he finally said breaking a silence that seemed to have lasted centuries.

She could not speak; she felt her body turn around, and her legs walking away. She wanted to stop. She needed to stop, she wanted to run back and kiss him. She wanted it to get better, not worse. She wanted to stop. She could not stop. Her legs were moving, ‘why am I walking away, stop! Stop!’ she screamed within, her legs would not respond. ‘Please, stop. I love this man’ she pled her mind, her mind would not follow. ‘Do not leave, no please, put the car keys away, do not walk away, do not, do not’ she ordered her hand to stop, her hand did not respond. ‘One last look, just one more, please, turn around, blow a kiss, show him your face’ she begged her face; her face did not turn around. Her lips did not blow a kiss. Her eyes did not meet his. Her hands drove her away, far, far away. Her entire body could not stay. Her soul, however, would rather cling to his until they intertwine.

He picked up his phone, dialed her home number, and left a message at the tone: I cannot live without you.

Mahmoud Darwish: Nothing Impresses me. (لا شيء يعجبني)

Mahmoud Darwish is a Palestine poet. I will not spend my time explaining who he is because he does not need introductions (غني عن التعريف). My passion towards the Arabic language is one I cannot foster well because of a weakness from me. I started writing poetry in English at the age of 11, yet wrote only a few Arabic ones (that don’t really register as poems) in my late 16s.

My post is not about my Arabic, or Darwish, or my early adolescent years. It is about this poem.  I roughly translated the poem so non-arabic speakers (if any) reading this blog understand the context. However, the English translation does not do it justice, for it is far too beautiful in Arabic to ever reach that level of profoundness in any other language.

It takes about how everyone is not pleased with their lives, what they do, or the people around them. Recently, I have come to the realization that I am not happy. It takes a lot of might to accept such state of mind. I mean really, what is happiness anyway. Whatever it is, I know I am far from reaching it.

Unlike Darwish, I cannot get off the ride, because metaphorically speaking his ride equals fate to me. I cannot stop it, I have no control over it, and I cannot change it. All I can do is pray that it serves me well until I reach my final stop in life.

I will stop the pointless jibber jabber and let you enjoy this very delightful poem, which I will refrain from explaining my own perception to it because the true essence of poetry is: we each understand it the way we feel best.

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Poem by Mahmoud Darwish: Nothing Impresses me.

محمود درويش – لا شيء يعجبني

يقول مسافرٌ في الباصِ .. لا شيءَ يُعْجبُني

A passenger on the bus says… nothing impresses me.

لا الراديو  و لا صُحُفُ الصباح , و لا القلاعُ على التلال. أُريد أن أبكي

Not the radio, the morning newspapers, or even fortresses on hills. I long for a weep.

يقول السائقُ: انتظرِ الوصولَ إلى المحطَّةِ, وابْكِ وحدك ما استطعتَ

The bus driver says: Wait until we reach the station, and weep alone as you can.

تقول سيّدةٌ: أَنا أَيضاً. أنا لا شيءَ يُعْجبُني. دَلَلْتُ اُبني على قبري’ فأعْجَبَهُ ونامَ’ ولم يُوَدِّعْني

A lady says: Me too. Nothing impresses me. I spoiled my son upon my grave, he enjoyed it and slept without saying goodbye.

يقول الجامعيُّ: ولا أَنا ‘ لا شيءَ يعجبني. دَرَسْتُ الأركيولوجيا دون أَن أَجِدَ الهُوِيَّةَ في الحجارة. هل أنا حقاً أَنا؟

A university student says: Me neither. Nothing impresses me. I studied archeology without finding an identity in stones. Am I really me?

ويقول جنديٌّ: أَنا أَيضاً. أَنا لا شيءَ يُعْجبُني . أُحاصِرُ دائماً شَبَحاً يُحاصِرُني

A solider says: Me too. Nothing impresses me. I guard a ghost that always haunts me.

يقولُ السائقُ العصبيُّ: ها نحن اقتربنا من محطتنا الأخيرة’ فاستعدوا للنزول…

The angry driver replies: We are close to our last stop, get ready to leave.

فيصرخون: نريدُ ما بَعْدَ المحطَّةِ’ .. فانطلق!

They scream: We want what is beyond the station, so go.

أمَّا أنا فأقولُ: أنْزِلْني هنا . أنا مثلهم لا شيء يعجبني ‘ ولكني تعبتُ من السِّفَرْ

.As for me, I say: Drop me here. I am like them, nothing impresses me. But I am tired from traveling.