Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
'Does the blackened ruin, situated in the stony ground between Durraj and Mutathallam, which did not speak to me, when addressed, belong to the abode of Ummi Awfa?
'And is it her dwelling at the two stony meadows, seeming as though they were the renewed tattoo marks in the sinews of the wrist?
'The wild cows and the white deer are wandering about there, one herd behind the other, while their young are springing up from every lying-down place.
'I stood again near it, (the encampment of the tribe of Awfa,) after an absence of twenty years, and with some efforts, I know her abode again after thinking awhile.
'I recognized the three stones blackened by fire at the place where the kettle used to be placed at night, and the trench round the encampment, which had not burst, like the source of a pool.
I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.
This comes after silence. Was it something I said
Too volatile, am I?too voluble?too much a word-person?
I blame the soup:I'm a primordially
Two pronouns and a vehicle was Icarus with wings.
The apparatus of his selves made an ab-
The sound I make is sympathy's:sad dogs are tied afar.
But howling I become an ever more un-
In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
A Poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from Original Persian into English by the Author
I'm unripe greengages
It was a necessity
That I was just born to be a flavour.
In the pale sunshine of a springtime morn,
As fresh as the dawn before it was born,
Such creamy clouds, grace a deep blue sky,
After the midnight of rain has passed by.
Plum purple blooms, leave scented traces,
As butterflies appear in unlikely places,
In hues of green, white, orange and gold,
As bees hum to the drummer in the marigold!
Baby bluebirds peep in tranquil treetops,
While the caress of breezes is felt nonstop.
They say, poetry makes you imaginary
Far lost in words... disconnected
When they themselves began their lives
Singing rhymes, poems... twinkle twinkle li'l star
Sleeping to their gran's lullabies
Frolickin' in the farms...to the poetry of tall grasses
Dreaming of nature's poems...its soul rests within you
Growin' up with your beloved alongside
Writing letters to your love... replete with poetry so melancholy...
When thy love jilts you...you weave a song
LIFE, IS IT ALL ABOUT LIFE AND DEATH?
WE DONT TAKE ANYTHING WHEN WE DIE
THEN WHAT'S THE PURPOSE OF LIVING?
IS IT ABOUT LIVING FOR OTHERS IN THE NAME OF LOVE?
OR HOUND SOMEONE FOR OUR FAILURES?
IS THERE ANY NEXUS BETWEEN SUCCESS AND OUR LIFE?
IS LIFE ABOUT CHASING GOALS THAT GIVES NO SATISFACTION?
Birth is the ultimate lottery.
Contradictory to equality.,
Nobody loses entirely.
To win is established
In advantage you recieve.
Head starts in life given.