Omar Shabanah / Palestina
عمر شبانة / فلسطين

شمس في أقصى عتمتها

-1-

عدت إلى العش
وفوجئت بوحش الجسد يناديني
......
........
..........
في الغرفة
حين أعود إلى الغرفة
يفجأني جسد وحشْ
جسد لم يدخل هذي الغرفة يوما
من أين يجيء الجسد الوحشُ إذاً؟
من حلم؟
من ذاكرة تعبتْ
في الترحال العابر بين الأجسادْْ؟
في الغرفة كنت أرى أجساداً تترنح في النشوة..
وأرى جسداً
يتذكر:
غسلته الأنهار قليلاً
يتذكر:
غاباتٍ.. رحلت فيه..
أرى جسداً
محترقاً بعلامات أنوثته
يحلم بالحرية حد الفوضى
محتدماً مثل صهيل في البرية
مثل الموجة عاتية في الريح تجيءْ
وأرى جسداً ملفوفاً بالنعش يسير معي
من أين يجيء الوحش إلى جسدي؟
من حواء الأولى في الغابة
حتى آخر من فتحت باب الجسد الحر على مصراعيه

-2-

صمت وفراغ
صمت يصرخ بالرجل الجالس
في كرسيِّ العزلة
والعزلة تصرخ
أي فراغ
يملؤه الليل الصارخ؟
لكن..
من شربتْ من ماء الذئب
تعود ولو بعد قرونْ
صمت وفراغٌ
والذئب المهزوم وحيد في عزلته
ووحيداً ينسج أوهاماً للعشق
ويملأ بالكلمات كتابَ العُمرِ الفارغَ..
بالكلمات سيملأ روحاً خاويةً
ويضيء القلب المعتم.. بالكلماتْ
صمت وفراغْ
موتٌ ونهاياتٌ
ينهض نحو الباب
وينظر من عين البابْ
ينظر في الهاتف
علَّ مكالمة لم يسمعها
يهبط نحو منازل لهوهما الأولى
أين الذئبة؟
يرجع مهزوماً
يتأمل سقف الغرفة والجدرانْ
ينظر نحو سرير العشق الأولْ
ينظر فيرى قبلتها فوق الشرشف
يسمع صوت العطر الفاغم
صوت حفيف المنديل على العنق اللامع
يذهب للمطبخ
يتشمم رائحة يديها وأصابعها
فوق كؤوس الفودكا
وفناجين القهوة
حين يعود إلى الغرفة
يفجأه فنجان مقلوبْ
يتذكر كل صباحات القهوة
والفودكا المعجونة بالجنسْ
يتذكرها تخلع جلبابَ الخوف الأسودَ..
تدخل في طقس العري الملهوفْ
هذا فنجانك يا شمس
على حالته
مقلوب
منذ غيابك.. قبل ثلاثين سنة
فنجانك هذا.. يبقى مقلوباً
طقساً للعشق الباقي..
لن تشرب منه سواكِ

-3-

هذا الكرسيُّ الباردُ
كان لأنثى تملؤه دفئاً
لامرأة تحضنه
فأطير بها عشقاً
وتطير [به] شبقاً
وتصيحْ
لامرأة
تركت أطفالاً في البيت وزوجاً
وأتتني هائمة
تلعب بمراكبها الريحْ
في البدء سكبت لها القهوة
كي تهدأ
ثم سكبت نبيذاً
وركضنا
في أرض لا أعرفها
حتى شهقات الموت ركضنا
ورجعنا نشرب قهوتنا
شهرين يتيمين ركضنا
في سهل يوماً
في جبل يوماً
و'رأيت' جميع الطرق
الذاهبة إليها
وافترق الظلان
وظلت صورتها
في مقعدها الفارغْ

-4-

أمس صباحاً
في العاشرة صباحاً
وعلى إيقاع الوحشة
جاءت صورتها تركض
في أرض أُخرى
لا يعرفها
في أية أرض كانت؟
كان على إيقاع الكهل
رأى الذئب وحيداً في عزلته
كـ'الجنرالْ'..
ما من صوتٍ في الهاتف
ما من أحد
دقّ الجرس الصامت.. منذ قرونْ
ليس سوى جرس المصعد
يوقظه من وحدته
أو أصوات العمال
على سطح البرج الصاعد
كالقبر هنا.. في الحيّْ

-5-

أمس مساءً
في السابعة مساءً
وعلى إيقاع الوحشة
نفسِ الوحشة
رنّ الهاتفُ
فرآها:
كانت تخلع جلبابَ الخوف الأسودَ..
كي تدخل في طقس العري الملهوفْ
ورآها:
ترفعه من طين الجنس
إلى آخر ضوء في الأنثى
ورآها:
زبداً يهبط نحو هباء أبديّ
ورآها نجماً يسطع يوماً
وشهوراً لا يسطع فيه سوى الموتْ
.............
.................
وعلى الطرف الآخر
كان الصوت لها
هل حلماً كان
أم الهاتف رنّْ
.............
...................
أيُّ عذابْ
.............
...................
وانتثرت في غرفته شمسْ
..........
.................
ألف حجابْ
لا تحجب شمسكِ
يا شمسْ
لا تحجب ضوء يديكِ،
ولا تحجب عن جسدي
ضوء الجسد الصاهلِ
جسد الفرس
المعجون بألوان الموسيقا
موسيقا الخيل
وألوان الليلْ
حين تغيبين، ولست تغيبين تماماً،
يبقى منك معي:
عيناك الشاعلتان كحرش نجوم
وتضيئان البيتْ
ومعي يبقى منك:
غيوم من عطر بريّ
كان تناثر من كفيك وصدرك يوماً
وتجمع فوق سريري مطرا

ومعي منك يظل الوهج الساطع
في غابات شقراء
تفجر فيَّ ينابيع اللذة والموتْ
يبقى
حين تغيبين ولست تغيبين
لهيب الشهقات
ودفء الهمسات
ويبقى بحر من حبٍ
يبقى منك......
جميع الشمسْ .

I Sing For My Head that Remained My Head in War
Translated by Dr Omnia Amin

-1-
My love
we have a past
and what will come tomorrow
is more beautiful
We have the very first trees
the sesban trees saisaban
that sleep on the outskirts of Al Ghor
I have flowers from your hands
that I have been kissing
for twenty years
and they never withered
For Nadia
for twenty years
of flowers and oppression
I open the poem’s river
for the water of life
and I improvise

-2-
We circumambulated hand in hand
around the stone of love
we drowned blood in blood
in its lakes
and floated on their surfaces
one body with another
She was my heaven
and I was hers
I was bemused by a light on
the door of my heart
and she was bemused
by a light in her heart
We walked paths of time
and crossed streets of time
not knowing whereto
but we walked
and there were countries
shining like stars
that went out of a dark tunnel
and walked towards us
We walked to them
on two reluctant
bodies and souls
We fly towards them
with two perplexed souls
and two planes
but the royal gendarmerie imprison us
they fly towards us
but the occupation soldiers prevent them
I was homeless in her shadows for a long-time
and from her the age of dew and shadows
slipped towards me
We were
and the range was
wide in the mountain’s time
She saysI love your troublesome hands
I say
I love the blood of the two flowers
on your provocative breasts
together with my fresh water
on the outskirts of Al Ghor
We got drunk on love
and grass
dust and water on the edge of the river
We used to explore the sanctuary
preaching with love and rifles
We used to be
dust, grass, water, love and war
We sanctified our names
heaped our rags
devoted our ears
to a water without any blue
and a sky without stars
Jerusalem used to come out
of our dead sea
lying on the edge of bananas
Jericho used to be
the playground for our dreams
and imaginations
Hebron
Jaffa
Gaza
the water
the horses and the night
stretched inside us
like a dream curing the flame of boundaries

-3-
We met under the shadows of siege
The flame of defeat
was pulsing inside
as we returned a pulse of hope
to the heart
The earth went round with us
and we walked together
between a bar and a prison
Between firm palms and an olive tree
I felt familiar
Between a small house
and a new one
Our earth keeps going round with us
and we go round with its trees
Between one exile and another
and a l prison
We try to reign
We do not die
and we do not forgive
How I climbed up to her night
in the camp
How I climbed up
in the drains of my soul
with my Volks Wagen
Who remembers now Canaan’s ship
Who remembers the vagabond friends
in the night of Amman?
For twenty years
we try to draw the universe
around us
in funeral fields
in the insomnia of flowers
In the night of Amman
we draw a river with wings
and seagulls from our own imagination
The night of Amman was not a river
and there were no trees in its water
or seagulls
Amman is arid
Palestine is going away
And I am a moon
ruined by alcohol

-4-
The scent of villages and spring
is in your night
My night is a Gulf,
an autumn
with which the peripheral poet screams
He screams out
O Gulf of destruction
How could you steal the most beautiful of us
as he writes a song for the rain

-5-
O country woman
how your absence
opens the door of frailty
How present you are
in your absence
The daughter of the countryside is never absent
Her silence is singing
Her folksongs are from Canaan’s myths
or from the mountains of Hebron
The daughter of the impossible is never absent
Her hands are swords
There’s a revolution in her head
and nations leading their earthquakes
and blazing their floods
The genuine one is never absent
She carries a sceptre
She will walk to the house of ancestry
to Zachariah
to embrace there
what’s left of the prophet’s shrine,
the murdered son of John

-6-
Don’t become absent
like me
Don’t leave me to die alone
My waters are threatened by deserts
and my life is short, very short
And short, very short
is the road to hell
because I am hell
There is no hell but me
My own hell
And I am from my own hell

-7-
Have you heard about the soldiers,
about the night in my prison cell,
the whips of the slaves
as they whipped the copybooks of my freedom
Have you heard about the countries that
I cannot say my country
because I don’t have a country
But I say the countries that mad me homeless
…you have heard about the soldiers
the commandoes who went out in the planes
…the story of the commandoes between exiles
… the commando in a tunnel
and the commando in a hotel
the commando between exiles
and one quarter of a homeland

-8-
Under the bareness of the sands
I become the brother of stars
I befriend a fox and a cat
I find a relative in the seagull or a dove
In my estrangement
I befriend the flowers in nature,
become gentle with a tree
free on the road
I play with a thorny sapling
lest it befriends me
in my travelling
from home to work
In the sea I became the brother of a Hamour fish
that takes me to a shark
to become my friend
in my travelling towards the bottom
in search of warm brothers
I learn in my estrangement
from the trees in the land and the sea
from a bird or a gazelle
From the river
or the Gulf of death
I learn
I have no need for humans

-9-
I learn from my isolation
that the flowers will one day wither
That the songs will lose their rhythm
My isolation is the last fortress of my heart
It is the walls of my Jerusalem
and my gate to walk inside
in order to see myself close byr
I shall see you in my isolation
painting your face
You come like the flowers, the water and the antelope
I see nothing but your face
You come like love
like grief
and ancient songs
in the age of clowns
You come from the age of war
and oppression
Your face is my sustenance
Your heart is my provision
and your hands are linden
You are my flower
in the desert of madness
I was never embraced by flowers
after the flowers of your bosom
After your soul
I will not walk with any star
or with any kind soul

-10-
I sing alone because
I am with you
Because you wake up in the morning
and thrust me with old songs
With the sea and the hoola, hoola
with my mother’s coffee
with Fairoz signing for Jerusalem
with the Sheikh singing: The pupils have returned Uncle Hamza
I sing because you come alone
in my isolation
And because you alone
do not lie
I sing for our days
for our old comrades
for a long night that passed
in dancing and fear
for those who withstood in prison
for those who fell in the battlefields
for life passing
and scattering flowers of white
on our heads
I sing
elegies
satires
eulogies
I sing to elegy a time
to satirize a time
to eulogize my desperation
I sing for my head
that remained my head in war
for my wretchedness that still prevails
and for my cup that will remain
I elegy what will come
satirize what will come
and eulogize what will come
What will come?
A time that repeats its breaths
in a time that has stopped breathing
Godot’s birds will come
and his trees in the far away autumn
Ibn Hazm will come
and his dove will come
without a ring and without any feathers

Biografia
Omar Shabanah / Palestina
عمر شبانة / فلسطين
عمر شبانة من مواليد عمان 1958 ، شاعر أردني فلسطيني
يعمل في الحقل الإعلامي بالإمارات
وكتب العديد من الدراسات النقدية
صدر له
احتفال الشبابيك بالعاصفة
غبار الشخص
الطفل الذي يمضي.

Shabanah and Life’s Absurdities by Dr Omnia Amin

Omar Shabanah is a poet who consoles himself in poetry as he faces the bitterness and unexpected absurd swerves in life. He was born and raised in Jordan but like many promising young poets, his parents are of Palestinian origin thus the sorrows and struggles of the Palestinian people colour his experience as a young man and are reflected in his poetry. Shabanah started working as a journalist from an early age and the political turmoil that swept the region had a tremendous effect upon him where his poetry reflects the agonies of a restless soul that tries to cling on to something tangible in an every fleeting and constantly changing world wrought by many unpleasant surprises. Through poetry he tries to keep his sanity and celebrates the fact that he can still face life and tries to grope with its absurd nature. He finds death just as near to him as life itself. Death symbolizes for him the possibility of another life and a more colourful existence. His poetry however does not have a morbid element as it carries across the poet’s inner nature set free through his words and it shows a person who is able through imagination to seek a refuge and solace in his own world as the universe around him has failed to provide him with a sense of security.
Shabanah was born in Amman in 1958. He studied Arabic literature at the Jordanian University and started working in journalism since 1983. He currently lives in the United Arab Emirates where he writes for Al Khaleej Newspaper in the cultural section. He has two collections of poetry and has written numerous articles on criticism and on literature. He is a member of the Jordanian Writer’s Association and the Union of Arab Writers. The following poems are part of a new collection that has not been published and was sent especially for The Jordan Times Weekender.

oshabanah@hotmail.com