Sunday, September 18, 2011

Shahryar, on the two thousandth night



"What troubles your soul, Shahryar,

A stranger you seem to me

Am I not the secret of secrets?

In my  face the joy of darkness gone by

In my gaze the mystery of a dangerous night

and my beauty, future’s distant answer

to an impossible from yesterday’s sigh ?"



“Scheherazade,

Two thousand nights have passed

And still your words are Unknown

Are you a form of reality,

Or a lie from the dawn of time ?

Are you of the human race,

Or the daughter of nature herself ?

Born to imprison my soul in her chambers,

That I may forget my limitless space

And her hazlenut eyes

Confine the meaning of existence

Who are you ? What are you ?

If your soul cannot lift the mystery

Then I shall find in the sands of deserts

In the illusions of the skies

In the shades of never-ending forests,

That which shall free me from the chain

Of a question that brings nothing but pain”



“Run away, child

to taste the fruits of forgetfulness

yet in the what the desert offers of sands,

what the trees offer of shade

what the skies offer of stars

what the birds offer in prayers

You shall find of me a vision

And you shall return, a man:

I am all that was

All that is

All that shall be,

No mortal man has me yet unveiled

For if fate ever shows,

your anxious soul

A glimpse of my own,

Would you bear my existence

Beyond the light of one  dawn?"






By Comte Almaviva

Saturday, May 07, 2011

يا زهرة الأمل

يا زهرة الأمل في الحياة                        
                         لا تبك فدمعك دمع السماء
يا قبلةً علت على ظلم البشر                     
                           للبشر في بقائك البقاء
يا نار مضيئة   منذ الأزل                    
                         في ذكرك معنى الحب والدعاء  
يا روح العلم علمي الإنسان                  
                          ما لم يعلم من روح الرجاء
فهو ذكر أن الموت بحق                      
                       ونسى أن ما القتل بقضاء
يا زهرة الأمل في الحياة                      
لا تبك، فدمعك دمع السماء


By Comte Almaviva

Friday, April 29, 2011

Carmen, love is a bohemian child

When will I love you?
My word! I don’t have a clue
Perhaps never…
Perhaps tomorrow
But now is not the time
That is certain


Love is a rebellious bird
That nothing-no one
Ever could tame
And it’s in vain
That we call for it
If it suits it to refuse
Nothing will do
Threats or prayer
One speaks well,
The other is mute
And it is the other I prefer
He says naught
Yet he pleases me most!


Love is a bohemian child
That never knows any rule or law
If you love me not
I’ll love you
And if I love you…
stay alert! Watch out!



That bird you thought
You could surprise
Flutters its wings
And flies away
Love is far – you can wait
The wait is over – here it is!
All around you
Hurry! Hurry!
It comes
It goes
And it comes back
When You think you caught it
It escapes
But try to escape
And it catches you


Love is a bohemian child
That never knows any rule or law
If you love me not
I’ll love you
And if I love you…
stay alert! Watch out!



translated by Comte Almaviva

Monday, April 25, 2011

كتبت من الخيال

كتبت من الخيال

قبل الإحتفال

فصارت خليلة الروح

وصارت معنى لسؤال

لا معنى له

إلا في قلب ذلك  الذي لا يحيا

سوى بين جلدتي كتاب

والقلم لا يعرف إلا  السراب


من هي؟

ذات العيون الصافية

والصوت العذب كطير الجنان ؟

أهي شهرزاد أم إيزيس؟

تلك التي وجدت منذ الأزل

منذ قبل ما قبل فجر الخليقة

فبقيت في ثنايا الروح خافية

إلى أن أخرجها إلى النور وحي قلمك

 فصرت تراها  في عيني كل إمرأة

فتغدو في  كل إمرأة صفة الكمال

إلى أن تدرك أن لها حقيقة

غير  التي في مرآة نفسك

فتلك صنيعة الأحلام

أما هذي فتخاطب فيك الإنسان

وقدر الكاتب قدران

له نصف  قلبٌ كقلوب البشر

ينشد تلك السعادة الفانية

وله نصف  قلبٌ يتقن فن الهروب

ولا يهرب إلا في  دروب الأوهام


وما كان للقلم أن يحيا

دون أن تتصارع في الروح

تلك الأمواج العاتية!




Sunday, April 24, 2011

Pygmalion and Galatea, a lyrical poem (all 5 scenes)

Scene 1: Pygmalion, in the middle of the night, reaches the altar of Venus in her temple, and throws himself in front of her statue

Pygmalion :


Tonight I pray to thee Venus

Forgive this sorrowful heart

Who knew no one but Appolo

The giver of reason and of Art

And  of ambitions ever unbound

who  set my spirit on fire

to rise above this finite land

to seek over Mount Olympus

what is beyond the Genius

of both man and immortal god.

And I  set within the marble stone

The music of Appolo’s  lyre

day after day, with this mortal hand

I soared above what  gods aspire

Galatea, the name I carved in words

Unadorned she was, unequal was pure gold

She was my victory, over all you gods

For no god ever made perfect man

Yet that night, perfection was mine to hold !

But where Genius rose ever higher

The void left was filled with desire,

One lonely night not before too long

I sang to her, she offer’d back no song

And where whisper’d tales with tears I told

Her eyes were idle, her palms were cold

Tonight I pray to thee Venus !

Take back all the Genius of my soul

Take back Appolo’s poisoned chalice

Of gods, I no longer wish the role

Breath in her the gift of love and life

That I may find by her, warmth in night

That I  may know how mortal fates unite

Make imperfect this - my perfection

Take  Galatea, my miracle of creation

Give me Galatea the human, the wife !



Scene 2 : Dialogue of Venus and Appolo, in front of a magic fountain showing both Venus’s temple and Galatea in Pygmalion’s cottage



Venus


Witness my victory god of Art

god of Genius, music and Mind

Your proudest creation has a heart

His vows to Appolo, this night unsigned

How unwise, brother, to think a man

May rise to take the role of  god

When we spelled the frailties of mankind

Between heart and reason their choice was made:

Without reason, man may live his life

Yet not a day – by Cupid- from love apart

Appolo :

Our powers are vast but minds finite

While  limitless is man’s imagination

gods create the man, who works the night

to rise above us in his own creation

Galatea her name –lifeless she stands

Yet holds  Pygmalion’s genius and soul

He did not pray Venus, yet still knew love

For Is Galatea the work of  just the hands,

When each night watered with the artist’s tears?

I ask you sister, not to hear his cries

For if you breath into her a mortal life

Happiness he may know, but for a day

If tonight he calls her his love, his wife

Tomorrow she’ll be  a Memory of

your crime against labour and  perfection

Begrudge him not  the sorrows of his heart

Such is his fate to seek his happiness

In making the immortal, from a mortal mind

Do not destroy the miracle of his Art

In the name of the  lonely winter’s tears


For if Galatea is the artist’s lasting miracle,

we the gods made the human’s fears

Venus :

I do not live to do favours for man

Be he a genius or a petty thief

But  prayers of love I cannot deny

should they bring joy, misery or grief

You see in  Galatea your victory

When the artist rose over Olympus high?

Yet Pygmalion shall be my triumph

In her love he’ll find eternal belief !

(She raises her hands)

Cupid ! Prepare your quiver for the game

Tonight thine arrows shall cover the sky !


Scene 3  Galatea, kneeling by the sleeping  Pygmalion in their cottage


Galatea

What is the secret of existence

But a divine gift that was twice received ?

Once, the genius of Art gave instance

Thence, from gods’ breath the  spirit conceived ?

Pygmalion, husband, creator,  friend, and  love

Is it a glimpse of sorrow on your face ?

My life span is a  year, spent by your side

Wherein you showered me with kisses each dawn

Yet tonight, of your  love, I see no trace

 Tonight, I see the veil  that masks a fear

but I shall ask  not for the truth unveiled

Let not the eyes search for false happiness

That was not meant for a human to find

Swear an eternal love  as you did the day

you forewent Reason in the will to pray

When with a breath of Venus I came to life

Know that if Galatea once was the work of the mind

None  but the name  remains in your wife

Ageless  stone may tell of miracles, but will not love

Yet our mortal hearts are forever entwined




Scene 4: Pygmalion, walking alone under a moonlit night



Pygmalion:

One night  I thought my genius rose

Above the fates of gods and their creation

For once the spirit denied the mortal laws

No god deterred a limitless    imagination

Galatea was the child of my mind

Years I worked in the stillness of the night

When  man and beast close their idle eyes

And lived without both man’s truth and lies

While I labored for an image of perfection

She was both companion to the mind and heart

With  with the spirit content, with the labor done

I declared that over you gods I’d won

For there she stood, of my victory the annunciation

Yet when minds grow weary, the heart takes the stage

Hitherto freedom was a limitless quest

Yet now it was a human desire

I denied Appolo, and cursed my fate:

That while my spirit may roam far above

I shall be creator of beauty, yet know not love

And with a heart full of sorrow and of rage

I prayed Venus, to make human out of divine

An earthly love out of a perfect design

Thence for a year I saw happiness in Galatea

And embraced the bars of this blissful cage

But while Galatea received the gift of life

She no longer was the creature of my dream

Day after day, my gift to her the more withdrawn

conquered by a  god’s curse: that she may know time

She could not show love when of marble stone

Yet she was my gift to a never-ending future

That ever lives in hope of a new dawn

Venus! My Galatea was eternal

But yours shall know that hourglass we call age

The Artist creates beyond the laws of time

But when gods conspire with the human inside

Everlasting Art,  ever the victim of their crime!

Venus! No love is true with the spirit tied

Take back that which is a cruel imitation

Take back what you gave in the name of heart

Give back the product of Mind’s creation

 Give back my gift to a distant generation

Return to me the genius of my Art!






(Scene 5, Appolo and Venus, looking at Pygmalion through his window)


Appolo


Your victory was but an illusion

And soon all is what it was meant to be

Needless was the divine intrusion

Unworthy was Venus’s inclusion

Of what Pygmalion’s heart was not  to see
`
Give him back that Galatea of yore

Not the creature of heart but of his dreams

Although at your altar he might implore

His bliss is the mystery of lifeless stone

That carries mortal thoughts to an immortal shore


Venus:

He will get back his unmoving creation

Today, he renounced both Venus and love

What I gave him was the true liberation

From bondage of a never-ending quest
 
Of a mind ever weary and a heart oppressed

 Your gift to him shall be his eternal curse

If today Reason triumphed over his heart

Think not that his first bliss he is to find

For if you give the blind one moment of sight

Will he ever be happy when back in the dark?

I shall take from Galatea life’s spark

Yet in his heart I shall keep that seed of love

That whenever his spirit rises far above

And while he swears to live from love apart

His gaze shall always be that of mortal man

He may create a perfect image from perfect stone

Yet shall know the memory of dispossession

His eyes forever searching for what he lost

Through a cruel prayer in a cruel night

If my work ruined the genius of his Art

Giving her a soul that knows the laws of time

His work too shall carry the recall of a crime

In a woman’s memory he shall live his days

That, Appolo, shall be your curse and my revenge

Until that eternal cycle is complete

The day  Pygmalion kneels at my altar and prays!



By Comte Almaviva 

Pygmalion and Galatea, a lyrical poem - Scene 5 (final scene)

(Scene 5, Appolo and Venus, looking at Pygmalion through his window)


Appolo


Your victory was but an illusion

And soon all is what it was meant to be

Needless was the divine intrusion

Unworthy was Venus’s inclusion

Of what Pygmalion’s heart was not  to see
`
Give him back that Galatea of yore

Not the creature of heart but of his dreams

Although at your altar he might implore

His bliss is the mystery of lifeless stone

That carries mortal thoughts to an immortal shore


Venus:

He will get back his unmoving creation

Today, he renounced both Venus and love

What I gave him was the true liberation

From bondage of a never-ending quest
 
Of a mind ever weary and a heart oppressed

 Your gift to him shall be his eternal curse

If today Reason triumphed over his heart

Think not that his first bliss he is to find

For if you give the blind one moment of sight

Will he ever be happy when back in the dark?

I shall take from Galatea life’s spark

Yet in his heart I shall keep that seed of love

That whenever his spirit rises far above

And while he swears to live from love apart

His gaze shall always be that of mortal man

He may create a perfect image from perfect stone

Yet shall know the memory of dispossession

His eyes forever searching for what he lost

Through a cruel prayer in a cruel night

If my work ruined the genius of his Art

Giving her a soul that knows the laws of time

His work too shall carry the recall of a crime

In a woman’s memory he shall live his days

That, Appolo, shall be your curse and my revenge

Until that eternal cycle is complete

The day  Pygmalion kneels at my altar and prays!

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Pygmalion a lyrical poem - Scene 4

Scene 4: Pygmalion, walking alone under a moonlit night

Pygmalion:

One night  I thought my genius rose

Above the fates of gods and their creation

For once the spirit denied the mortal laws

No god deterred a limitless    imagination

Galatea was the child of my mind

Years I worked in the stillness of the night

When  man and beast close their idle eyes

And lived without both man’s truth and lies

While I labored for an image of perfection

She was both companion to the mind and heart

With  with the spirit content, with the labor done

I declared that over you gods I’d won

For there she stood, of my victory the annunciation

Yet when minds grow weary, the heart takes the stage

Hitherto freedom was a limitless quest

Yet now it was a human desire

I denied Appolo, and cursed my fate:

That while my spirit may roam far above

I shall be creator of beauty, yet know not love

And with a heart full of sorrow and of rage

I prayed Venus, to make human out of divine

An earthly love out of a perfect design

Thence for a year I saw happiness in Galatea

And embraced the bars of this blissful cage

But while Galatea received the gift of life

She no longer was the creature of my dream

Day after day, my gift to her the more withdrawn

conquered by a  god’s curse: that she may know time

She could not show love when of marble stone

Yet she was my gift to a never-ending future

That ever lives in hope of a new dawn

Venus! My Galatea was eternal

But yours shall know that hourglass we call age

The Artist creates beyond the laws of time

But when gods conspire with the human inside

Everlasting Art,  ever the victim of their crime!

Venus! No love is true with the spirit tied

Take back that which is a cruel imitation

Take back what you gave in the name of heart

Give back the product of Mind’s creation

 Give back my gift to a distant generation

Return to me the genius of my Art!



 By Comte Almaviva

Monday, April 18, 2011

Pygmalion a lyrical poem - Scene 3

Scene 3  Galatea, kneeling by the sleeping  Pygmalion in their cottage

Galatea

What is the secret of existence

But a divine gift that was twice received ?

Once, the genius of Art gave instance

Thence, from gods’ breath the  spirit conceived ?

Pygmalion, husband, creator,  friend, and  love

Is it a glimpse of sorrow on your face ?

My life span is a  year, spent by your side

Wherein you showered me with kisses each dawn

Yet tonight, of your  love, I see no trace

 Tonight, I see the veil  that masks a fear

but I shall ask  not for the truth unveiled

Let not the eyes search for false happiness

That was not meant for a human to find

Swear an eternal love  as you did the day

you forewent Reason in the will to pray

When with a breath of Venus I came to life

Know that if Galatea once was the work of the mind

None  but the name  remains in your wife

Ageless  stone may tell of miracles, but will not love

Yet our mortal hearts are forever entwined

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Fadwa Touqan - liberty of a people

Liberty of a People - Fadwa Touqan 

My Liberty!
My Liberty!
My Liberty!

A cry I repeat
With anger’s very mouth
Under the bullets
Within the circle of fire
Inspite of my shackles
I run behind her
Inspite of the darkness
I follow her steps
And I remain
Carried on the tide of anger
Fighting, crying, “My Liberty!”
My Liberty!
My Liberty!
The sacred river
And the bridges
Echo my words
My Liberty!

And the two banks
Echo my words
My Liberty!
The pathways of the angry wind
Thunder, rain and hurricanes
In my homeland
Echo my words
My Liberty!
My Liberty! My Liberty! My Liberty!

Resisting, I shall engrave her name
In the earth
In the walls
In the doors
On the balconies
On the altar of the Virgin Mary
In the Mosques
In the farm roads
On every hill top and every slope
Every corner and every street
Every prison every torture chamber
On the wood of the gallows
Against all the chains
Against the destruction of the homes
Against the flames and fires
I shall engrave her name
Until I see it spread
in my homeland
Growing,
Growing
And Growing
Until it covers every inch of the land
Until the red freedom opens every door
The night escapes,
The light knocks down
The foundation of the fog
My Liberty!
My Liberty!
The sacred river
And the bridges
Echo my words
My Liberty!

And the two banks
Echo my words
My Liberty!
The pathways of the angry wind
Thunder, rain and hurricanes
In my homeland
Echo my words
My Liberty!
My Liberty! My Liberty! My Liberty!


Translated by Comte Almaviva

Pygmalion a lyrical poem - Scenes 1 and 2

This will be my attempt at writing a quasi-lyric poem about the legend of Pygmalion and Galatea, the theme being the eternal struggle of the mind, the logic that aspires towards perfection and the heart, which does not hold perfection as a condition for love. I have not fully respected the meters of English poetry and the rhyme is not rigid, but I kept it loosely there so that it sounds more musical without constraining the meaning to the form. below are scenes 1 and 2.  I will add the other scenes in future posts.

As a clarification, this poem is based on Tawfiq al Hakim's symbolic theater play. 
 


Scene 1: Pygmalion, in the middle of the night, reaches the altar of Venus in her temple, and throws himself in front of her statue

Pygmalion :


Tonight I pray to thee Venus

Forgive this sorrowful heart

Who knew no one but Appolo

The giver of reason and of Art

And  of ambitions ever unbound

who  set my spirit on fire

to rise above this finite land

to seek over Mount Olympus

what is beyond the Genius

of both man and immortal god.

And I  set within the marble stone

The music of Appolo’s  lyre

day after day, with this mortal hand

I soared above what  gods aspire

Galatea, the name I carved in words

Unadorned she was, unequal was pure gold

She was my victory, over all you gods

For no god ever made perfect man

Yet that night, perfection was mine to hold !

But where Genius rose ever higher

The void left was filled with desire,

One lonely night not before too long

I sang to her, she offer’d back no song

And where whisper’d tales with tears I told

Her eyes were idle, her palms were cold

Tonight I pray to thee Venus !

Take back all the Genius of my soul

Take back Appolo’s poisoned chalice

Of gods, I no longer wish the role

Breath in her the gift of love and life

That I may find by her, warmth in night

That I  may know how mortal fates unite

Make imperfect this - my perfection

Take  Galatea, my miracle of creation

Give me Galatea the human, the wife !



Scene 2 : Dialogue of Venus and Appolo, in front of a magic fountain showing both Venus’s temple and Galatea in Pygmalion’s cottage



Venus


Witness my victory god of Art

god of Genius, music and Mind

Your proudest creation has a heart

His vows to Appolo, this night unsigned

How unwise, brother, to think a man

May rise to take the role of  god

When we spelled the frailties of mankind

Between heart and reason their choice was made:

Without reason, man may live his life

Yet not a day – by Cupid- from love apart

Appolo :

Our powers are vast but minds finite

While  limitless is man’s imagination

gods create the man, who works the night

to rise above us in his own creation

Galatea her name –lifeless she stands

Yet holds  Pygmalion’s genius and soul

He did not pray Venus, yet still knew love

For Is Galatea the work of  just the hands,

When each night watered with the artist’s tears?

I ask you sister, not to hear his cries

For if you breath into her a mortal life

Happiness he may know, but for a day

If tonight he calls her his love, his wife

Tomorrow she’ll be  a Memory of

your crime against labour and  perfection

Begrudge him not  the sorrows of his heart

Such is his fate to seek his happiness

In making the immortal, from a mortal mind

Do not destroy the miracle of his Art

In the name of the  lonely winter’s tears


For if Galatea is the artist’s lasting miracle,

we the gods made the human’s fears

Venus :

I do not live to do favours for man

Be he a genius or a petty thief

But  prayers of love I cannot deny

should they bring joy, misery or grief

You see in  Galatea your victory

When the artist rose over Olympus high?

Yet Pygmalion shall be my triumph

In her love he’ll find eternal belief !

(She raises her hands)

Cupid ! Prepare your quiver for the game

Tonight thine arrows shall cover the sky !

Friday, April 15, 2011

Pygmalion a lyrical poem - Scene 2

Scene 2 : Dialogue of Venus and Appolo, in front of a magic fountain showing both Venus’s temple and Galatea in Pygmalion’s cottage





Venus


Witness my victory god of Art

god of Genius, music and Mind

Your proudest creation has a heart

His vows to Appolo, this night unsigned

How unwise, brother, to think a man

May rise to take the role of  god

When we spelled the frailties of mankind

Between heart and reason their choice was made:

Without reason, man may live his life

Yet not a day – by Cupid- from love apart

Appolo :

Our powers are vast but minds finite

While  limitless is man’s imagination

gods create the man, who works the night

to rise above us in his own creation

Galatea her name –lifeless she stands

Yet holds  Pygmalion’s genius and soul

He did not pray Venus, yet still knew love

For Is Galatea the work of  just the hands,

When each night watered with the artist’s tears?

I ask you sister, not to hear his cries

For if you breath into her a mortal life

Happiness he may know, but for a day

If tonight he calls her his love, his wife

Tomorrow she’ll be  a Memory of

your crime against labour and  perfection

Begrudge him not  the sorrows of his heart

Such is his fate to seek his happiness

In making the immortal, from a mortal mind

Do not destroy the miracle of his Art

In the name of the  lonely winter’s tears


For if Galatea is the artist’s lasting miracle,

we the gods made the human’s fears

Venus :

I do not live to do favours for man

Be he a genius or a petty thief

But  prayers of love I cannot deny

should they bring joy, misery or grief

You see in  Galatea your victory

When the artist rose over Olympus high?

Yet Pygmalion shall be my triumph

In her love he’ll find eternal belief !

(She raises her hands)

Cupid ! Prepare your quiver for the game

Tonight thine arrows shall cover the sky !



By Comte Almaviva




Thursday, April 14, 2011

To that woman resisting oppression

Her pain is  sundered from speech
She lives  a  modern tragedy
But where hope seems out of reach
In her pure heart is  the remedy

In shadows  of their twisted mind
How fore’er they pushed her to hate !
They dug – but naught were they to find
for love – her heart’s  one only state !

Justice no longer is  a distant dream
When cries  echoe in nightingale’s wings
When sighs glide  in the waters of a stream
When through her voice, an angel sings

And  tyrants know their end is nigh
Lack of Mercy :  a sign of the weak
Those oppressed, with spirits held high
Will live – and e’er higher they shall seek

Her heart is split in two, yet both are strong
One half resists,  the other shall  pray
But soon they meet, and  their  hopeful song
Shall end the night and bring the light of day

By Comte Almaviva

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Pygmalion and Galatea, a lyrical poem - Scene 1

This will be my attempt at writing a quasi-lyric poem about the legend of Pygmalion and Galatea, the theme being the eternal struggle of the mind, the logic that aspires towards perfection and the heart, which does not hold perfection as a condition for love. I have not fully respected the meters of English poetry and the rhyme is not rigid, but I kept it loosely there so that it sounds more musical without constraining the meaning to the form. This is scene one and I will add the other scenes in future posts.

Scene one : Pygmalion at the altar of Venus, the middle of the night.

 Pygmalion :


Tonight I pray to thee Venus

Forgive this sorrowful heart

Who knew no one but Appolo

The giver of reason and of Art

And  of ambitions ever unbound

who  set my spirit on fire

to rise above this finite land

to seek over Mount Olympus

what is beyond the Genius

of both man and immortal god.

And I  set within the marble stone

The music of Appolo’s  lyre

day after day, with this mortal hand

I soared above what  gods aspire

Galatea, the name I carved in words

Unadorned she was, unequal was pure gold

She was my victory, over all you gods

For no god ever made perfect man

Yet that night, perfection was mine to hold !

But where Genius rose ever higher

The void left was filled with desire,

One lonely night not before too long

I sang to her, she offer’d back no song

And where whisper’d tales with tears I told

Her eyes were idle, her palms were cold

Tonight I pray to thee Venus !

Take back all the Genius of my soul

Take back Appolo’s poisoned chalice

Of gods, I no longer wish the role

Breath in her the gift of love and life

That I may find by her, warmth in night

That I  may know how mortal fates unite

Make imperfect this - my perfection

Take  Galatea, my miracle of creation

Give me Galatea the human, the wife !

Saturday, April 02, 2011

Re-post Atlas the bearer of the earth


Me:

“Atlas!
Atlas!

Why do you bear
The weight of the earth?
Let me be your heir
Let go of your bane
Your freedom go regain:
The laughter and the mirth!”

Atlas:

“Why do you want my load?
Can’t you see my plight?”

Me:

“My heart is heavy
With the sorrow of the world
Yet my hands are idle
Why should they not share
The burden of my heart?


Atlas:

“And what burdens you soul,
That you’d want my accursed role?”

Me:

“Every human lie
Every human sigh
Every child’s cry
Injustice in my land
The cruelty of the hand
That kills without shame
The loss of mercy
From all the hearts
The twilight of humanity’s flame”


Atlas:

“Be gone!
Be you early! Be you late
You’re not ready
To carry the weight

I don’t hear the cries
I don’t hear the sighs
I don’t hear the lies
As long as you can grieve
You can’t bear my weight
Least of all my fate
That broken hearts should come
Ask for my accursed load
Listen to my words
--Then Leave!

By Comte Almaviva

Of wisdom and of hearts

Wisdom   is  a hindrance
As heavy as moon and   earth
Denying your existence,
Both  laughter and its mirth!


A Mockery when per chance
But woe once true and  earned
its  learning defeats  the dance
The heart – forever unlearned


T’is but a sign of age
And Love can’t exist demure
For once one claims you’re sage
No temptress shall hold a lure!


Yet,  know She’ll come one day
In both her joy and lament:
Unwise wisdom, shall give way
To  a heart  fore’er content


By Comte Almaviva

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Of beautiful insults and of ugly praise

Oscar Wilde says that "the artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim... There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written, that is all. "
I would like to add that a  poet can be an  artist too, when poems do  follow the same rules. A poem can elevate or demean, praise or insult, but it will still either be well written, or badly written. That is forever the reflection of its creator, and never a reflection of the subject. Whether it  is charging light brigades or ancient  mariners or prisoners in Chillon or talking ravens, the subject always bends its will to the beauty in the form. If a poem insults to gain revenge, or praises to win a  love, or aspires  for historical accuracy, it ceases to be art, and the poet ceases to be an artist.
This poem is really just a bit of fun with words, it might be construed as insulting, but the insults are subject to the form, and, as such, are far away from slander.

"Hitherto Reason gone" 

Hitherto  Reason gone
Wherefore I lost my way?
what fool to think it sun,
which brings no light of day!

for when in you shall shine
a perennial fiery light
of truth, forever my sign :
The darkness of the night!

No flower but a thorn
as needles is your sway
A needle, I won't mourn :
where is my stack of hay?

By Comte Almaviva

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

From Mahmood Darwish's Edward Said homage, seems pertinent to many nowadays


These are excerpts from a translation I did for the poem (full poem in my translations page on the right)

...
“And what of identity?”
“Nothing but self-defense
Identity is the child of birth
Yet, in the end, is the creativity
Of our own self
There is no inheritance of a past
I am the manifold
Within, is my ever renewing without
But I still belong to the victim’s question
Had I not been from there,
I would have trained my heart to raise,
-over there
The deer of metaphor
So carry your homeland
Wherever you may go-
And be a narcissist if you must!”

....

He loves a land and leaves it behind
“Neither he, nor I
But a reader wondering
What poetry might say amidst catastrophe
Blood
and Blood
and Blood
in your Homeland
In my name, in your name,
In the almond flower, in a banana’s peel
In an enfant’s milk
In light and in shadow
In the grain of wheat, in the salt jar/
Skilled snipers who always hit their target
Blood
And Blood
And Blood
This land is too small
for the blood of its children
Who stand as offering at the doorsteps of resurrection
Is this land truly blessed or is it anointed
With Blood
And Blood
And Blood
Neither sand nor prayer can dry this blood
Justice in the pages of the holy book
Isn’t enough for the martyrs
To enjoy the liberty of walking atop the clouds.
Blood in the day,
Blood in the dark
Blood in the words
He says: The poem may play host to defeat,
A ray of light glittering in the heart of a Guitar
A messiah on a horse wounded
by the beauty of metaphor.
The beautiful is nothing but the presence
Of reality in the form!

Romeo and Juliet in popular neighborhood scene II - the balcony scene

روميو وجولييت بتوع حارة شعبية 
، المشهد الثاني 

المشهد الثاني - منظر البلكونة


(الطقس عاصف، روميو ملتحف ببطانية في زقاق مظلم وراء بناية الحاج عوض)


روميو: جولييت، جولييت! ردي علي بقى ، دة الوقت إتأخر والبرد واكل صوابعي (يلتقط تفاحة من على الأرض بقرف ويرميها على شباك البلكون، ثم يدرك أنه غير متأكد أي غرفة هي غرفة جولييت) يا دهوتي! أعمل إيه دلوقت؟ أنا مش عاوز أروح شهيد لا للحب ولا لغيره! ده أنا حتى بيغمى علي عند حكيم الأسنان! (يختبئ  وراء برميل القمامة)

جولييت (تظهر بملابس النوم على البلكونة) : مين إللي هناك!

روميو : أنا روميو يا جولييت

جولييت : سي روميو؟ ليش متأخر كدة؟

روميو : أنا؟ بقالي هنا في البرد   ساعتين، اتأخرت إنت ليه؟

جولييت : اتأخرت ليه؟ هو أنا خاتم بصباعك أروح وأجي زي ما إنت عايز؟ اشكر ربك اني جيت، وعلى كل حال ما هي الساعة نص الليل

روميو : الساعة اتنين الصبح

جولييت: آه تمام اتنين يعني نص الليل أمال  يعني إيه؟ غروب الشمس؟

روميو : جولييت، أنا استحمل الشمس والمطر والبرد علشانك، بس ما أتحملش بعدك ، انتي بتحبيني بجد يا جولييت؟

جولييت: روميو ، قبل ما رد على سؤالك يعني من غير مؤاخذة عايزاك تحلفلي انك بتحبني بجد

روميو : أحلف...

جولييت: تحلف بإيه يا سي روميو؟

روميو: أحلف... بالعيش ولملح

جولييت: يا دهوتي ! بالعيش والملح  ؟ هي دي آخرتك يا جولييت ؟ بعد ناقص كمان تحلفلي بالفسيخ وببرميل الملوحة

روميو : إنت بتعيريني يعني؟ ومالو الفسيخ؟ ده اللي علمني ورباني ووداني المدرسة والكلية

جولييت: خلي عندك شوية رومانسية يا أخي، هو انت في الجامعة ما قريتش رواية ؟

روميو : قريت...

جولييت: خلاص ، إحلفلي بحاجة من بتوع الروايات

روميو : زي إيه يعني ؟

جولييت: احلف بالقمر

روميو: بالقمر ؟

جولييت: ايوه، قل لي "أحلفلك بالقمر ، بالقمر الذي  بزين بالفضة مثمر الشجر "

روميو: خلاص أحلف بالقمر

جولييت: القمر إللي إيه؟

روميو: بالقمر الذي يزين بالفضة...  (يتعثر بالباقي )

 جولييت: مثمر الشجر

روميو: أيوه ده

جولييت : لا تحلف بالقمر يا حبيبي، ده بيتغير كل شهر ، أحسن أخاف ان حبك لي يتغير زي القمر

روميو: خلص بقى أحلف بالعيش والملح، دي حاجة مستقرة تبقى أبدية

جولييت: رجعنا للعيش والملح؟

روميو: طيب بالقمر

جولييت: لا يا روميو يا حبيبي ، ما تحلفليش بالقمر

روميو: خلاص، أحلف بأبوي الحاج سلامة

جولييت: بالحاج  سلامة؟ بعد ده اللي كان ناقص انت إنسان معندكش حس شاعري خالص

روميو : لا قمر ولا شجر ولا عيش ولا ملح ولا أبوي ولا أمي، إيه الليلة المتهببة دي؟ انتي مش حترسي على بر بقى ؟

جولييت : انت بتطول لسانك علي يا جدع إنت؟ إن ما كنتش عاوز تتكلم عدل يبقى أحسن تخرس وتتكتم. إسمع لما أقولك يا روميو يا حقير، إن كنت ناوي على التخبيص، ده أنا جولييت  بنت عوض ما ليش كبير (تلتفت إلى الداخل ) يا أما يا أما، في حد بالشارع بعاكسني

(الست  زينات تظهر وفي يدها دلو ماء كبير )

الست زينات: خشي جوا يا جولييت إنت بتعملي إيه برا وج الصبح ؟ فين الكلب ده أنا ح وريه

(روميو يقف  مذهولاً فينزل دلو الماء عليه ، ثم يعود إلى رشده بسرعة، ويحتمي وراء برميل القمامة والماء ينهمر، ثم يحمل غطاء البرميل كدرع ويهرب إلى الشارع الرئيسي

روميو (لنفسه) : هو قمر وثمر وشجر وعيش وملح، هو أنا بضرب مندل حتى أعرف هي بتفكر ازاي ؟ أنا والله مأستحقش الذل ده كله !


(نهاية المشهد الثاني )


Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Romeo and Juliet in a popular neighborhood Scene 1 , روميو وجولييت بتوع حارة شعبية المشهد الأول



Scene 1, (the equivalent of the ball scene)



روميو وجولييت بتوع حارة شعبية 
المشهد الأول
(عرس أحد أولاد الحي)

روميو (سايب صحابه ورايح قاعد عل كرسي جنب جولييت ) : ما شاء الله ، اسمك إيه يا قمر!

جولييت : أفندم؟ أنا جوليت وإنت اسمك إيه يا خويا يلي شكلك ما  بتختشيش؟

روميو : محسوبك روميو ، إبن الحج سلامة 

جولييت : يا خيبتي، الحج   سلامة ؟ بتاع الفسيخ؟ ابعد الله يخليك أحسن ما يشوفك أبوي يروح موديني بستين داهية . هو أنا ناقصة؟

روميو : ومالو الفسخاني يا ولية إنت؟ رجل ملو هدومه، عنده عمارتين ، غير محلات الفسيخ والسمك المجمد

جولييت : لأ والنبي مش قصدي أقلل من القيمة ، واديك شكلك متعلم وحاطط كرافتة، بس هو إنت ماتعرفش إنه في عداوة قديمة بين أبوك وأبوية؟ قديمة أوي، من وقت حادثة التسمم

روميو: التسمم ؟

جولييت : أيوه، أصله كدا ولا مؤاخذة أبوك راح بايع أبوي حتتين فسيخ شكلهم فاسد، وراح فيهم اتنين من الزباين طوارئ ، وبعده مكدبكش خبر راحو  إشتكو في  القسم اللي راح  قافل المطعم بتاع أبوي بالشمع الأحمر مدة شهرين كدا، ومن وقتها أبوي حالف يمين إنو لو حد من عيلة الحج سلامة قرب صوب حد من عيلتنا، حيضربه بالهرواه على خلقته

روميو :  طب هو في مطعم في العالم بيقدم  فسيخ؟ على العموم  ،جولييت، أنا معجب فيك خلاص، مش من النهاردة على فكرة، ولكن من الشهر إلي فات، يوم مع شفتك عل كورنيش بتقزقزي لب، وأنا قلت البنت دي عندها "جي نه سي كوا "

جولييت : جي نه إيه يا  خوي؟ طيب خلاص امشي دلوقتي ، علشان الواد إبن عمي لسه زمان جي يوصلني البيت. يلا  سيبني بلاش فضايح يا سي روميو... 

روميو: جولييت، أنا عايز اشوفك تاني، أنا لازم اشوفك تاني

جولييت: طيب خلاص غلبت معاك... انت عارف البيت بتاعنا

روميو : لأ هو حاعرف منين؟

جولييت : إن ما كنتش عارف إسأل عن عمارة الحج عوض بتاع مطاعم "الأكل السليم" ، ألف مين يدلك، جانب العمارة في شارع صغير ما يوديش على أي حاجة، وفيه  بلا مؤاخذة كده برميل زبالة كبير. إبقى تعاله هناك صوب نص ليل وأندهلي برومنطيقية كدة من ورا البرميل ونتحدث براحتنا

روميو : حتوقفيني ورا الزبالة؟ ده أنا والنبي  عندي بكالوريوس هندسة

جولييت: كدة أضمن ، علشان لو والدي درى بينا أو شفني عالبلكونه أنبهك تروح مستخبي  وسط الزبالة في البرميل لوج الصبح. يلا روح بقا ده الواد إبن عمي وصل.
(جوليت تخرج من الصالة)

روميو : دي آخرتها بقا يا سي روميو ، تروح ناطط من برميل الزبالة. أما صحيح بقولو الحب أعمى، لأ ده أعمى وأهبل درجة أولى.

(يخرج)
نهاية المشهد الأول

 By Comte Almaviva
            

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Mihyar al Daylami - possibly my favorite classical poet ever

As not to end my weekend on a cynical note, before I go back to being a scientist,  this is one of my favorite poets that  we are not  taught in school, Mihyar al Daylami and possibly the best verses of praise  in  a woman 

قد قنعنا أن نرقبَ الأحلاما           لو أذنتم لمقلة ٍ أن تناما
لا أحلّ الفراقَ من رشإٍ في           كم أحلَّت نواه نفسا حراما
صار حظي من بعده عشق ذكرا    ه إلى أن عشقتُ فيه الملاما


translation (but it is so much better in arabic!)
I shall find contentment
Awaiting the passage of a dream
Should you give consent
For my eyelids to fall asleep

My separation from Rasha2 (Gazelle)
Did not create within me
As many forbidden breaths,
As the mere intent did make

The only fortune I held thereafter
Was so confined to the loving of her memory
That I even fell in love
 -- with reproach






 
 
 

Template poetry of love and of scorn

Poetry is the consummate mercenary,  it can adapt to anyone, and anything really (often for the right price, ask Al-Mutanabbi!). This is a template poem that can be used in addressing a woman one loves,  all it needs is a two syllable name to place where I have left a ____ !

Oh Pygmalion! Had you known
That _______   was on her way
Would have you dared shown
Galatea the light of day?

A queen who needs no throne
Her smile does hold a sway
Lovely April’s sun at dawn
Lovelier her smile in May!

Her love makes  my words  tremble
Heavens ! The will that I may say:
“In your voice I hear the choir,
of nightingales when they pray!”

 --
The principle is universal, now  in Arabic, but in the opposite context :

نسيتك وما الليالي طوال        لوجه القمر لست أبدا  مثال
وما كل صعب بجميل           وما الشوك إلا صعب المنال
ظننت أن العيش بصعب          بدونك وضرب م المحال 
فوجدت روحي عادت إل        ي والنوم صار سمة الليالي 
وما عاد الجمال فيك حصرا     وصار في كل الكون الجمال 

No trademark on the templates !

By Comte Almaviva 

Saturday, March 26, 2011

The oldest profession in the world?


Paphnuce was monk in Christian Egypt, at the time of Saint Anthony. One day, while praying with his fellow monks in the desert, he remembers that in his youth he was in love with a certain belle de jour called Thais, whose beauty had him in a trance until the day he saw the light and shunned the world for a life or prayer and hardship in the desert. Paphnuce decides that as an ultimate service to God, he shall go to Alexandria and seek Thais, and lead her from her life of sin to a life of virtue and righteousness, thus saving a lost soul from eternal damnation.

Paphnuce walks the desert and endures hardship and misfortune until he reaches her house. Then, one look at her is enough for all the religious piety and zealous accumulated through his countless years away from the temptation of mankind, to give way to raging desire and lust. At the end of the story, Thais ends up dying while taking her vows in a monastery, as pure as the day she was born, while Paphnuce ends up with eternal damnation.

Morality lessons are often as thick and heavy on the soul as the complete works of Charles Dickens are on a disinterested middle school student, and, if anything, Anatole France meant for his tale to be one of the pointlessness of the moral discourse, of how rigid moralizers, even in the context best suited to their otherwise fairly unimportant skills, end up ultimately falling into the same temptations that normal humans know, not the least of them being ego, greed, and lust. Being rather unprepared to face such temptations, they end up going to the extreme depths of depravity and degradation.

Today’s moralizers are far more annoying than Paphnuce ever was, being as persistent as a fruit fly that joins your dinner party uninvited. Add a doctorate to their name and they are as irritating as a fruit fly that comes to your dinner party uninvited, then demands respect from the attendees on the grounds that it knows more about the best ways for recycling than you do (fruit flies are notoriously fussy about not mixing up recyclables with non-recyclables as plastic upsets their digestive system).

One of those purveyors of superfluous yet excruciatingly long-winded monologues on the best ways to living our lives in the most uncomfortable and most affected manner possible – and who unfortunately happens to have a doctorate – is Dr. Youssef al Qaradawi. In the days of yore, and by that I mean a few months back, this person  was rather content to tell us how best to lead our lives on his weekly program on a certain information-dispensing-medium-with-some-40-million-viewers. I once tried to watch, but then decided that I don’t need someone delving into the deepest corners of theology to tell me how far away from my neighbor’s dog I should tread (living in Paris, such information is rather superfluous and the lesson is usually learned the hard way within a week). Finally, and for sanity reasons, my conclusion was that all of the 40 million viewers had been blessed with enough desire for intellectual stimulation that they would all go on doing something more important while he is dispensing his advice, like arranging their spices in alphabetical order. You can imagine my disappointment when someone I know told me that she is an avid follower since she actually feels light coming from his eyes when he speaks. It was there and then that I decided that when it comes to certain candles, cursing the darkness is the only reasonable recourse for sensible human beings.


I was always willing to consider Dr. Qaradawi to be a social science experiment that forty million viewers untake seriously on a weekly basis. After all, if people believe what someone tells them, they tend not to put that belief into practice, for fear of earning society’s approval – at which point they wouldn’t be able to look themselves in the mirror the next day. However, in the past couple of months, he started addressing people as political masses rather than as social beings. In this, and much like the popes of medieval times who used to lead the troops into battle (oh they did), he was trying to use any religious authority he possesses for temporal political gains. Donning a façade of the utmost piety he could muster, he pulled a Pope Urban II trick by telling people that it was their religious duty to revolt against this or that ruler.

I guess many people tolerated that, for the very basic principle that if you point at a random Arab ruler and claim he is corrupt and oppressive, the chance of you missing the mark are just about as high as the chance of a three legged turtle who had just had a large meal beating a well focused rabbit in a race. However, he suddenly decided that while the first three revolutions that he had endorsed were pure and unadulterated, the one happening in Bahrain was a sectarian battle cry of one sect against another, and that people of one sect were actually engaging in systematic violence against another sect. Many people were shocked by the unabashed condemnation of what was not much different from what he had fully upheld a few days before. A few days later, though, and another protest movement in Syria received his ringing endorsement, as did that of Yemen. At the base of it, the demands of all protesters had been the same, the oppression - to varying degrees of brutality, but let’s not discuss shades of evil here - of the same spirit, and, as a matter of fact, the Bahraini movement was pretty much the most peaceful of all the movements and even had me, a rather perennial cynic, voicing a tacit approval.

At any rate, as violence goes, he didn’t seem to have many qualms about its moral repercussions when he offered heavenly absolution to whoever assassinates Ghaddafi. Beyond that, by offering celestial pardons for worldly sins, which was a practice commonplace for Popes in the middle ages, he neatly tied in with Ghaddafi’s ‘New Crusades’ theme (Now this is turning into one sick fancy dress party!)

There are two possible explanations beyond which I can see none for Qaradawi words that are, honestly, as pointless and as dangerous as a broken pencil that is carrying the poison of a Golden Dart Frog.  The first is that he actually believed in all Arab revolutions and he did not wish to put them into a sectarian context. However, after finding out that passion fruit does not grow in Qatar and is quite expensive to import, he decided not to risk losing his supply by going against the wishes of the Qatari ruling family, which tells him when to endorse, when to denounce, and when to lose the faculty of speech altogether. Now that is a fairly sensible reason for dissimulation, I mean, would we want to come between a man and his supply of exotic fruit? (He might be getting more than a bucket of passion fruit a week from the royal family, but the principle is the same.)

The other reason is probably less sensible and would be the simple fact that he does believe in the superiority of his own sect and religion over those of other people.  The belief in religious supremacy was a hallmark of medieval Popes  and societies, but far from it that I should accuse him of such contemptuous behavior, so I shall assume that it is all about passion fruit, for now.

Common sense dictates that when people present their very own lives – be it wise or unwise (and it is not up to an outsider to judge) - as offerings at the doorstop of an Annunciation, and some demagogue vilifies their movement without evidence, it becomes – to borrow his own terms – our duty to criticize, censure, and even disparage his remarks, while his religious authority has to be questioned, and, if needed, openly mocked.  Should we do that, we hit two stones with one bird: Above all, it is an exercise in social freedom : that we should not fear words, and should not fear criticizing what warrants criticism, irrespective of the authority we face. Of more immediate concern is that by discrediting that religious demagogue and rigid moralizer, we shall manage to avoid the ugly scenario of civil and religious strife that his words, if heeded, might lead to.

For now, I can only hope that people see beyond Qaradawi’s words and that he does not dull the edge of belief they have in their own sense of morality and in each other. As for me, I only look forward to the day that a Lady of the night, as an ultimate service to God, decides to walk through the desert until she reaches Qaradawi’s place of dwelling, and guides him from a life of sin towards a life of virtue and righteousness; for what he is practicing by preaching hate – for money or for baser instincts of religious supremacy –  qualifies as being the oldest profession in the world.

By Comte Almaviva 

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Shahryar, on the two thousandth night


مالك يا شهريار"

حالك حال الغريب

أنسيت أني سر من الأسرار

في وجهي بشرى ليل السمر

وفي عيني عتمة ليلٍ خطر

وجسدي جواب الغد البعيد

" على مستحيلٍ من الأمس القريب؟


...شهرزاد"

ألفا ليلة مرت ولم أدرك معنى الخطاب

أأنت حقيقة؟

أم أكذوبة من فجر الخليقة

أأنت بشر؟

أم إبنة الطبيعة؟

وجدت لتحبس روحي في مخدعها

فأنسى فضاءً بلا حدود

وفي عينين عسليتين

ينحبس معنى الوجود

من انت؟ من أنت؟

أكل شيء؟ أم لا شيء؟

إن لم تضئ روحك عن الجواب

فلي في الفضاء من سراب

وفي الصحاري من رمال

وفي  الشجر من ظلال

ما يغنيني عن تلك القيود

"وما ينسيني ألم السؤال


إذهب بعيدا يا طفلا"

وجرب النسيان

ففي رمال الصحراء

في نجوم السماء 

وفي دعاء الكروان

سأكون لك رؤيا

فتعود لي رجلا

فأنا كل ما كان

كل ما يكون

قناعي لم يكشفه بعد إنسان

فلو قدر لك أيها الشقي

بقبسات روحي علما

استقوى على عشرتي

 "يوما؟ -

by Comte Almaviva (no TM!)


Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Oscar Wilde and gulf monarchs


Poor Oscar Wilde. While he believed that people who know nothing make far better company than those who know everything, surely he lived at the time when the telephone was making its first baby steps, the telegraph still the only stumbling method for trans-continental communication, and, in other parts of the world, energetic ponies and sensible pigeons were still the only means of telling someone that you do not care enough to come see them in person.

Poor Oscar, how he would have had to change his mind today!

People who knew nothing used to freely admit it, and, under proper social constraints, always contributed precisely to that extent of their knowledge. But today, people who know nothing have far too many tools of conveying the emptiness within to a limitless audience of their peers.

Trouble with emptiness, It leads to resonance, and, if stupidity scales as frequencies and amplitudes do, then - just as an ill-judged high F from a Wagnerian soprano could rupture your eardrum - these resonances should easily pierce the lowest bounds of common sense assumed in post-agriculture homo sapiens.

So, how is that related to gulf monarchs and royal families? Well, it seems many people, under the banner of sense and reason, have decided to present the utmost challenge to the very sense and the very reason by defending the necessity of maintaining that dull surplus to the history of humanity in a capacity that actually affects the way far more intelligent living, breathing beings conduct their lives.

One common theme seems to be in the vein of lowering the necessary qualifications required to call a member of those wretched families – families of the royal variety naturally - a reformer. Suddenly, under the auspices of new standards concocted by many an educated and civilized person and freely distributed over new and old media by fellow sensible souls, apparently, King Abdullah of the Saudi Arabia ™, the Crown Prince of Bahrain © , and Sultan Qaboos of Oman ® , are all reformers who should be given a chance to lead their people to a better and brighter future.

Very well, that may be, and far from it for me to claim any knowledge beyond anyone else’s – so I won’t. But as logic dictates, I shall have to write down on a piece of paper the new rules defining a reform-minded leader:

a- The combined age of his four wives should be superior to his own age.
b- One of those four wives has to be foreign-born, preferably with blue eyes
c- He should speak at least one language. Reading is a plus.
d-He should be able to count till nine, and have others handy to help him count beyond that
e-Should be blissfully ignorant of something called inflation, hence should be capable of bribing his     people when he needs to, with their own money.
      f-Should possess an Italian supercar

Armed with these new definitions, I could certainly see why some people of the highly civilized, liberal and reasonable type would believe in the Crown Prince of Bahrain © as a leader of the reform movement, or the very youthful King Abdullah ™ as an agent of modernization. Then again, apart from the fact that King Abdullah can’t speak a single language properly nor read it, and that the Crown Prince probably only has three wives up till now, they do rather satisfy the new list of demands for a reformer. Who am I to argue?

But perhaps the issue goes deeper, and there exist far more interesting reasons for supporting the royal families. After all, apparently the case for democracy in gulf countries is just non-existent. In the case of Bahrain, those calling for democracy are apparently extremists and their incarceration could be tacitly approved (but not overtly since one has to keep the civilized and liberal guise). Even worse, apparently there are even more dangerous extremists who call for a republic, with an elected president and an elected government! Shock and horror, people choosing for themselves when there exist those  bright and brilliant minds already in the form of, say, Al-Khalifa?

It could possibly be all about the talents that were sent from an unseen censer to that unparalleled family, that it may rule till the end of days over a happy and content populace. However, if Fate had decided to concentrate all the superior qualities of the human race into one bloodline, then either fate is incredibly cruel, or alternatively, all descendents of that line are born with the fortunes of a daily lottery-winner. Setting aside a cruel divine intervention, even Bernard Shaw professed that his offspring together with Isadora Duncan might be neither intelligent nor beautiful, all the while the two of them were considered, respectively,  to be  the most intelligent and the most beautiful of their time (or so the  story goes, still the point is valid nonetheless).

Sadly, the pure fact is that those archaic families tend to descend from a line that at the base of it was skilled at killing and conquering rather than at chess and mathematics, while inbreeding over the years hasn’t helped much either.  At the end of the day, we have ended up with unintelligent polygamous megalomaniacs who - unlike say Napoleon or Lenin - are only barely literate, cheat through school, but then still believe they have a divine right to rule over much more intelligent and far more interesting people.

Another argument those from the self avowed liberal and civilized race project is that those reformist monarchs ™ are far better than the alternative, which so happens to be a theocracy. Beyond this seemingly unerring capacity to detect what is in other people’s hearts and minds, which, as someone who is unpossessing of it I can not possibly comprehend,  might I suggest that these monarchs are already the very embodiment of a rule-by-divine-decree?

Emperors of yore figured that one out; they knew that people did not see in them the shining light of philosophy, arts, and human thought. In fact, any Roman dynasty that spilled over three generations risked becoming a running joke and was quickly replaced by the army or by the masses. Constantine knew that, and he introduced the concept of the emperor as Isapostolos, an equal to the apostles, and used the church effectively to cement his rule. Modern gulf monarchs ™ use the same techniques: they claim a religious pedigree, and rely on a class of utterly corrupt and well-fed preachers and religious scholars, who do their bidding just as effectively as ambitious bishops did during the times of Constantine (and isn’t that precisely the difference between a priest and a prophet?  Priests justify the handiwork of their benefactor to the oppressed masses.) At the very least, true dictators are deprived of that very formidable armor which is the hallmark of a theocracy.

The only trouble is, Constantine died some seventeen hundred years ago, while gulf monarchial families live as an anachronism, a persistent pebble in the hourglass of time. Aren’t people allowed to look beyond them? I wonder…

 People who claim education, common sense, civic maturity, impartiality, and yet refuse to support others who call for an unwavering democracy, either know nothing, in which case they should accept that fact, and stop resonating with their peers, or they know everything, but are dissimulating their true beliefs and desires. If they do know everything, then Oscar Wilde is right after all and they are indeed horrible company, since what lies below the surface of their souls cannot possibly be worth exploring.

Thoughts are rather curious creatures. You might try to hide what you really believe within the deepest abysses of your heart, but, if enough people share your opinion, hiding it is not much easier than trying to hide the sun behind the moon. It may happen, but it will take a giant leap of stupidity not to know that it is there and that it will show up within a few minutes. With that, the question has to be posed to the civilized and educated supporters of princes©  and kings™  and sultans®  :

“Do you know everything, or do you know nothing?”


By Comte Almaviva

Sunday, February 06, 2011

The fleeting happiness of a scientist/ the exile in his mind

Searching for happiness
How hard she is to find!
When you look for her
In sorrows of the mind

She is the pure waters
Of a running stream
She is the fleeting word
A creature of your dream!

The wings of soaring birds
Will not heed your cries
She comes-but will not stay
Constancy she belies!

A perennial beauty
-but admire from afar!
How fatal the embrace
When of a fiery star!

When she falls to your hands
Don’t hold her for too long
For others she’s their life
For you- the words of song!

So Go! And search for her
In sorrows of the heart
That is your sole true path
To Beauty! To Science! To Art!

By Comte Almaviva (no TM!)

Daughters of fate consoling a grieving lover

Eldest daughter:

Whence the power to cry
What was not meant to be
What future never held
Your soul not meant to see?”

Middle daughter:

“You thought love a belief,
Beyond the laws of Time
Now ‘midst the reality,
Of an unbounded grief
You think it but a thief?
Metaphor knows no crime”

Youngest daughter:

“Let Fate become superfluous
An hourglass where there’s no time
And when Truth becomes absurd
You shall find it in a rhyme:”

All three:

“Love is not a constant
But is the child of chance
Ever close- yet ever distant
In a perennial dance!”


By Comte Almaviva 

Of dark thoughts

Leave some thoughts to rest
Don't always tempt the fate
your heart when left alone
shall not lament its state
is it that every dawn
need bring it a new quest?
When it turns each stone
how easy to find love -
yet easier to find hate!


By Comte Almaviva 

Tomorrow morning came : To the children of refugee camps

Tomorrow morning came
When you dared to dream
When you closed your eye
"A nightmare and a lie!"
Your rebellious cry:
Could not reach your ear
Did not stop your tear
"I can't tell the future!"
Was your angry sigh

And yet, from the day of birth
you could hear future’s song:
You did not need foresight
Nor heed an ethereal light
For songs of liberty come easy
For those whose freedom
Does not inhabit the earth
but lies at the distant shore
Of an unbounded metaphor

“Once I was a child
within the camp I lived
within the camp I dreamt
and no dream was too wild
for once surrounded by a wall
Two walls, three walls, four walls,
what difference?
-Four walls make no cage
For those whose existence
Is measured in dreams
And in generations-
Make them ten miles high
There is no ceiling for my sky,
Let the sky be my stage!”

“But what of freedom?”

“My freedom is a pen
with it I draw
a better tomorrow
my world is an empty page
no shackles and no cage
for freedom is but the child
of my heart and of my mind!”

Tomorrow morning came
Years upon years ago
The day you were born
Not from the human race
But from its worst disgrace
From its cruelest belief
From the wounds of crime
From the womb of grief
From the theft of time…

Stolen time passes quicker;
it has to catch up
with the next generation…
and now comes your youth
the heart is full of rage
what is left but anger?
The world is anger’s stage:

“Could you still answer
Fate in its song?”

“Fate is superfluous
an hourglass where there’s no time
Not fate nor man
Can define my sky
There is no impossible
For those whose existence
is death and re-incarnation
And death and re-incarnation
Let the walls be a thousand miles high
These eyes were not meant
To look at what others say is Sky
this heart was not meant
to believe in Annunciation!

“But what of freedom?”

My freedom is a gun
With it I still draw
A better tomorrow
Devoid of all the lies
Devoid of all the sighs
Devoid of all the cries
I am the spirit of fire
the child of the sun
What I clutch in my hand
Is freedom for my people
Freedom for my heart
Freedom for my land!

….
“Fate is nothing but patient,
always sure of its victory,
where thoughts can’t be altered
their beating heart may change:

Gone is the youth
Distant is the rage
And now you may embrace
The bars of your cage!

“My freedom is to live
To pursue this heart’s desire
Though I shall not forget
That distant spirit of fire
it still inhabits my thoughts
But I shall submit to fate
And believe that my dreams
Are beyond my reality
And believe that my dreams
Shall not fit in my tomorrow!

Tomorrow morning came
When you looked in the mirror
And saw nothing but old age
You thought you were a cause
That once got lost in a dream
And once in reality
Were you anything but a fleeting moment
That fate once dreamt?
Or will you make a pact
As Faust once did
And see the devil
amidst the annunciation -
That you may join
the eternal struggle
Of another generation?

“ My freedom is –
and shall always be,
one generation away
my tomorrow is
that of those children
who were not destined to play
yet what I see in their eyes
beyond the anger and the sighs
is the only meaning
of the Annunciation.
Let freedom and justice,
mercy and humanity –
inhabit the shores
of distant metaphors
This heart knows
That one generation away
Metaphor can become a dream
And a dream can become reality
And so shall fate be answered
And one generation away,
so shall it stop its dance!

By Comte Almaviva