Contemplation

Hope revolves around one’s deranged irrationality. It spans along one’s day from sunrise to sunset, for there is little hope in the after hours and only much despair instead. Despair, on the other hand, revolves around everyone else’s deranged disillusion, for they all together fail to see one’s torments to ease.

Now,
It is to her.
His hopes are of many,
His despair is of hers.
And to him it is only,
Forever.

To those who have left us.

Nanonovella V:

Smiles, draw on our faces
of fading face we cherished
Fading no more they leave empty spaces
to a home in our hearts forever more

To regain that sense of being serenely composed, one may find solace from within and consolation from without.

Nanonovella IV:

The skin remembers
what memories echo
of a touched soul
and a dwelling mind

Some of the Arabic poetry written by some Bahraini poets, that is. I ought to be blunt about this, mainly because I’m really the linguistics enthusiast, and I have to make a stance; some of what is written is hardly poetry.

I’m not the renowned critic, but I take the matter to heart. Of previous conversations with colleagues and friends, I always made the point of using language, first and foremost, as a tool to convey meaning. And, when someone starts to speak without meaning, let alone it being poetry, my ears start bleeding.

It was at an event I attended last night. An artist, a poet, and a number of translators were present. I had to reserve my opinion regarding the artist because I haven’t seen her work, or much of it at least. The poet, I believe I made my case regarding his work, however still, for some to argue that the lack of meaning is with the modern trend in Arabic poetry is embarrassing. Shamefully embarrassing I tell you, Shamefully!!

Perhaps the translators are the ones that I least victimize, although some also made an embarrassment of the language they translated the material to. Others, surprisingly, admitted attempting a translation of the meaning; well done!!

I do not know whether it is the excessive Arab pride or the lack of quality assurance (but we stopped caring for that a long time ago, haven’t we), but when you, the artist, whatever sort you are, think that you “got it” first time, you are greatly mistaken. It takes a long time to find your vision, and it takes a long time to find your voice. Until you do, all that you do shall be considered noise.