La Luna..La Luna

One of my most favorite pastimes, is to endlessly stare at the moon, a pointless activity to some extent, but observation of the cosmos is a very subtle way to obtain certain doses of wisdom, and like the high and low tides, humans are affected by the moon, or so I'd like to believe, besides the folkloric tales of vampires and werewolves.

This gem in the ancient sky is probably the only thing that literally unites humans, for each human, from the beginning of time, till this earth and its moon are taken off the proverbial stage, every single human..has stared at the moon for some time, at some point in their lives, and that thought in itself is a witness to the greatness of the Creator, who shows us a sign of His Eternity every single night, it is up to us mortals to seize that moment of direct contact with Heaven.

Adam might have looked up to the moon on the first night of his and Eve's life on earth, as they both explored their new world, Alexander The Great might have stared up one night as he reveled in his conquests, Moses might have done the same as he contemplated on his imminent encounter with the Pharaoh, Jesus probably sat on the outskirts of Jerusalem one night and looked up to the full moon seeking God's peace and guidance, Muhammad might have crossed the night sky with his sight, gazing at the moon from the cave of "Hira" on the very night Gabriel came onto him to announce his prophecy. Cleopatra might have had one of her milk baths under the moonlight, Elissar surely thought of the people she left behind in Tyre, when she saw their shining faces in the reflection of the moon in the calm waters of the Mediterranean..as she sailed west to Carthage, Averroes, Aristotle, all stared on a clear night into the light in the sky, thinking, meditating, praying, seeing someone's face in the silver lining of a full moon.

Poets, lovers, warriors, sinners and saints were all captivated for a fraction of a second by that silent lantern as it rose in a mid summer night, as it lit the nights of Ancient Greece, Babylon, Pheonicia, Cordoba, Jerusalem, and The ancient Mayan Kingdom, and as it did..each human, travelled in time..to their past, or their future, staring into the eyes of their loved ones, their unborn descendants, as they stared into the moon.

Tonight, look up to the moon, and think that you're looking at something all humanity saw as you are now, your own great grandchildren might sit one fine night under its light in the deep future and steal a moment of innocent intimacy with their loved ones. This thought..is enough to make you feel immortal, for a fraction of a second, Tonight..look up to the moon and speak to prophets, visionaries, artists and lovers, and tonight..look up to the moon and speak to your unborn children, and theirs, for one night..they just might look up to the moon and speak to you.

On The Mystery of Souls

Souls are supernatural entities, unearthly creations that lie between our ribs, they have their effect on our bodies, but never are burdening on our physical or mental weight, they're delicate light biengs, and their delicacy is only explained by their unexplainable, instinctive messages that make us like..or dislike someone minutes after we first meet them. First impressions last..that's what they say, but first impressions aren't actually decided by the heart or the mind, but by the soul, preceding any physical attributes' interference and subsequent manipulation of the other..the heart sometimes manipulates the mind, it tricks it into accepting the otherwise irrational decision to like..or dislike, and with age, the mind manipulates the heart into doing the same, the intellectual decision is more likely to be successful, in the earthly rule of the survival of the fittest.

Souls on the other hand aren't bound to any rules of logic, or gravity..they penetrate bodies and minds in a speed probably faster than that of light, searching for a certain code of familiarity in the deep corners of the "other's" soul, they interact independently, they talk..without actually doing so, touch, without actually touching, they might even travel without even doing so..or maybe they do, causing us to become more familiar, sometimes to the extent of telepathy, and foreseeing certain details to come; deja vu. Children are controlled by their souls, they like without rationale, they also hate without rationale, hence their instinctive innocence, and probably unearthly wisdom; a childish playfulness in our all grownup rule controlled world, we might actually be tricked into believing that we become wiser as we get older, when the fact of the matter might be the opposite; one of the mysteries of existence.

This interaction between souls, is probably the only rational explanation -although irrational in its discourse- for the noticing of physical details in someone, their scents, their pronunciation of certain words, the causes of a witty unconscious smirk, and the ways to generate it, all in their own right are subconscious attempts to synchronize the frequency between the body and the soul, an attempt of sorts to reach out..or in, and express agreement with one's soul, with its genius, its mysterious perceptions, and a way to show gratitude for its delicate Divine inspired guidance to the heart, and the mind.

Souls give their responsible guidance, when you're aware of their effect, once you reach the point of consciously consulting your soul, your soul would give you the wisest of all advice, one that comes from a place as mysterious as the entity giving it, souls are silk gowns on diamond manikins, treat them with the delicacy and care they deserve, they can lend a helping hand, if you tune to their infinite frequency.

Who knows..the ancient Silk Road just might be the highway of souls!

The Thin Thread of Sanity

It was early evening..and the ancient sun was getting colder, as her journey across the western sky was about to end..giving way to serene darkness, and the last shy rays were teasing his face..causing him to close his eyes..not to dream, but to remain awake.

She still comes to mind..whenever light touches him. Light touches..invades without permission, often reaching the heart before the skin, and whenever light is gone, his being became possessed with a weird feeling of longing, a subdued one, he knew that night would always give way to light, and that it in turn would always give way to night..and in the short distance between the two, when the sky became washed in that distinct color of goodbye..whenever he witnessed that..his ever present sadness would mature..for he knew that the sky was expressing her own sadness..for parting with light, ironic..since that same sky would be literally glowing with that same color moments before light came back a few hours later. The color of a parting embrace..and a reuniting embrace..is the same, the only thing that sets them apart is the freshness in the air of the latter, the scent of a renewed promise, a promise that is both kept and broken every day.

He sat on the cliff, every evening..and watched the sunset, he saw the sky turn her bright blue color into a sad shade of purple..as she fought with the thought of losing light, he saw the songbirds stop their singing and return to their nests in an act of protest and solidarity with the sky that carries their wings on hers. He sat and saw off that purple color of goodbye..and witnessed the return of darkness..every single evening.

The sky still glees in that same color every dawning morning, forgiving and forgetting the earlier unwilling parting. But he remains a resident of those moments between light..and night, and his sanity..is slowly becoming purple.

On The Beauty of Arabic..

The following is an excerpt from a poem by a man who preceded Romeo by a Thousand years, and he wasn't a fictional character, you can hear more of this poetry under "My Music", and Again, I thank Noura for introducing me to Ensemble Ibn Arabi, whose Music I'm hosting.

Who said The Desert of Arabia was barren??

نهـاري نـهارُ النـاسِ حتـى إذا بــدا
لــيَ الليــلُ هزّتنــي إليــكِ المضــاجعُ

أُقَََََََََََََََضّـي نَهـاري بالحديـثِ وبالمُـنى
ويجمعُنــي بالليّــلِ والـهمُّ جامِــعُ

لقَـد ثَبَتَــتْ فـي القَلــبِ مِنــكِ مَــودّةٌ
كما ثَبَتَــتْ فـي الراحَتيــنِ الأصابــعُ

وأنــتِ التـي صَيّــرتِ جســمي زُجــاجةً
تَنُـمُّ بمـا تحتويــهِ الأضــالعُ

فلا خيّــرَ فـي الدُنيـــا إذا لـمْ تُزَرْ بـها
ليلــى ولم يَجمَـعْ لنـا الشــملُ جامِــعُ

وأفرَحُ إنْ تُمْســي بِخيّــرٍ وإنْ يَـكُنْ
بِها الحَــدَثُ العــادي تُرِعنـي الروائِــعُ

وأعمَــدُ للأرضِ التــي من ورائِــكُمْ
لتُرجِعَنــي يوماً إليـكِ الرواجِــعُ

فيـا قلـبُ صَــبراً واعتــرافاً لِـما تَــرى
ويا حُبَّــها قَـعْ بالذي أنـتَ واقِــعُ

مجنــون ليلــى

On The Stranger You Miss

Do you ever miss somebody you've never met? It's one of the most straight forward contradiction of terms, for missing suggests the loss of familiarity in the details of a person you already know, physical and/or intellectual. But there comes a time..once in a while..when you tend to miss a complete stranger, a certain trait of character, not long for it..but miss it -longing and missing have two different sets of behavioural routes- your mind starts drawing a very detailed Mosaic, slowly..like the detailed Arabesque decorations, or a silk Persian rug, small detailed and delicate masterpieces that take forever to create..configured and conjoined to the degree of interdependence, resulting in that one big complete work of art..a masterpiece of imaginary beauty.

I guess this parallels the idea of a blind person missing light, but then again some blind people never saw light, so their interpretation of it is completely oblivious to the actual thing, they effortlessly and so eloquently explain it as a feeling..probably warmth or softness, they might even convince you of their version of "light".

How do you explain the taste of vanilla ice cream if you've never had some? You make it up, but you also make sure your interpretation is so detailed that it gives you..the satisfaction otherwise not actually known, for you can fool people into believing you speak out of knowledge, but there's something somewhere within the corners of your subconscious that makes your imagination heightened to the degree of perfection, the greatest degree of satisfaction is the one you make up..since you control its intensity.

There's a sense of instinct in the act of missing, a bird which came into existence in a cage will always look for ways to escape..it's instinctive. Missing is also an instinct, but missing something you never experienced is one of the most intriguing adventures the human mind could embark upon, I'm a very deep believer in the power of the mind, its ability to rationalize, but I'm also fascinated with its limitations, the power of compensation can never make up for the real thing, but still, your mind learns to replace..and move on.

We all miss a stranger at one point, an imaginary friend, a custom made entity, decoded and only visible to us, he speaks only to us, listens only to us, gives us complete attention, always there, on time, any time, and yet..if we see an incarnation of that imaginary person somewhere, we wouldn't know him, for he's a stranger, and no stranger is a friend, strangely enough though, friends can..in turn..be strangers.

Eve..Encore Une Fois

She's still looking into her crystal ball, as I write these lines once again, a heavenly ode is being sung by a choir of angels, with golden wings and little harps, their voices are purer than the water from melting glaciers..tiptoeing gently through a small brook, and their smiles shine like the sun in a mid-summer afternoon, children are flying kites..colorful kites, with glittering tails, running in a field of lilies shadowed by a green hill overlooking eternity.

Her smile isn't a smile of simple happiness, but that of someone who knows they're a source of great joy, comfort and content..she knows she's got that magic, the power to turn an ordinary dull day into one from the pages of novels, with those same golden winged angels in the background..she never leaves their sight.

Eve is that same mystic nomad, sitting in her tent, seeing me..seeing her, as I write these lines, and with every letter I write, Eve's heart draws nearer..by force of Gravity, nature intervenes to bring people together..people use their freedom foolishly sometimes.

The calmness in her eyes, with their narcotic..hypnotic effect makes even the most patient Buddhist monk in Tibet instantaneously withdrawn with enlightenment, the most sincere dervish drunk with ecstasy. Nirvana lies in her eyes. I'm still writing, and she's still watching, and in the time and space between us, with those golden winged angels, those children flying their kites, with the never ending sunshine..I remain.

أحزان صحراوية

أحزان صحراوية

مِن زمــــــــانْ

مِن تجاويفِ كهوفِ الأزليّة

كانَ ينسابُ على مدِّ الصحارى العربيّة

ليَّـِناً كالحُــلمِ سِحريّاً شَجِيّا

كليــالي شهرزادْ

يتخطى قِمَمَ الكُثبانِ.. يجتازُ الوِهادْ

مِن زمـــانْ

شَرِبَتْ حسرةَ ذاكَ الصوتْ

حبّاتُ الرمـــــالْ

مَزَجَتـْـــهُ في حناياها

أعادَتهُ إليّــــا

ليِّناً كالحُلمِ سِحريّاً شَجيّــا

فكأَني.. قد تنفّسْتُ شُجونَهْ

وكأنُّ الصوتَ في طيّـــاتِ صَدري

رَجّـــَـعَ اليومَ حَنيـــــنَهْ

فَأَراهْ

بَدَويّاً.. خَطَّتِ الصِحراءُ لا جدوى خُطــــاهْ

مُوحِشاً.. يرقُبُ آثارَ الطُلـــول

مِن زمــــــــانْ

غيرَ أنـّي.. كُلّما استيقظَ في قلبي اشتياقْ

لمزيدٍ من تدانـي والتصاقْ

كُلّما ضَجَّ نِداءُ البَـوحِ

في أرجـــــاءِ ذاتي

كُلـّما بُوغِــتُّ أنـّي

أتناهى بانسرابِ اللحظات

كُلما أحسَستُ أنـّي

بعضُ دِفءِ الآخرين

خِلْتُني عُدْتُ أراه

بَدَويّاً.. خَطــّتِ الصحراءُ لا جدوى خُطاهْ

سارَ في عَينَيهِ وَهْجُ الشَمس

والرَمْلُ وعودٌ بِرِمــــــــالْ

ومدى الصحراءِ صَمتٌ

وعذاباتُ ارتحـــال

فَتَغنّـى.. وسَرى الصوتُ على مَدِّ الصحارى العربيةْ

مُوُدِعَاً في الرَمْلِ.. غَصّاتِ أغانيــــهِ الشَجيـّــةْ

1967

تيسير السبول

1973-1939