Page 115 - November 2020
P. 115

                                                                                       November 2020

                                    Poems on Kings Highway Jordan under the nocturnal desert sky

              The morning breakfast. I had only an omelette and made my way to work, not without
              visiting  my  new  friends  and  came  at  the  right  time,  when  there  was  Ful  Medames
              served, boiled brown beans with garlic, lemon juice, cumin and plenty of olive oil and

              flatbread - a traditional Arabic breakfast dish. And coffee, strong, with cardamom.

              At this evening and the following evening, the encounter repeated.

              I was surprised when the Jordanian pulled out a slip of paper and read a poem in
              Arabic,  the  Syrian  did  the  same.  Was  it  Khamriyyah,  wine  poetry,  Tardiyyah,  hunt
              poetry, Ghazal, a love poem or a Mawaliya, folk poetry in four rhyming lines, the last
              one he read out sounded like it.

              They gave me a translation:

                               Oh you, blooming, when I call you, you do not hear me,
                                        When I cry after you, you do not respond

                                             In the Wadi I am looking for you
                                                and find you, Little Flower

                                 The Jordanian wanted to send this poem to his wife:

                              "In the morning I cannot eat anything because I love you!
                                   At noon I cannot eat anything because I love you!
                                In the evening I cannot eat anything because I love you!
                                       At night I cannot sleep because I'm hungry

                 The Syrian mentioned a fellow country man and poet Monzer Masri from Latakia.


                                           My coat pockets are my cupboard,
                                               my head is a shooting star.
                                          At her next furiously onrushing rage
                                                   I'll forget everything,

                                                   not to commit errors.
                               And in an instant my daydreaming moves me from here,
                                           keeps me in a safe place in a book.

                      Who would expect under the sky, in a night, in a desert, to hear poetry?

                             Oh, yes, did not many philosophers come from the desert?
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