Biografia: Moaen Shalabia
Moaen Shalabia, Palestinian Poet and prose writer.
He published six poetry books and three prose.
He participated in many local and international festivals around the world.
Some of his poems were translated into many languages.
His collection of poems was included in the national and international anthologies.
He won the prize of pest poetry at the international poetry festival “DITET E NAIMIT” in Macedonia / Albania.
Recently he won the big prize of the „Arab Writers Union“ for poetry.
The departure of the spirit
I saw you painting the dream
between the fire and the night,
And moons above the night,
And grief behind the spirit,
And the color of grief likes the twilight.
I saw you carrying the sea in your eyes expatriate,
And plates of faith and disbelief,
I asked the sea if it know its carrier,
The sea replies waves of tiredness.
I saw you silent dumping the grief in your lips,
You don’t ask now about my drown?
You said: „yes“,
Why the river doesn’t flow as we like,
We don’t want to pass the love like leaves.
I saw you hugging the thorn,
And the thorn is wounding,
Then I said: enough
The thorn’s wounds in the worriedly.
I saw you behind my grief and in it,
Can you stand the grief in journeys?
I’m tired of grief, I don’t know
Whether the spirit departure until a neck
Erase the grief.
رحيلُ الرُّوح – معين شلبية
رأَيْتُكِ تَرسُمِينَ الحُلْمَ بينَ النَّارِ والغَسَقِ
وفوقَ اللَّيلِ أَقمارٌ
وخلفَ الرُّوحِ أَحزانٌ
ولونُ الحُزْنِ كالشَّفَقِ.
رأَيْتُكِ تَحمِلينَ البَحْرَ فيْ عينيكِ مُغترِباً
وأَلواحاً مِنَ الإِيمانِ والكُفْرِ
سأَلتُ البحرَ هلْ يَدري بحامِلِهِ
فَرَدَّ البحرُ أَمواجاً مِنَ الأَرَقِ.
رأَيْتُكِ تُغرِقينَ الحُزْنَ فيْ شفتيكِ صامِتَةً
أَلا تَتَساءَلينَ الآنَ عن غَرَقِي؟
فَقُلْتِ: بَلَى
لماذا النَّهرُ لا يَجرِي كمَا نَبغِي
ولا نَبغِي عُبُورَ الحُبِّ كالوَرَقِ.
رأَيْتُكِ تَحضُنينَ الشَّوْكَ
والأَشواكُ جارحةٌ
فَقُلْتُ: كَفَى
جروحُ الشَّوكِ فِي القَلَقِ.
رأَيْتُكِ خلفَ أَحزاني وداخِلَهَا
فهلْ تتحمَّلينَ الحُزْنَ فِي السَّفرِ؟
تعبتُ أَنا مِنَ الأَحزانِ لا أَدري
هَلِ الأَحزانُ يمحوهَا
رحيلُ الرُّوحِ
عندَ مَشارِفِ الغَسَقِ؟
تعبتُ أَنا مِنَ الأَحزانِ لا أَدري
هَلِ الأَحزانُ يمحوهَا
رحيلُ الرُّوحِ للعُنُقِ!؟
Wave is return
Why I should forgive, friends?
Does any one of you carry the morning baggage?
Does there anyone who read the catastrophe in my grief,
And participate in the death of the night the suffering of the darkness,
And tearing an artery in my time’s entrails.
There was a flower which growing in my heart
There was a tulip which growing in my soul
My life has gone… I wish it does not.
A child was growing in my heart,
She was fidgeting in the womb of sorrow… suffering
A female was in my soul
Painting the wings of the sun and the remains of a smile
But arrows of those who I love
Were shut, in the morning, to my soul, and… it hit the target!
What I should do, friends?
Does there any one of you carry the worries of our nation?
Does there any one of you read the books of the sea,
And sip the remains of coal from the bottom of the cup?
The child says:
What I should do in order to turn me pregnant!?
What do I write, strangers?
Does there any one of you understand what I may write?
I, might write all your sins
And hug, at noon, my torments
Revolution,
Revolution,
Revolution…
What I should do, lovers?
Does any one of you know the taste of
A salty wound on the breasts of the kiss?
Does any one of you know how the love will be
On the bridge of return?
Does any one of you know
how the soul goes on the flank of the tent?
Does any one of you know
How the heart is hungry and how the passion suicide…?!
What I should do, my beloves?
It is a mirage. mirage
Continue your watery dreams
Continue the wife’s dream
Cause tomorrow you will hug these wave
Wave is returning,
Wave is returning,
Wave is returning.
Night and wine and woman
My wooden home
has two windows opened to their limits
and shadow of a woman inflaming the distance
I look upon the sea on the wake of the evening
and upon a glass of wine
stirring the echoes.
My wooden home has the smell of dew
and the shape of a soul in the palm of a blur
in our wooden home, there is an aged jar
and a thirsty butterfly haunting me
into the futility of speech.
It is you?
and for a while, I’ve been looking in you for my death
here you are, and this taste is monstrous
exploding in me a volcano
and inflaming in me my sails.
Here you are
and in your eyes a storm of drunkenness
oh you hug and burn and fill and spill me
wine over my crematorium
so don’t ever change and be oh a woman
destroying all my kingdom
and embrace me as a bottle
that danced on the belt of a storm
thus the flame of its wine burns me into poetry
for an ultimate heat and a Kamasutra glass
cover all my questions…!!
Go to the sea, My Love!
And If I could
I would reorganize the Universe
So that we will become the playful soul forever
And I would plant a rosy kiss on the lips
And quench my soul from the foam.
And If I could
I would fall in the April of your eyes
Tenderness
Radiance
Or hail
And would restore my suicide for the mirrors
And would be burnt with a spark of flint.
And If I could
I would sail on the sea of your green eyes
And would whisper to the eyelids and caress the breasts
And would paint the wreath of truth from your hands
And shout: You are as beautiful as the
And with your hands, I would have painted the crown of truth
And shout: You are beautiful as the Eternal God!
And If I could
I would shout: I love you
So that you can cross the sea and overcome grief;
Go to the sea, my love
Till happy time grows!
And If I could
I would perfume our bed with the scent of violets and body,
And would draw your voice, holding
The guitar of sad warmth, and the smell of the country.
And If I could
I would play the final stage
That we are a moon that collapsed… and reunited!
My Foggy Window
The desire for revelation urges me
To uncover a planet that went deep into the clouds;
Remnants of a smell that scratch my body to go through,
Like a dreamer who goes through the mirrors of absence!
Behind my foggy window
I removed the secrets of our story from the glass stained with the scent of velvet sweat,
A space for the moon splits in front of me in the darkness,
Steals a glance at her rising specter from below the rain.
Behind my foggy window,
She moves in front of me like the glimpse of the ‘ah!’ in my chest;
The sea pants in me like a trans-lust horse,
While the eternal blue erase the shadows of the sand,
And I depart to wherever the words carry me into the elegies of memories.
Behind my foggy window
I collected the wood inside me and set fire to it;
I arranged my Persian carpet, some of my writings, my tobacco, my senses,
A handful of music and the fragrance of her clothes,
And ran my hand even over the walls.
Behind my foggy window,
A broken intuition that is stricken by distress, anxiety, fear, and longing befalls me
For someone who infiltrates towards the visible vague and rises till grief;
It looks over my Self but I soon imagine that I am No one, No one!
Behind my foggy window,
Snowflakes fall on the coats of my heart and loss pours down
The taste of rain intensifies; sorrows sail into my soul –
And I cry:
My lady, My lady! O woman who takes off everything, except her femininity;
The wind will fill my clothes and on the bed of love, the whoop of creativity will spring!
Behind my foggy window,
She comes to me from nothingness, carrying her fiery wound
To awaken Tammuz, who has never been absent, in me,
Tammuz, who will certainly return!