تويت
The Poet moaen shalabia
Moaen shalabia; in Maghar Village - The Galilee.
One of the Arab Palestinian national Minority in Israel
Finished his studies in Haifa University – (Business Administration and management).
Poet and prose writer, his writing career began in 1978, he published his poems in national local newspapers and in Arabic papers abroad.
His first born was the first book of poetry in 1989.
Participated in many local international festivals such as, Nissan international poetry festival, Cairo International Book Fair, Jarash festival, Palestine poetry meeting, and Doha cultural festival.
Was awarded by the Palestinian education ministry for his blessed efforts in enriching the national education and for his loyalty to the Palestinian issue and the Principles of justice and freedom.
Besides, he has received many appreciation certificates.
A member in Nissan association for art and education, a member in the union of Arab writers and the movement of world poets.
His literary production was discussed and criticized in many sessions in homeland and abroad.
Some of his poems were translated into many languages, like Hebrew, French, English and Polish.
His collection of poems was included in the national and international anthologies.
The poet's publishings:
Poetry:
1. The wave is return – 1989.
2. Between two butterflies – 1999.
3. The memory of senses – 2001.
4. Rituals of Solitude - 2004.
5. The immigration of the naked longings – 2008.
Prose:
1. Meditations – 1992.
2. Narrow evening – 1995.
3. Spirituality – 1998.
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Don’t cry for me Palestine
Poet: moaen shalabia
Over the wind I have prepared my poem that has been taken captive about the land that has fled from my hands
When the date palm shook its palms
And when the place trickled out, over my wreckage
It is the state of the wind
Scattering its silver wound
To spread the mark of tribes
Over what has preceded from my speech
It is the dazzlement of the inviting soul
Becoming longer behind the kindling of words
To tower over the waters of the spirit
And what has lingered from my time
They have lowered their voices on the sap of the wish
And covered my loud pain
In the hollow of the flutes
They came behind the remnants of lofty prophecies
Carrying the pickaxes of divine weakness
And they did not say anything about the birds’ nests
Of covering jest
And about the way of the primitive field
It is a cry of the wilderness
In the pulpits of my desert which
Have not, on any day, withdrawn themselves from the stallion of the spirit
In this soft Jalil
And that which is restless from my heap
No wind carries me to you
So that we can distribute amongst ourselves the absence which
Distributes the memory to you
No … we have not become separate since our separation
Close to the narrow street of absence
No … we have not met
And the embrace is the embrace
How can I gather the scattered dross
Upon the realm of her landing place
And this night is your night?!
How can I, and I see you embracing each other?
The spikes of enclosing pain, on the waist of a storm
She loathed the dozing draft of Mount Carmel
On the shoulder of the poem and what shined in your brilliance!
How can I
And I am the Jalili that set down as a resident here
On a wave she shook her fingertips
Behind the window of reminding each other
Upon anxiety, upon anxiety
Take what you want from the motives of the heart
And the calamity, and the ancient love
Take what you want
For this ritual is cunning
Behind the window of reminding each other
The sea carries the possibility of clouds for the slivers of seducers
A grey texture
In the hesitation of burning lust to return and set out
For the slivers is the map of time
And the map of the place in the vessel of pride
The slivers are the gales of gulls behind the window of desolation
The slivers are the union of body with the souls
The slivers are the dissolutions of youthful passion with the godhead
The slivers are the slashes, shouting then slumbering
The slivers are our Sufi intoxication
In attaching mankind to the Everlasting
The slivers are the exodus of salts in the wombs
The slivers are our grief that has been shed
At the lamp of barriers and borders
The slivers are the representatives of time upon the scarcities of the mountains
The slivers are sudden death for the false god
The slivers are the loftiness of the spirit in the eulogy
Towards the dreamy idea
Between poetry and comedy
Upon anxiety, upon anxiety
I shall hide the moaning of dry clay
I begin my yellow journey
Gradually, as if I have set foot here before
On this path I have walked
I embraced the letters and had intercourse with the language
As if I “I am the most desirable and the most desirable is I”
O my throne I lean upon, and I am in harmony with a tomb
Between reality and fantasy
Where there are the springs of revelation and vision
There is my existence in contemplating humanity
When the sky weeps on a helpless cry
O my bier, it trembled … in the eternal return
Starved on a grassy surface towards the stream of the circuit
I carry my sad poem which has not, on any day, fought the curse of memory
Its traits, its reflections, its spoils, the imitation of transgression
And the spirit of celebration in tragedy
Have the desires grown??
This is the question of the wretched/the lovers and what has not been permitted
Are the homelands bursting into leaf?
Lost am I between the answer and the question
Upon anxiety I entered
And the heart was forgetful
The destruction entered and the reverberation radiated
The ribs quivered here and there
Then discernment is perfected
And the slivers are the conclusion of my poem
The slivers are the congestion of my limbs
The slivers are early rain in the imagination of things
I don’t know the poets
But I threw my poem in the wind
I occupy the way station
And the wind adorned me with its ring, I rushed into the space
No land carries me
And no horizon confines me
As if I, despite the remoteness of death
And how remote death is
The magnanimity in your hands clothes me
As if I am
Now
Free!
Moaen shalabia; in Maghar Village - The Galilee.
One of the Arab Palestinian national Minority in Israel
Finished his studies in Haifa University – (Business Administration and management).
Poet and prose writer, his writing career began in 1978, he published his poems in national local newspapers and in Arabic papers abroad.
His first born was the first book of poetry in 1989.
Participated in many local international festivals such as, Nissan international poetry festival, Cairo International Book Fair, Jarash festival, Palestine poetry meeting, and Doha cultural festival.
Was awarded by the Palestinian education ministry for his blessed efforts in enriching the national education and for his loyalty to the Palestinian issue and the Principles of justice and freedom.
Besides, he has received many appreciation certificates.
A member in Nissan association for art and education, a member in the union of Arab writers and the movement of world poets.
His literary production was discussed and criticized in many sessions in homeland and abroad.
Some of his poems were translated into many languages, like Hebrew, French, English and Polish.
His collection of poems was included in the national and international anthologies.
The poet's publishings:
Poetry:
1. The wave is return – 1989.
2. Between two butterflies – 1999.
3. The memory of senses – 2001.
4. Rituals of Solitude - 2004.
5. The immigration of the naked longings – 2008.
Prose:
1. Meditations – 1992.
2. Narrow evening – 1995.
3. Spirituality – 1998.
---------------------------------------------------
Don’t cry for me Palestine
Poet: moaen shalabia
Over the wind I have prepared my poem that has been taken captive about the land that has fled from my hands
When the date palm shook its palms
And when the place trickled out, over my wreckage
It is the state of the wind
Scattering its silver wound
To spread the mark of tribes
Over what has preceded from my speech
It is the dazzlement of the inviting soul
Becoming longer behind the kindling of words
To tower over the waters of the spirit
And what has lingered from my time
They have lowered their voices on the sap of the wish
And covered my loud pain
In the hollow of the flutes
They came behind the remnants of lofty prophecies
Carrying the pickaxes of divine weakness
And they did not say anything about the birds’ nests
Of covering jest
And about the way of the primitive field
It is a cry of the wilderness
In the pulpits of my desert which
Have not, on any day, withdrawn themselves from the stallion of the spirit
In this soft Jalil
And that which is restless from my heap
No wind carries me to you
So that we can distribute amongst ourselves the absence which
Distributes the memory to you
No … we have not become separate since our separation
Close to the narrow street of absence
No … we have not met
And the embrace is the embrace
How can I gather the scattered dross
Upon the realm of her landing place
And this night is your night?!
How can I, and I see you embracing each other?
The spikes of enclosing pain, on the waist of a storm
She loathed the dozing draft of Mount Carmel
On the shoulder of the poem and what shined in your brilliance!
How can I
And I am the Jalili that set down as a resident here
On a wave she shook her fingertips
Behind the window of reminding each other
Upon anxiety, upon anxiety
Take what you want from the motives of the heart
And the calamity, and the ancient love
Take what you want
For this ritual is cunning
Behind the window of reminding each other
The sea carries the possibility of clouds for the slivers of seducers
A grey texture
In the hesitation of burning lust to return and set out
For the slivers is the map of time
And the map of the place in the vessel of pride
The slivers are the gales of gulls behind the window of desolation
The slivers are the union of body with the souls
The slivers are the dissolutions of youthful passion with the godhead
The slivers are the slashes, shouting then slumbering
The slivers are our Sufi intoxication
In attaching mankind to the Everlasting
The slivers are the exodus of salts in the wombs
The slivers are our grief that has been shed
At the lamp of barriers and borders
The slivers are the representatives of time upon the scarcities of the mountains
The slivers are sudden death for the false god
The slivers are the loftiness of the spirit in the eulogy
Towards the dreamy idea
Between poetry and comedy
Upon anxiety, upon anxiety
I shall hide the moaning of dry clay
I begin my yellow journey
Gradually, as if I have set foot here before
On this path I have walked
I embraced the letters and had intercourse with the language
As if I “I am the most desirable and the most desirable is I”
O my throne I lean upon, and I am in harmony with a tomb
Between reality and fantasy
Where there are the springs of revelation and vision
There is my existence in contemplating humanity
When the sky weeps on a helpless cry
O my bier, it trembled … in the eternal return
Starved on a grassy surface towards the stream of the circuit
I carry my sad poem which has not, on any day, fought the curse of memory
Its traits, its reflections, its spoils, the imitation of transgression
And the spirit of celebration in tragedy
Have the desires grown??
This is the question of the wretched/the lovers and what has not been permitted
Are the homelands bursting into leaf?
Lost am I between the answer and the question
Upon anxiety I entered
And the heart was forgetful
The destruction entered and the reverberation radiated
The ribs quivered here and there
Then discernment is perfected
And the slivers are the conclusion of my poem
The slivers are the congestion of my limbs
The slivers are early rain in the imagination of things
I don’t know the poets
But I threw my poem in the wind
I occupy the way station
And the wind adorned me with its ring, I rushed into the space
No land carries me
And no horizon confines me
As if I, despite the remoteness of death
And how remote death is
The magnanimity in your hands clothes me
As if I am
Now
Free!
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