munzer-a-absi
Aleppo (Syria)
Born in Syria / Studied English Lang and Lit at Latakia University (Syria); MA and Ph.D. at Glasgow University (UK) between 1988-1993 / Dr. of English literature (especially poetry) at Aleppo university. chair of dept between 2006-09 / Taught English lit. in Saudi Arabia, Jordan; / Taught Translation at Ebla Private university (Syria); dean of college (2009-12) / Now full prof at Aleppo state University. / Married with 4 children
They abound this season
Flapping their wings
Blocking the sunshine
Carrying bugles and ostrich feathers,
Through their yellow teeth
The heat of yerba mate radiates
They make no distinction between
The dignitary and the mobster
Between the esteemed and the rascal
Only scarabs pass them by without reckoning
We still hear the drums in all parts of the village;
Drums made in a country not far from ours.
We are in the presence of the Holy Matron
We sanctify
Dust has settled over her garb
Having buried the phoenix,
Her children have left their houses
And some lost their direction
We strayed from one another
And the paths of the honest
Were blurred
We had our fill of worries for a thousand years
Despite the limitation of time.
Here we are at the bottom of the riverbed
And cannot row our way back to the source spring
When the day is short
So is the night.
To you Lord is my hymn and plea:
Will there be salvation,
Will it rain
Will there be sunshine
And will the birds
Flutter their wings again?
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
"The Generals" of the clan
Were playing a real "Clash of Clans" –
Bullets, cartridges, bombs, shells, missiles, grapeshots, handgrenades, bazookas,
All sold in Aleppo markets,
Was the real Candy of their Crash.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
In the hospital room I sat on a couch,
In wait for doctor to arrive,
And give his verdict on the disease
From which I suffer;
With which I now survive.
After four scores of life and one,
I sleep on a bed,
With a tray at my side and a chart above my head
Escorted by a nurse and the intravenous bottle,
In store to be operated upon.
The hospital is a beehive,
Doctor instructs and nurses drive.
And patients ebb and patients flow:
Some on wheel chairs as quiet as a model,
Some dripping liquids with a noisy sniffle,
Some heal up, others strive;
And many lugubrious but continue to piffle.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
No more shall we come back to life,
No more shall we remain.
When death prevails the sphere one day
No more can we sojourn.
When curfew tolls, the train must leave,
Can travelers save their heed?
To catch the trip, the soul must rush:
No bags we’ll ever need.
In tunnel, we’ll tarry until,
The siren has been blown.
And this will bring our tour to halt
What next might we be shown?
No choice we made to come to life;
We have no choice to stall.
When winter comes, the wind will blow,
Can leaves choose but to fall?
For your depart avail daylight,
Rosebuds environ weeds;
Ahead nightfall fill up your bag
To brim with better deeds.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Like a vigorous farmer the intravenous bottle was watering my arid land,
While the mask guarded the gates of my soul,
And the nurse stood beside my bed like a sunflower plant
Gazing upon the charts on my bed side.
Upon this life of man I sat to ponder.
Who can stop the wheel of Time?
Who can tell his span, I wonder!
Or against the tide can climb?
And older and older we have to grow;
Though some untimely depart;
And in our bodies bacteria flow.
Is it our frailty, or our fate?
One wonders who'd know?
And now and then we’re driven to a clinic,
For faults to fix in the physique;
To fill in a hole or bolt a leak,
Like as a car we take to a mechanic.
And year after year its faults increase:
No clutch would gear, or wheels to bear,
And cracks would widen and the horn would moan,
And the engine loses its tune.
When the mechanic is helpless,
And could fix it up no more
We call a truck and close the door:
It comes and lifts the dead car high
And dump it in symmetry.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
In the hospital room I sat on a couch,
In wait for doctor to arrive,
And give his verdict on the disease
From which I suffer;
With which I now survive.
After four scores of life and one,
I sleep on a bed,
With a tray at my side and a chart above my head
Escorted by a nurse and the intravenous bottle,
In store to be operated upon.
The hospital is a beehive,
Doctor instructs and nurses drive.
And patients ebb and patients flow:
Some on wheel chairs as quiet as a model,
Some dripping liquids with a noisy sniffle,
Some heal up, others strive;
And many lugubrious but continue to piffle.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC