"lebanon" poems
As beautiful as the famed city of Atlantis
Gloriously flourishing in her perfection
There is a place where my soul and heart is
A perfect place without grief or deception
Where my heart is always merry
And peace blossoms like the cherry
The sun smiles at me gently caressing
My body as the birds sing melodies-
So beautiful they keep me guessing-
The beauty of future melodic memories
Like the Cedars of Lebanon
Beautifying the palaces of Ethiopia
Purity, love and perfection adorn her every season.
This place is within me; this place is Utopia
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
Behold Nigeria my motherland
A land that sits upon the hills of many waters
A country built on the ancient landmark of heroes band
An Eagle that protects her citizens in the arms of her feathers.
A beautiful Nigeria whose fields are as green as green could ever be
An Iroko that stands on the root of peace and unity
A fertile land that is as fertile as fertility can ever be
A united people, a proud nation void of segregation nor discrimination in her city.
My motherland a land that upholds the staff of dignity and natural endowment
A land of unity and peace glowing like a river of gold across the horizon
A nation that feeds on the diet of heavens supplement
An ocean that runs through the test of raging storms un-torn.
My motherland! My motherland!
A Nigeria that adores her women more highly than the Queen of England
An Olive that yields more than the cedars of Lebanon
A land whose daughters are as beautiful as the daughters of Job in Jerusalem's land
An independent country as powerful as the King Nebuchadnezar of Babylon.
It's Nigeria my motherland
A land that rests on the pillars of her freedom
A country seated on the pearls and treasures of many Ireland
A Nigeria that lives on the soil of heavens wisdom.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
I Walk through the lonely ancient woods
And hear the voices from the Cedars of Lebanon
Whispering a truth known to all
But remembered by few
A felled branch reveals the wound
That smells of comfort and wisdom
Your knots are like the eyes of God
Scrutinizing my every intentions
I feel at ease as I rest in your strong arms
And think --
If I had a choice for a final resting place
It would be under your majestic feet
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry
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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch
I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.
Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.
Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Paris
The city of light
Having its darkest night
Since World War Two.
Lebanon
Double the body bags,
Yet no media hags
Turn their heads.
Normal
For there they say
But for Paris nay
And so we pay attention.
Kenya
Syria
Iraq
Libia
A suicide bomb
Over here,
Two hundred dead, we overhear
Wrapped into our daily news.
We pay it
Almost no heed
As the blood drips down to feed
The list of the dead.
We say
It is because we have grown
Accustomed, yet we have flown
Over the Coocoo's best to believe this.
The truth is,
Both for here
And there,
A white life is worth far more.
It is worth
10 Black American lives,
16 Hispanic or Asian lives,
27 Arab lives,
35 African lives,
These numbers
Straight from CNN
And the New York Times.
Do we not bleed the same blood?
Have we forgotten what it is to smile
Such that we cannot see ours are all the same?
What has happened to this world,
Once so gold and bright,
Now a darkened, saddened grey
As it weeps it's tears
Upon the red river
That runs through the valley of fears.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Abraham
Where is your son
He's lying dead
On a street in Lebanon
And the God of your fathers
Has left you alone
Wrap him in a white shroud
Cry out loud
Any sensible God
Took the first train out
r
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Humans tend to destroy everything that is pure and heavenly.
I reside in Lebanon, a paradise.
But since people abhor each other religously,
the city has fallen and it cannot rise.
So I watch them **** each other's lives rapidly,
and I smile to myself because it's like watching mice.
Mice trying to steal a rotten piece of cheese,
but little do they know, that it's a trap,
made by the old big black cat!
Once the mice reach the cheese,
the cat will devour them.
"Such a sad story." I say aloud.
And god answers,
"A sad story indeed."
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
My name is Jonathan.
I'm 9 years old.
I'll tell you a story
that's never been told.
I lived in Lebanon,
and so did you.
Till the year 14
and a thousand times 2.
We lived aside,
your building next to ours.
We were happy, what a bliss!
But there are thorns on all the flowers.
---------------------------------------
I knew not what happened next,
but I felt heat strike my face.
Who would believe that the curse we're living,
was once upon a time a grace?
The explosion happened too fast,
but I had time to take a last breath.
And when you took yours too,
we crawled our way to death.
So we left dear life,
which wasn't always so dear.
But even in heaven,
the cries of children, I could hear.
And I met you,
my dear friend Hussien.
But know that Muslims and Christians
are both being slain.
Just wait till they realize
their killers care not
for religion or for race,
for all was to get shot.
They're both targets,
and enemies all in one.
And our country has become
a battle that'll remain unwon.
Maybe one day they'll wake up
and learn that religion does not
give only them the rights to live
and the others the rights to rot.
Maybe one day they'll learn
that we are all but one.
So why not hold each other's hands
and to the new day welcome the sun?
My name is Jonathan.
I'm 9 years old.
The terrorist, government, and citizens;
the responsibility the do hold.
They ruined what used to be our heaven
and we would no simply obey,
even though most of us
in this heaven are here to stay.
My name is Jonathan.
I'm 9 years old.
And I **** on people
whose country they sold.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
You can spend years, tears, and fights in unmatched white sheets of your dreams. Or rattle in an train to Istanbul, under their arm.
His curls smell like sweat and he tastes like sweet, touched with hair and a scruff of a beard. He mingles Arabic, English, and French and you feel obsolete.
But do not fall in love with a boy from Lebanon
because sooner or later he will me gone.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night
To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow
And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change
And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass
And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on
And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown
And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls
And Spain go under the the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land
Nor now the long light on the sea
And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on…
4.1k
I wish I looked more like my heritage
So I could be exposed to hate
Without looking like a hypocrite
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
Sterling eyes close the falling red ward
Big Brother has seen it all
He tells me: *there is danger
Terror past the massive, all-protecting Atlantic*
Don’t stray there, the mouth
of stumbling heads say,
They want to take away
Our safety, our ways, our Freedom
Mr. Elected reassures
*Nothing will harm you
Not with me going there
I don’t want you going there*
He speaks like my mom
Warning me of the illicits
I am too vulnerable to experience
It’s death I’ll go to- I’ve been told
Sleepless red monocular
Enlightening the air to a passive blue
It’s opacity beneath and above
Ascending again
Mama and Baba say it’s time to go home
I confront the arid peninsula of Qatar
Lungs accustomed, vitality not frozen
Precariously perceiving the harmful
Sentiments of years past in Jordan,
I wonder why
my kin would ban this place
Rumor on dirt pavement in a draft, ears picking up
*The Atlantic is not to be crossed,
A lack of morals, malintentions
lay beyond the scape.*
Extravagant grenade above,
Falling to the horizon
And no detonation, collapsing behind a curved veil
Skyward lay the remnants
Of heat, frozen in time
The lips in a box on this shoreside
Warn *the zephyrs from the ornery
Reaches towards our home
Be on guard of the deceitful
star at night that rains red*
Tomorrow may not be there
My blood brothers of Lebanon say,
But I wait, field of vision
aligned to the east
Aural stumbles translate, articulating
My brethren begin their search of food
And in too many moments unnoticed,
Black on bottom, red on the low, blue slowly suffocating the obscurity above
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea
i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"
i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back
i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
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Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
Be still my soul, be still
Dont worry about the open tomb
There is a reason, why is this happening
Trust Him, instead of doubting
He has drawn the portrait
In a perfect beauty and form
Learn to adapt this moment
Look at whats ahead of this
Its a guarantee to find answer that is unknown
Reflect, ponder each of this
Open this eyes like a first time
Like a new born baby
Be excited to the future
Evaluate this heart O God
Echo again the words in my ears
It is finished, it is finished
The curtain was cut into two
O through Your blood I am victorious
Nothing in this world can separate
This life was meant for You
Burn me with fire from heaven
Strengthen this redeem man
I need You this all day long
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
My land has been ripped.
Its seeds trapped beneath
cinders of ash and rock.
Its root suffocating.
Its branches
no longer branches,
and its buds weeping
somewhere along the edge
of heaven looking
down upon bent cities
mourning those whose
flesh are screaming
to kiss the innocent
skin-like fingernails
of newborn children who
have been burned to death.
And the children!
Oh! The children!
They are sealed within
the winds that dance along
Lebanons green motherly lands
as the embers and crumbs whistle
an eerie tune through the
emptiness of the streets;
My heart is burning with
the souls that have died
a thousand different ways.
Somewhere over the mounds
of Lebanon, souls
that once breathed her air full
of joyous pride, clutch
to the sadness and adorn her
in prayer.
I believe with all that I believe that
somewhere deep within the forests
of her beauty,
Lebanon is smiling
awaiting rejuvenation,
awaiting a nation
dancing in
illumination
One day we will open
our dead eyes and find
that the capital of heaven is
Beirut.
Finally salvation.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
I was told to write down my identity
a neat sheet of paper
that would briefly explain me
I pondered a while
attempting to identify
a few key moments of my history
Do I tell of the immigrant?
or the miracle child?
do I speak of depression
and how I so rarely smiled?
Should I tell you about the language
I so rarely spoke
for fear of fitting a stereotype:
the terrorist trope.
Shall I explain hypomania?
and how I couldn't sleep?
and how the monsters I dreamt of
into my conscious peripheral would creep?
How I couldn't seek help
until I was almost twenty-one
because in my parents' culture
mental illness doesn't exist.
My parents were Palestenian refugees in Lebanon- but that's their story not mine, right? They were married for seventeen years before they had me. They tried to have children almost from day one- but that's their story not mine, right?
Finally they immigrated to Canada for a million procedures that would give them a baby. After six years of treatment, a random obscure procedure worked and I was a bun in the oven- but that's their story not mine, right?
nine months later I was born.
I was a miracle baby and the "light of their life." so they named me light: "Noor."
I was born at North York General with a priviledge my parents never dared dream: Canadian. Safe. Not a refugee. They had someplace that they'd send me for university.
With our new, safe nationality
at forty days old
I was taken to the UAE
I was raised on Western books
and Western TV
raised with ideas that just didn't fit
in a muslim family
(at least my family is liberal, unlike the UAE)
I haven't scratched the surface of who I am
and depending on the pieces I tell
I haven't scratched the surface of all that I could be
what I choose to write is how you will read me.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Who is it that comes from Edom, coming from Bozrah, his garments stained in crimson? Who is this, in glorious apparel, marching in the greatness of his strength? "It is I , who announce that right has won the day, it is I," says the Lord, "for I am mighty to save."
-Isaiah, 63:1.
Look to Syria, Egypt, Lebanon, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, all the world around you, and I. Time to get off your *** and do some saving. No disrespect intended, Lord.
r
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
Deception feeds on ignorance in every lane,
Missiles are wrong symphonies in Ukraine.
The world won't rise with the cries of a thousand,
Corruption sneaks into the bones in Thailand.
Humans and bodies are wars' cheapest lance,
The riots take back stolen rights in France.
Starvation is stronger than the dignity of men,
Begging for food is integrity, in Yemen.
Moms paid, with their children, the fees.
Souls taken, are countless in greece.
There, living in an empty land is the plan,
Women, children and men, murdered, for power, in Sudan.
"Spending eternity in peace, is a ban",
Told the people, between Armenia and Azerbaijan.
Depravity spreading in man like Ameba,
A losing game of change played in Cuba.
Billions of harassment cases, you bet,
Are, will be reserved in god's eyes in Egypt.
Buried her father, brother and,
desire of existence, dear Haya,
She, and millions another, in fenced Libya.
In the name of religion, crimes covered, disgracefully,
Chastity thrown, in land of churches, the Vatican City.
Shattered wood under a phloem,
Are the confused inhabitants of oriental Jerusalem.
Too many sects, invading the minds, anon,
Conflicts will split the one entity of Lebanon.
Washing souls with lies of worship, is a key
Says the elected president of Turkey.
To be served, pure blood awaits in the line.
It rains glory and sacrifice upon Palestine.
To regain true reality, they had to wham,
Under snow, through fog, numbed rain, in Vietnam.
Lost a thousands of years worth of legacy,
Guns are the rulers in Damascus city.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC
Hence, also in another place, I am naked;
naked; In Latvia, sometimes
from the other way around the adjective; narrow
understanding of the bald;
On the rising piece of alt girl's feet
Do not listen to her empty bare feet, of nature's own *****
again; twelve same & the walls of the square
is the work that they were naked; Glory to you w/ sackcloth,
to buy a few have sprouted sacks; End of all things is taken
the form of; The naked lens of Lebanon
& one simple; simple, the pictures
by the end, simple surface is rough; & more
matter of his dreams; He saw poor; till
naked & welcome, his mind open that
It is clear that there is a plan & having
as deniers of their own to his person
naked, his clothes, stripped them of their private citizens,
out of labor in vain: he was naked;
naked; that which was evil flavorless,
unarmed, have left us; All naked & w/out
any armor protection who exposes himself
to be above; You can not be secured in some,
I was already catered for; depopulated in the man,
of course, that he set out he was uncovered
within the field, naked, in a few words;
Translations
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
Before identities and allegiances are even confirmed,
The cries of anger rise up like a thick, black smoke,
Heavy and suffocating, it flows through streets,
Over the English Channel, across oceans,
Seeping into social media and blanketing all else.
Cries for vengeance,
Vengeance,
Vengeance.
And those cries barely manifested into a wisp
When Beirut was attacked the day before Paris.
I didn't see any Facebook pictures of the flag of Lebanon.
Do any of us even know what the flag of Lebanon looks like???
To **** innocent people is a crime except when we do it,
Then it's "There are always casualties of war,"
But if this isn't a war except when we're killing people,
Can it really be called a war?
We care so much about the injustice of it,
How the innocent are mowed down without mercy,
That we want those bombs dropped and we want them dropped now.
When those bombs destroy homes and blast children's limbs apart,
Bloodless and pale, until the area looks like it used to be a porcelain doll factory...
Will we all have Syrian flags for our Facebook pictures?
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
This is not a poem, a poet wrote some white lies about Israel and I want to share the truth that we’re not told by our media’s.
Remember, we can disagree about things and still agree about a lot of other things.
If you search, you can easily find this information.
Most of it comes from Israel media.
Israel already had over 10,000
Palestinian prisoners locked up long before the Oct 7 when the genocide begin.
Men, women and children in their prisons with no path to freedom.
Not to mention the open air prison that the Israeli’s kept the Palestine society trapped in for the past 50 years called Gaza. Committing human rights violation against the indigenous people of the land.
The biggest percentage of all the people that were **** on Oct 7th, were killed by Israeli’s killing their own people because they were ordered to follow the Hannibal directive.
I suppose you’ve never heard of that, no? Then your news source is limited.
Last year in Israel, their high court decided that **** and torture in their prisons, being committed by the Israel army was no longer illegal. Most of their society did not want these prison guards to get in trouble for torturing and ****** the Palestinian prisoners.
All those things you claim some unnamed source told you, have already been debunk by many credible sources.
Hamas did not do it, Israel rapes, cheats, lies and kills indiscriminately. They own our leaders using AIPAC lobbist who have Trump by the *** (They own Epstein’s library)
AIPAC is the reason you believe lies. They own media and congress.
Their propaganda rules the networks.
And just in the last two years, Israel has started war with Iran, Lebanon and Syria.
And of course their genocide happening now to the people of Palestine. I don’t understand how anybody support them. But I’m not a superstitiously impaired Zionist either.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 12:29 PM UTC
I’m crucified on the cross roads of doubt;
My heart is in the middle of all this,
My head
Is tilted downwards,
My eyes are shut;
Inverted,
So as to look upon my past
Because some time
Some where
There is a missing link,
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own
In it,
There is no, wide spaces of sand
And camel-descending romans
Trying to stab me with nails;
Instead,
There’s real people,
With real nails;
There is hope,
Now lighter than sand granules,
And sand castles
Crumbling down,
Leaving enough space
For a flower to emerge
In an Arab spring
Fertilized with corps
And watered with blood;
For Lebanon is running out of water
Like the Lebanese are running out of faith-
Running into walls.
Jumping over obstacles,
Over explosion debris,
Jumping way in over our heads.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own,
One I call home,
With windows that open
To reshuffle the air particles
In a room that has enclosed upon itself,
With doors that creek
For the scars of the past
Still haunt them,
With walls
Painted with portraits
Protecting the memory
Of the ones I loved,
With walls painted with portraits
Picturing poetic illusions-
Ones that never left my brains,
Ones that tell me,
Every night I lose myself
In her pictures,
That we are getting back together,
One day,
Somehow,
Somewhere,
There is a missing link
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m strumming out of tune questions
On guitars that carry my stories,
With strings that need to be changed
And necks that grow long
As the path
I still have in front of me;
And though this is not a problem
For a Hendrix and a joint,
I’m just an ordinary man
With a pen-
I wear ordinary clothes,
I feed up on
Ordinary capitalism,
I ***** up my notes
Of which I never took any;
Jerusalem fell apart,
But my Jerusalem did not fall yet.
On my crucifix,
There’s a writing that says
“There’s always a piece of you in people,
As much as there’s a piece of them in you.”
I’m just a man on a crucifix
But writers can never be tamed,
For they live through the people that learn from them;
And those people,
Maintain they live forever.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC