by George Nicolas El-Hage, Ph.D.
Poetry is the language of prophecy spoken by the angels and gods when they populated this earth before the fall. Hence, the poet is the offspring of that divine race that has since departed our planet to the lofty skies.
Man will never regain his divine status until he embraces his spirituality. Consequently, we have to use language differently. We have to say less and mean more before we are able to communicate effectively. Words should be spontaneous and timeless. They are meant to be charged with emotions and to embody visions that illuminate experience and communicate nothing but the truth.
The poet is not a prophet if prophecy is understood to be the prediction of future events, but the poet should be viewed as a seer if instead, prophecy is meant to be a warning that if man goes on doing such deeds, then the result will be dire.
Although poetry could be national or regional, nevertheless, it shall never be divorced from its universal message and concerns. It is within this context that I write my poetry and hope it will help make our world a better place, one word at a time.
Samples of My Poetry (Translated from the Original Arabic):
“If You Were Mine”
No, I shall not tell you that I became a poet.
The day I read joy and sadness in your smile and witnessed the sun rising in your eyes, I abandoned my heart, crucified on the ivory ramparts of your face, and setting sail, I strove to navigate the deep waters of inspiration.
That day, I discovered my inner self in the mirror of your pure love, and I vowed to tell you this in words. These are some of them.
You are aware that I consider myself responsible before you for the many words yet left unsaid, more so than those recounted.
Possibly my arrival would be delayed tomorrow. I must prepare myself well. The journey for a poet is long and provisions costly and burdensome.
Perhaps I would find you watching for me and would forget the hardships of travel. Perhaps the sun could have set in your eyes, your black lashes drawing the curtain on the windows of waiting. I know I would be plunged in sorrow. For I have made all the preparations. I would leave the memory of my anguish planted in a tear and write upon its looking-glass: “If you were mine.”
“A Vision”
I bathe every day in the stream of vision.
I wear the cloak of poetry, and I write in the notebook of each morning a new sun.
I create scenes and heroes.
I draw them with colors and words, and they become perfect beings.
They live and die, but I resurrect them anew.
I live with them and become one with them.
I modify their existence and alter their destiny so as to remain their master and their creator.
I am the poet of illusion; my poems are worlds of light
populated only with those who sincerely believe
that poetry is the road to God
and that my poems are the beginning of this road.
“Surprise Attack”
Sway with the breeze
Bow like a lily
Disdain wounds
Become buds
Scattering spring
And light
Stopping tears
And gales
Descend softly with the dew
Become a mound of anemones
The color of my blood
Attack the gardens
Regain your tranquility
My queen
Penetrate the darkness of eternity
Put your arms around the waist of space
The minutes are impregnated
The gardens would be born
Soar with the echo
Be born as you desire
Sister of dawn
Torture hearts with love
Put out the stars of your sky and the moon.
Light anxious eyes
To illuminate your world
Even if the day explodes in fury
Killing itself
Tame wild mares, and meadows
And shadows, tame the multitudes
Pile yourself up
Like autumn’s notebook
Turn inward
Embracing the void as you fall
Couple with the soil
Become heavy with grapes
Sink your roots into my breast
Deep as the carefree shaking
Of a bird’s wing
By the roadside
Or a pulse from within the earth’s darkness
Teach me of the seen
And the unseen
Let your fragrance perfume the wind
Like frankincense
Or dahlias
Become the lines in my hand
For you are the ecstasies of beauty
In my poems
Open within me
Like a star
Like a smile
Watch over my portals
Like a breeze
Fill my windows
Scatter the day
Fill my temple
Become flesh
If only once, become flesh
You would delight in being
The substance of matter, and madness
In enraptured eyes
Attire yourself in the form of letters
And their curves
Tint the syllables
For your garment of beauty is blue
Giving the sky its color
In my hand is a plume
Melting between my fingers
Dripping letters
And blood.
“My People”
I vowed to rise in the eyes of the sun
To have its light wear me as a morning
To build a castle in yesterday’s country
And become the Easter of your holidays.
I relate to you a myth about me
With love and my hands I build your home
I visit you in my poems and my dreams
With the warmth of your eyes I light my tomorrow.
I build for you from the sap of my eyelashes
A swing in the shade of our Cedar tree
Its ropes are my hope and my sinews
And my solemn belief in our awakening
If you had listened to the cry of my lyrics
You would have become again one family and friends
You are the conscience of poetry within me
And the sweet wine in my cup.
I traveled from you to remain for you
I make no distinction… you are all my loved ones
If your love should weaken
Take my blood and the throb of my heart.
“You, Beirut, and the Children”
As the leaves of October,I scatter myself over your blazing inferno;
Your divine and succulent body
From its forbidden summits
Down to its ravenous depths and fertile valleys.
As a summer cloud bearing spring,
I shower gentle kisses upon your flushed lips
Whose color gives the rose its crimson
Whose benevolent banks are a bed of red anemones.
Glory to your heavenly eyes,
Two lakes of pearl and coral
I am the maker of dreams,
Of bracelets most precious
Grant me to fashion an enchanted bangle
For thy delicate wrist.
Your hair,
Waterfalls roaring in the twilight,
Forests of bewilderment,
Fields of ripened grain blessed by the harvest sun
Nourish me from your bountiful fruits.
I am the titan of lovers
Emerging from the womb of legends
Lost in the annals of ancient fables
My odyssey yearns for a happy ending
With the beautiful princess.
O my friend,
In this time of madness
Rootless with each step
Heart forged of iron
What may we hope to plant
But dejection?What may we hope to reap
But regret?
What may we hope to build our home upon
But the banks of sin?
O my Magdalene
My virgin
My sweet lamentation
My beloved City
Lend me your voice
So I can speak unto them
War has broken my wings
My throat is barren
My strings rusted
And despair has muffled my hymn
Tell them to spare the children
To let the children live and dream
YOU, enemies of innocence
Let the children bloom
Let love conquer the forces of darkness
Let peace reign.
Suffer the little children to come unto me
Let my beloved approach
Let my City live
For unto them alone is
My love
My kingdom
My poetry.
For the published poetry books of George El-Hage, click here.