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H. A.
https://www.goodreads.com/h7iv
“All this time I told myself we were born from war—but I was wrong, Ma. We were born from beauty.
Let no one mistake us for the fruit of violence—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.”
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
Let no one mistake us for the fruit of violence—but that violence, having passed through the fruit, failed to spoil it.”
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
“بَلِّغُوْهَا إِذَا أَتَيْتُم حِمَاهَا أَنَّنِي مُت فِي الْغَرَام فِدَاهَا
***
بِدْر عَلَى عَرْش الْجَمَال تِرِبَّعَا فَنَفَى الْرُّقَاد عَن الْعُيُون وَلُوْعَا
أَشْكُو الْهَوَى فَيَصُدُّنِي مُتَمَنِّعَا مُلْك الْفُؤَاد فَمَا عَسَاي أَن أصُنْعا
يَارَب حَشَاي بِجَوْرِه وبِغَلْبِه
لَكِنَّنِي الْصَّب الْمُذَل فِي حَقْلِه
أَلْقَى الْحَلَاوَة فِي مَرَارَة حُبِّه
مَن لَم يَذُق ظللَم الْحَبِيْب كَظَلْمِه حُلْوَا فَقَد جَهِل الْمَحَبَّة وَإِدَّعَى
***
بِرُوْحِي فَتَاة بِالْعَفْاف تَجَمَّلَت وَفِي خَدِّهَا حَب مِن الْمِسْك قَد نَبَت
وَقَد ضَاع عَقْلِي وَقَد ضَاع رُشْدِي وَإِسْتَبَدت وَأَقْبَلَت
وَلَمَّا طُلِبَت الْوَصْل مِنْهَا تَمَنَّعْت وَقَالَت أَمَّا تَخْشَى وَأَنْت إِمَام
مَقَامَك يَاهَذَا مَقَام مُبَجَّل وَفِي الْدِّيْن وَالْدُّنْيَا عَلَيْك الْمُعَوَّل
أَتَزْعُم ان الرِّيَق مِنِّي مُحَلَّل فَرِيْقَي مُدَام وَالْمُدَام حَرَام
لَكِنَّنِي الْصَّب الْمُذَل فِي حَقْلِه
أَلْقَى الْحَلَاوَة فِي مَرَارَة حُبِّه
***
بَلِّغُوْهَا إِذَا أَتَيْتُم حِمَاهَا أَنَّنِي مُت فِي الْغَرَام فِدَاهَا
وَأُذَكُرُوْنِي لَهَا بِكُل جَمِيْل فَعَسَاهَا تَحِن عَلَي عَسَاهَا
وَبِحَق الْوَفَاء أُعِيْدُوْا عَلَيْهَا ماعَرِفْتم مِن عَذَابِي فِي هَوَاهَا
وَإجَلُبُوْهَا لِتُرْبَتِي فَعِظَامِي تَشْتَهِي أَن تَدُوْسَهَا قَدَمَاهَا
إِن رُوْحِي مِن الْضَّرِيح تُنَاجِيْهَا وَعَيْنِي تَسِيْر إِثْر خُطَاهَا
لَم يَشُقْنَي يَوْم الْقِيَامَة لَوْلَا أَمَلِي أَنَّنِي هُنَاك أَرَاهَا”
―
***
بِدْر عَلَى عَرْش الْجَمَال تِرِبَّعَا فَنَفَى الْرُّقَاد عَن الْعُيُون وَلُوْعَا
أَشْكُو الْهَوَى فَيَصُدُّنِي مُتَمَنِّعَا مُلْك الْفُؤَاد فَمَا عَسَاي أَن أصُنْعا
يَارَب حَشَاي بِجَوْرِه وبِغَلْبِه
لَكِنَّنِي الْصَّب الْمُذَل فِي حَقْلِه
أَلْقَى الْحَلَاوَة فِي مَرَارَة حُبِّه
مَن لَم يَذُق ظللَم الْحَبِيْب كَظَلْمِه حُلْوَا فَقَد جَهِل الْمَحَبَّة وَإِدَّعَى
***
بِرُوْحِي فَتَاة بِالْعَفْاف تَجَمَّلَت وَفِي خَدِّهَا حَب مِن الْمِسْك قَد نَبَت
وَقَد ضَاع عَقْلِي وَقَد ضَاع رُشْدِي وَإِسْتَبَدت وَأَقْبَلَت
وَلَمَّا طُلِبَت الْوَصْل مِنْهَا تَمَنَّعْت وَقَالَت أَمَّا تَخْشَى وَأَنْت إِمَام
مَقَامَك يَاهَذَا مَقَام مُبَجَّل وَفِي الْدِّيْن وَالْدُّنْيَا عَلَيْك الْمُعَوَّل
أَتَزْعُم ان الرِّيَق مِنِّي مُحَلَّل فَرِيْقَي مُدَام وَالْمُدَام حَرَام
لَكِنَّنِي الْصَّب الْمُذَل فِي حَقْلِه
أَلْقَى الْحَلَاوَة فِي مَرَارَة حُبِّه
***
بَلِّغُوْهَا إِذَا أَتَيْتُم حِمَاهَا أَنَّنِي مُت فِي الْغَرَام فِدَاهَا
وَأُذَكُرُوْنِي لَهَا بِكُل جَمِيْل فَعَسَاهَا تَحِن عَلَي عَسَاهَا
وَبِحَق الْوَفَاء أُعِيْدُوْا عَلَيْهَا ماعَرِفْتم مِن عَذَابِي فِي هَوَاهَا
وَإجَلُبُوْهَا لِتُرْبَتِي فَعِظَامِي تَشْتَهِي أَن تَدُوْسَهَا قَدَمَاهَا
إِن رُوْحِي مِن الْضَّرِيح تُنَاجِيْهَا وَعَيْنِي تَسِيْر إِثْر خُطَاهَا
لَم يَشُقْنَي يَوْم الْقِيَامَة لَوْلَا أَمَلِي أَنَّنِي هُنَاك أَرَاهَا”
―
“No object is in a constant relationship with pleasure,' wrote Barthes. 'For
the writer, however, it is the mother tongue.' But what if the mother tongue is
stunted? What if that tongue is not only the symbol of a void, but is itself a
void, what if the tongue is cut out? Can one take pleasure in loss without
losing oneself entirely? The Vietnamese I own is the one you gave me, the
one whose diction and syntax reach only the second-grade level.
As a girl, you watched, from a banana grove, your schoolhouse collapse
after an American napalm raid. At five, you never stepped into a classroom
again. Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our
Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed.
Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese,
but entirely in war.”
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
the writer, however, it is the mother tongue.' But what if the mother tongue is
stunted? What if that tongue is not only the symbol of a void, but is itself a
void, what if the tongue is cut out? Can one take pleasure in loss without
losing oneself entirely? The Vietnamese I own is the one you gave me, the
one whose diction and syntax reach only the second-grade level.
As a girl, you watched, from a banana grove, your schoolhouse collapse
after an American napalm raid. At five, you never stepped into a classroom
again. Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our
Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed.
Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese,
but entirely in war.”
― On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
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