Hymns of the Valleys 1931956200, 9781931956208

Table of contents :
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
PREFACE TO THE FIRST ARABIC EDITION
RIHANI’S PREFACE: FREE VERSE
THE SIMOOM WIND
LIFE AND DEATH: FALL AND SUNSET IN LEBANON
CINDERS AND STARS
THE REVOLUTION
TWO STRANGERS
AT THE COT OF SPRING
HYMNS OF THE VALLEYS
A BRANCH OF ROSES
MY TEMPLE IN THE VALLEY
NEW YEAR’S EVE
THE THREE HYMNS
THEY DESERTED IT
THE BULBUL AND THE GALE
THE BEGGAR KING
THE WITHERING LILY
ON THE BEACH OF ALEXANDRIA
I AM THE EAST
THE DAUGHTER OF PHARAOH
TIGRIS
FREEDOM: MY COMPANION
TO ABU L-‘ALA
“THE NAJ’WA”
ON REVISITING THE VALLEY
THE TWO FACES OF MY HOMELAND
DAMASCUS
THE STONES OF PARIS
THREE ARE ON A MAGIC CARPET
TO GIBRAN
THE ARABIAN EAGLE
THE TWO ROADS
THE MEMORIAL OF THE MARTYR LEADER
APPENDIX A
APPENDIX B

Citation preview

Hymns of the Valleys

HYMNS OF THE VALLEYS (HUTĀF-UL ‚AWDIYA)

AMEEN F. RIHANI

Translated With an Introduction and Annotations by

NAJI B. OUEIJAN

9

GORGIAS PRESS 2002

First Edition, copyright © 2002 by The Ameen Rihani Organization and Gorgias Press LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Gorgias Press LLC, New Jersey.

ISBN 1-931956-20-0

9

GORGIAS PRESS 46 Orris Ave., Piscataway, NJ 08854 USA www.gorgiaspress.com

Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS TABLE OF CONTENTS

V

INTRODUCTION

VII

PREFACE TO THE FIRST ARABIC EDITION

XV

RIHANI’S PREFACE: FREE VERSE

XVII

THE SIMOOM WIND

1

LIFE AND DEATH: FALL AND SUNSET IN LEBANON

4

CINDERS AND STARS

11

THE REVOLUTION

12

TWO STRANGERS

15

AT THE COT OF SPRING

17

HYMNS OF THE VALLEYS

24

A BRANCH OF ROSES

27

MY TEMPLE IN THE VALLEY

30

NEW YEAR’S EVE

33

THE THREE HYMNS

36

THE BULBUL AND THE GALE

43

THE BEGGAR KING

49

THE WITHERING LILY

51

ON THE BEACH OF ALEXANDRIA

54

I AM THE EAST

57 v

vi

Hymns of the Valleys

THE DAUGHTER OF PHARAOH

61

TIGRIS

63

FREEDOM: MY COMPANION

67

TO ABU L-‘ALA

70

“THE NAJ’WA”

73

ON REVISITING THE VALLEY

75

THE TWO FACES OF MY HOMELAND

78

DAMASCUS

81

THE STONES OF PARIS

84

THREE ARE ON A MAGIC CARPET

87

TO GIBRAN

90

THE ARABIAN EAGLE

97

THE TWO ROADS

102

THE MEMORIAL OF THE MARTYR LEADER

104

APPENDIX A

108

APPENDIX B

111

INTRODUCTION There has always been a tendency by Eastern and Western scholars to overlook Ameen Rihani’s poetic achievements in favor of his meritoriously paraded prosaic works. There is no doubt that The Book of Khalid (in English) and Ar-Rihaniyat (a collection of essays written in Arabic) alone would be enough to stamp Rihani’s name with letters of gold in Eastern and Western literary anthologies as a modern philosopher, political thinker, and literary critic. It is also true that his English and Arabic prose works exhibit Rihani as a pioneer anti-conventionalist, who devoted his life for the cause of liberty and freedom in Lebanon and the Arab world, and as an enthusiastic promoter of East-West cross-cultural understanding. And it seems that the realistic and imaginative depth of Rihani’s prosaic acumen amazed his scholars to the point of deferring them from his poetry, which I believe is amongst his most significant contributions to the world of literature in the Arab world and in the West. And it is strange enough to note that his vigilant and daring pronouncements on modern poetry and his general references to poetry and poets in his articles and correspondence have been given more exposition and acknowledgement than his own poetry, which is still not given the attention it deserves. All the reason why ever since my students and I rendered into English excerpts of Ameen Rihani’s Ar-Rihaniyat,1 the idea of translating into English his Hutaf ul-Awdiyah (“Hymns of the Valleys”), an anthology of Arabic poetry, thrilled me and worried me at the same time. It thrilled me because his prophetic verse works, written at the turn of the twentieth century, reflected the events and circumstances my countrymen and I were, and still are, living at the dawn of the third See Ameen Al-Rihani, Excerpts from Ar-Ryhaniyat, ed. by Naji Oueijan (Louaize: Notre Dame University Press, 1998). 1

vii

viii

Hymns of the Valleys

millennium, and I felt that his Arabic poems must become handy to a larger public if Rihani the poet must be given his rightful position among great modern poets. And it worried me because I realized then, as I do now, that I would never be able to do Rihani’s poems justice by recreating them into English. However, I agreed with my dear friend and colleague, Dr. Ameen A. Rihnai, that whatever weaknesses my translated versions of the poems profess, they will indeed aid the English speaking public to understanding the edifying views of a poet and thinker torn out between East and West, between stock tradition and modernity, and between what is and what must be. I knew that I had a very hard undertaking ahead of me; and hard, it was, but pleasing at the same time, because I carried Rihani with me wherever I went; he became my closest companion and tutor. And this gave me the pleasurable sense of ever being in the presence of a great thinker and poet. The translator of poetry, I believe, is a sinner in his own eyes and in the eyes of the poet’s admirers. However perceptive and skillful he might be, he can hardly approach the aesthetic excellence of the original text. So he sins primarily by trying to recreate a poem that already has a creator and by trying to give his version the identity of the original poem. He also sins against the poet’s admirers because none of them would wish the aesthetic and artistic beauty of good poetry altered or destroyed through translation. Poetry, I strongly believe, should be read or recited as written by the poet. And I tend to agree with James Kritzeck, who writes, “Of course, translation is at best a thankless task, and a haunting old proverb associates ‘translators’ with ‘traitors’.”1 This association is by no means wrong when one thinks of the sharp differences between the linguistic and syntactic designs and structures of different languages, especially Arabic and English. For instance, one word in Arabic might be a full sentence with a subject, verb, and object, including number and gender. Such (inflected) words with artistic compression cannot be equated in English. The translator of a literary text with such compressed terminology can rarely upgrade his translated text to a comparable

See “Introduction,” in Anthology of Islamic Literature. Ed, James Kirtzeck (New York: Mentor Books, 1966), 19. 1

Introduction

ix

level as in the original language, especially if this language is Arabic.1 Peter Newmark clarifies that in literary translation losses take place in the cultural background of the source language, and in the contextual, grammatical and phonetic features. He also believes that translations disrupt the writer’s style, values, and covert purposes.2 Thus, in no way can the translator carry the full sense and exact form of any original literary text in his translated version, although “the main aim of the translator is to produce as nearly as possible the same effect on his readers as was produced on the readers of the original.”3 And it has become common knowledge that translations of Arabic poetry into English by even major Orientalists like Sir William Jones, R. A. Nicholson and H. A. R. Gibb had been at best scholarly paraphrasing of the original. In this respect, André Lefevere presents a survey of the strenuous trials of Englishmen to translate Labid Ibn Rakiah’s poetry into English.4 In this anthology, I claim no more than trying to communicate to English readers Rihani’s poems in comprehensible poetic structures. And although Rihani uses free verse in his Arabic poems, he condenses his feelings and thoughts in highly loaded Eastern and Western metaphors and images, which are directly related to both cultures; after all, the act of translation is a socio-cultural activity with socio-cultural goals and purposes.5 Images of the Eastern deserts, mountains, seas, rivers, flora, and fauna in some poems like “The Simoom Wind,” “Life and Death: Fall and Sunset in Lebanon,” “My Temple in the Valley,” “The Bulbul and the Gale,” parallel images of Western cities and societies in poems like “On New Year’s Eve.” And sometimes Eastern and Western images decorate the same poem like “The Stones of Paris.” In Rihani’s time, this mixture of Eastern and Western images was new and unfavorable, 1 Naji Oueijan, trans. Hymns of the Summits, by Farid Mattar (Jounieh: Imprimerie Moderne Kreim, 1999), vi. 2 Peter Newmark, Approaches to Translation (New York: Prentice Hall, 1982), 7. 3 Newmark, 10. 4 See André Lefevere “The Case of the Missing Qasida,” in Translation, Rewriting, and the Manipulation of Literary Frame (London: Routledge, 1992), 72–86. 5 Romy Heylen, Translation, Poetics, and the Stage (London: Routledge, 1993), 4.

x

Hymns of the Valleys

the reason why his poetry did not get the attention it deserved then. As a pioneer writer of free verse in Arabic, Rihani had to confront Arabic poets defending a two-thousand-year old Eastern poetic tradition, the Qasidah tradition, which is a rather intricate type of poetic prosody, depending on Al-Buhūr (Regular Rhythms) and on Qafiyah (Rhyme Scheme). No one explains this form of poetry better than R. A. Nicholson, who writes: This fashion centers in the Qasidah, or Ode, the only form, or rather the only finished type of poetry that existed in what, for want of a better word, may be called the classical period of Arabic literature. The verse (abyat, singular bayt) of which it is built vary in number, but are seldom less than twenty-five or more than a hundred; and the arrangement of the rhythm is such that, while the two halves of the first verse rhyme together, the same rhyme is repeated once in the second, third, and every following verse to the end of the poem. Blank-verse is alien to the Arabs, who regarded rhyme not as pleasing ornament or “troublesome bondage,” but as a vital organ of poetry.1

Another feature of the Qasidah is its archaic poetic diction; thus, it was and still is difficult for even an educated Arab reader to understand a Qasidah without having piles of Arabic-Arabic dictionaries at hand. Up until early in the twentieth century, the Qasidah was the most favored poetic form by the Arab poets and critics, and Rihani knew that his introduction of free verse and modern images and metaphors into Arabic poetry would pose a challenge to contemporary Arabic poets and critics. Thus he prepared the way by a long series of lectures and essays written in defense of free verse. The most significant defense Rihani presents in a letter; he writes: The structure alone is vacant and fruitless; it wastes the poet’s and his readers’ time; however, the meaning of a poem, though it may be implied in a simple and naïve structure, is of great value if it is original and useful; … I hate vacant wordiness, claims, traditions, and linguistic utterances; I hate rhymes ever repeated until they sound like the hoot of the owl in dark R. A. Nichilson, A Literary History of the Arabs (Cambridge: At the University Press, 1969), 76–77. 1

Introduction

xi

winter nights or like the croak of the frogs in summer nights.1

In another letter he professes, “The Arabic poet strives harder to find his rhythm and rhyme than to find his thoughts and images.”2 And in an essay entitled, “The Spirit of Language,” Rihani opposes traditional Arabic diction and describes it as repulsive and inorganic; he writes: Here are the words in a dictionary in front of you! Shun the wild, the offensive, the futile and the vulgar, and measure the words according to your own scale of euphony and good taste. For words have more than resonance and tone; they have color, odors, transparency, rhythm and fragrance in their meaning.3

For Rihani, A great writer is not only a creator but also one who has good taste in all the fine arts, singing, music, poetry, painting and sculpture. He plays with words like the lute player plays on his lute. He lays out his meanings the way a painter lays out his colors. He sculpts his sentences into an essay the way a sculptor carves a monument or a statue. He mixes his literature, knowledge and imagination the way the perfume-maker mixes his perfume.4

And indeed, this is what Rihani does in Hutaf ul-Awdiyat: he sings, paints, and carves his poems using words and phrases constituting the most beautiful songs, paintings, and sculptors. And if some of his verses end up with rhyme, it is because Arabic is a rich inflectional language; thus the few rhymed verses are created spontaneously and not intentionally. To render these lines into English verses with equivalent smoothness and naturalness, especially that English is not as rich in poetic diction as Arabic is, is rather impossible.

1 See The Letters of Ameen Rihani: 1896–1940, compiled and edited by Albert Rihani (Beirut: Dar Al-Jil), 286–87. [The translation is mine.] This book includes only the Arabic letters of Rihani.

2 See The Letters of Ameen Rihani: 1896–1940, 286–87.308. [The translation is mine.] 3 4

See Excerpts from Ar-Ryhaniyat, 50–51. See Excerpts from Ar-Ryhaniyat, 51.

xii

Hymns of the Valleys

In this anthology, I kept the same chronological order of the original one, though Rihani’s poems could be categorized under two main headings: the occasional poems and the modern romantic ones. Under the first category the reader finds poems written on special occasions: literary, social, and political. “To Gibran,” written to commemorate the death of Kahlil Gibran, Rihani’s close literary friend, is perhaps the most well known poem in the anthology. In it Rihani writes his immortal lines: Gibran, my brother and companion! Fame has its time; sadness has its own; And what remains belongs to Lebanon, To this dear, generous, and tender mountain, Which holds you today and will maintain What of me tomorrow remains. Whatever the message we carried to the East and to the West, Time will ever acknowledge our best. And whatever literature for our fellow men we created, The future will give us justice when my dust In the valley of Al- Freike will rest And call yours in the sacred valley. Then from the pine that will shade my grave The breeze will carry my fragrant kisses to your cave, Which the Cedar will forever shade. Other poems are written in memory of political leaders like King Faysal I, “The Arabian Eagle”, or in remembrance of a beloved girl friend, “The Lonely Tulip”. These poems carry Rihani’s most intimate feelings and his most philosophic statements on death and immortality. Under the second category, the reader finds poems written by a philosopher who excels as a modern romantic poet of pioneering and lasting impressions on Arabic poetry. Gifted with the most refined passions and thoughts, he carried the romantic realism or the urban romanticism of W. B. Yeats and T. S. Eliot for the first time into the terrain of Arabic poetry. He also introduces into Arabic verse a satirical type of poetry distinctive for its projection of the injustice of oppressors—“The Revolution,” “The Beggar King,” and “The Stones of Paris ” are typical examples of a revolutionary kind of modern romanticism. Rihani wraps

Introduction

xiii

some of his poems with a Wordsworthian pantheism flavored with an Emersonian transcendentalism, notable for its idealistic and intuitive spiritualism; this is obvious in poems like “The Simmom Wind,” “Hymns of the Valleys,” “On Revisiting the Valley,” and the three famous hymns of The Book of Khalid. Indeed, the magnanimity of Rihani’s poetic achievements and influence on modern Arabic poetry is too broad a topic to be discussed in this introduction with a limited scope. And the brief comments presented above are only meant to stimulate interested scholars and students to study Rihani’s poetic works further. Finally, I would like to thank Dr. Ameen A. Rihani, Dr. Henry Melki, and Mr. Kenneth Mortimer for their enlightening comments and for their encouragement and aid in revising the final version of this anthology. Also, I would like to thank HRH Prince Tala Bin Abdul Aziz, who holds the Honorary Chair of the Ameen Rihani Institute (ARI), and all honorable members of the ARI for their remarkable contributions to advancing Rihani scholarship in the world; to them I dedicate this work. Last, but not least, I would like to acknowledge the support of the Ameen Rihani Organization (ARO). And I think of no better way to end this introduction than to quote Rihani himself, who writes: I have written in English as I have in Arabic describing the beauty of nature in my country, and my style in the two languages differs only with respect to the perspective in which the subject is understood and to some of the literary metaphors and social opinions I include in my writing. Each language, as I have said, has its own spirit, which must be possessed by whoever desires to write. And this poor man [Rihani], thanks to the graciousness of Al-Ma‛arri and Shakespeare, has two spirits, one of birth and one of emigration. Hence if I write in English, I think and I express my thoughts in the English way.1

There is no doubt that had Rihani lived long enough, he himself would have rendered all his Arabic poems into English; this would have been an ideal opportunity for English speaking scholars and readers to enjoy the original Rihani. Naji Oueijan 1

See Excerpts from Ar-Ryhaniyat, 54.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST ARABIC EDITION Perhaps Ameen Rihani was the pioneer poet of free verse in Arabic literature. He wrote his first free-verse poem in 1907,1 under the remarkable influence of the American poet, Walt Whitman, whose fans and followers spread in America and Europe. Responding to the wishes of several literary figures, I included in this special anthology published and unpublished Rihaniyat [poems by Rihani], which my brother had earlier revised. And it seems to me that the mind wanders freely in free verse while in traditional poetry it is constrained. However, this should not mean that my intention is to discuss free verse, as I leave this mission to literary critics. My purpose is to show that Rihani was, as I mentioned above, a pioneer poet of free verse in Arabic literature. Indeed, the poet briefly introduces free verse in the following pages. Finally, I would like to thank my friend, Wadih Deeb,2 for his aid in editing and revising the anthology. Albert Rihani

1 Indeed, the first free-verse poem by Rihani was published in 1905; but this was discovered only after the publication of this preface in the first edition. 2 Wadih Deeb published Arabic Poetry in America; he also published a literary study of Rihani’s literature in 1940.

xv

RIHANI’S PREFACE: FREE VERSE1 This kind of poetry is called in French “Vers Libres,” and in English “Free Verse”—i.e., poetry which is free from regular prosody. This kind of poetry has recently become popular among American and British poets. Shakespeare was the first to liberate English poetry from traditional rhymes, and later Walt Whitman liberated it from regular rhythms. However, free verse has its own original rhythm; and indeed, it may have several rhythms. Walt Whitman was the creator and leader of free verse. After his death, his poetry influenced several modern poets in America and Europe. Nowadays in America there exist several Whitman societies, which include literary men who are genuinely saturated with his poetry, his democratic thought, and his philosophy. Whitman’s poetry not only represents this original and peculiar form, but it also carries more original and peculiar philosophy and imagination than its form. Ameen Rihani

1 Written in Freike, 1910. “Free Verse” is also the title of an article that was written by Rihani and published in his Arabic book, Adab wa Fan (“Literature and Art”).

xvii

THE SIMOOM WIND1 By God, the Eternal! What do you think would last? Is it a voice you heard in the vine field, By the simoom wind sealed; Its soil seared, and its wounds appeared, When the vine branches smeared, And the leaves, the high clouds, cheered, When a clamorous voice in the stars screamed: What do you think would last?

WX Is it an edifice, glowing and luxurious? Are they prairies, radiant and generous, Towers, lofty and glorious, And factories, modern and ageous? What do you think would last? Are they lighted tunnels dug under rivers, Or trains pulled by steam and electric power, Battleships the waves of the seas breaking Or fleets of destruction warning The cities and their citadels, threatening? What do you think would last? Are they deep tunnels clamoring And excited by trains blaring, Or domes, among the clouds, glowing? What do you think would last? 1

Written in New York, 1907.

1

2

Hymns of the Valleys

Are they bridges, over the waters, suspending, Glorious islands, on the waters, floating, Or mountains, beneath the ancient seas, resting? What do you think would last? Are they dams, firm and solid, Bays by nature molded, Or canals among seas constructed For countries and cities to be connected? What do you think would last? Are they buildings of floors twenty, Neighborhoods sheltering misery, Altars, where faith is drowsy, Or domains, where virtue is weary? What do you think would last? Are they palaces with grandiose green gardens, Abodes for kings and princes, Houses for the rich and leaders, Or huts for the poor and hopeless? What do you think would last? Are they charters and traditions, Ideologies and false opinions, Countries and administrations, Or parties and religions? What do you think would last? It is a clamorous voice from behind the clouds, The voice of the simoom wind. What would last?

WX Brother! There will come a time When all that is in the world will vanish Except for those moments of spiritual solemnity, Moments of glorious human souls and tranquility. Only then conflicts will cease, And the might of money will freeze.

The Simoom Wind Then, men will get together, Their hopes, in concert, will glitter, Societies will alter, Arrogant tyrants will shudder, And the strong winds will blow all over.

WX Indeed, it is within a span Of a slumbering time— An hour, or even an age, When all would fall off stage, Except the Eternal God, And Man’s Toil, Gratitude, Generosity, and Goodwill.

3

LIFE AND DEATH: FALL AND SUNSET IN LEBANON1 The whirlwind and rainy, stormy days are back! Those are the days when people on wool carpets And around their home-fires retire To tell tales and tidings, While on the peak of Mount Sannin2 the wind blows, And its roaring echo in the valleys below howls. I can hear the rustling of the whirling dry leaves. I can also hear the wind tapping on the glass of windows And blowing the brick tiles off the roofs. I can hear among the trees and around the houses its roar Telling of a gigantic hap in Nature. Yes! This is fall! I say to those enjoying the youth of life. This is the last phase of the year. Isn’t this fearful moaning, Which fills the mountains, valleys and seas, The wailing of Time around the deathbed of its daughter? Yet! This stillness, This thunder, This decay, And this change, Do not frighten the Bulbul,3 First published in Cairo, in Al-Hilal, (September 1905). The highest mountain facing Beirut and the Mediterranean in Lebanon. 3 Bulbul is the Persian and Arabic name for the nightingale. In Persian the name is part of the phrase, “bulbul shudan,” which means “to fall 1 2

4

Life and Death: Fall and Sunset in Lebanon

5

Which graciously sings in his cage.

WX Come with me, reader! Enjoy this sensational sight, Which calls for serenity, reverence, and joy! Look how the news of Death spreads among the trees And through the rocks, Which give forth tunes like the tolling of bells, And melodies like those played on a thousand organs. Look at the pine and oak trees Standing upright in full glory and might As the storms try to bend their tops! Look how the olive trees dance And the silver dust glitters on their leaden branches Like sparkling stars behind the clouds in a gloomy night! Look how the wind plays With the branches of carob and mulberry trees To blow a vigorous spirit into them; How thrilled by its touch they dance And hold each other in play! Look how love and hate mingle, When branches each other assail And then retreat to fall and arise Like troops in a battlefield! Look how their leaves spread from side to side; And how they are carried by the Angels of the Wind To crown the dying year! Look how a dry leaf from a bewildered tree Is blown by the storm to nowhere! Is this Life? Is it Death? Listen! The Bulbul sings merrily in his cage.

WX

in love.” To an Easterner the bulbul’s melodious voice is perceived as a message of love.

6

Hymns of the Valleys

Darkness, on the horizon, deepens, And clouds grow darker over Sannin and the Mediterranean; They race swiftly from place to place, With their eyelashes crowned with the foam Of a sea blasted by a storm. They look like a sea of clouds over a watery sea; They throw their shade over mountains blown by the wind, And over valleys with broken tree branches; They throw their shade over green plains, wrapped by the dust, And over deserted churches, in whose apertures the wind whistles; They throw their shade over graves, fearless from frost or storm, And over caves, the dwellings of beasts; They throw their shade over rivers with strong currents, Which drive rocks and trees from the peaks of mountains To the bottom of the sea, Or from the fertile plains and mountains To the unknown. Is this Life? Is this Death? Listen! The Bulbul (Halics) sings merrily in his cage.

WX Darkness cannot defeat light, Which tears open a breach In the cloudy citadel imprisoning the Sun, Whose rays overleap the gloom over the Mediterranean, And whose enchanting threads fall on the windows And scatter on the mountains and on the facing horizon. On window panes, those self-same threads Bring fire to diamonds unmatched By those owned by the richest jewelers Or by the most noble of Indian princes. Yes, the Sun is about to set. Spectacular and indescribable shapes and colors heave around it; Yet, my humble pen strives to paint All the dignity and beauty, The colors and the shades, The upheavals and the calm, The secrets and the wonders of Nature,

Life and Death: Fall and Sunset in Lebanon And the Glory and the Beauty of the Creator. Each night the Sun bathes in the Mediterranean. In autumn the Sun approaches the water To paint mountains and plains of varied colors around it And to draw rocks and islands of fog And prairies and valleys molded of clouds. Won’t you come and see How it breathes love into the clouds, Which glow and glitter like brides in their embroidered dresses— Brides floating on golden lakes— Or like volcanoes, which thrust out their smoke and fires? These volcanoes swim in a tranquil sea of melted pearls. These clouds are like cities burning, While their inhabitants flee away from their charging foes: The storm and the wind. Won’t you see their traces and their city’s ruins In the dark and flaming clouds, Ruins whose ashes start to surface And whose battle tracks Appear in the flaming lakes around it And in golden plains of melted ruby? Yet close to this battlefield, The kingdom of Love and Beauty is fashioned By yellow meres beneath the glowing city. And on the pure faces of these ponds Rest shades of transparent fog, Shades which at times thicken, disappear, Multiply, and then diffuse, While the disk of the Sun shows or hides All the ambergris in the world And all the crocus in the plains. They all melt in these ponds So that the Maids of Light and Fire can bathe; Those are the Maids of Love and Happiness, Who gather around their damsel the Sun. Above these calm ponds appears A violent sea made of pink, Which turns golden at the break Of the waves on its shore,

7

8

Hymns of the Valleys

Where one can see a city of lights and colors Floating in the sky. Among its houses and palaces rise The domes of temples, Of lighthouses, and of towers. This city stretches along an enchanted coast, And among jagged rocks, Green plains, And white mountains. Is this the shadow of the Eternal City, The city beyond the Sun? This city feeds the Sun with light; It glows with rays and colors Like those reflected on a prism. Isn’t the Sun this great prism? Aren’t the colors we see now Reflections of the light of God on the Sun? Aren’t they wonders which appear to us and then disappear, Before our hearts arise from this ecstasy To start worshiping God? Listen! The Bulbul is worshiping joyfully in his cage.

WX This day approaches its death-bed; Autumn approaches its own. But autumn dies midst the thunder of the storms, Amidst the screams of the wind, And amidst the tears of the sky, While this day dies dragging the Sun Which dives with all it beauty into the Sea to bathe With the naked Day, Which joyfully sinks with the Sun And dies on its breast like lovers do. It dies like a king who hears the call of Death As he and his beloved are on their love-bed; Thus, trembling and frightened He lets alone her arms, Wears his best purple, Holds his glittering armor and embroidered helmet,

Life and Death: Fall and Sunset in Lebanon Wears his sword and shield, Boards his ship, And sets it on fire. Then, the wind blows its Burning masts deep into the sea, While he awaits his doom. Such is the death of the Day: Beautiful and dignified Like that of a Roman god, Who wears the brightest of crowns And the most beautiful of flowers, Which are offered by earth To one of Time’s princes. Indeed, the Day is like this god, Whose crown of flowers and jewels Has been given to it before by the Sun. This amazing crown is decorated with The most beautiful and colorful jewels: The blue emerald, The red ruby, The white pearl, The yellow turquoise, The brilliant diamond, And the colors of onyx and coral. All these noble colors fuse and dissolve In a strange and wonderful aura around its head; And the flowers of the earth fall in its love And spread their scents around its deathbed, Which on one side is decked With plains of saffron and hills of daisies, And on the other is adorned with fields Of roses and gardens of lilies. There you see a bed of carnation And pillows of pomegranate, All created by the Sun Around the deathbed of its beloved; All woven by the Sun into crowns decorating its grave And melting to wash its body and arms. Yes! All the flowers and the gems of the world: All the pearls and corals in the depth of the seas,

9

10

Hymns of the Valleys

Blend together around the dying Day, Which lies on the breast of the Sun; All render the death of the Day glorious. Yes! Aren’t all these colors created to revere Death? Isn’t all this beauty created to honor Death? Aren’t all these flowers spreading Their odors and scents All over the horizons for the sake of Death? No! No!—Listen! In his cage, the Bulbul is exalted As he worships God.

WX Oh! For now! As all the bright colors slowly fade And melt into the Mediterranean, The forehead of Sannin looks pale, And the scents of flowers ascend To hide among the clouds in the sky; The bright cities, built by the Sun On the golden coast of the Sea, fade away. The silver islands sink deep into the sea, And the spunky ponds look like black ghosts. Indeed— intoxicated with Love, The Day dies and is buried. It is buried in a watery grave And coffined with the shroud of the night. Thunder and Rain, Love and Beauty, Sleep and Darkness— Are these Life? Are they Death? Behold! In the sky the messengers of Eternity appeared; They hold lamps to brighten the night of Life. And the Bulbul leaves his cage; He sings joyfully As he soars into the sky.

CINDERS AND STARS

1

under the cinders and above the stars unseen is a life of constancy virtue pulls pride and vanity along the alleys of hypocrisy and the galleries of piety and sanctity vice spends its life in the darkness of secrecy behind the curtains of idleness and obliviousness my soul the first hates and my heart for the second yearns the wretched soul arises when freed from bondage and chains the king’s soul abates if stripped of pomp and glory gains why then from the poor and humble we turn away and our faces cover when we tread the rich and princes’ way uphold all those you hate and love all those you despise and honor for perhaps the best of them may prove the worst then you may pray when the truth is unveiled for under the cinders and above the stars unseen is an everlasting life

1 Written in Freike, 1907. The original poem by Rihani has no punctuation at all; this is why I avoided the use of punctuation and capitalization in my translation.

11

THE REVOLUTION1 It is a nervy and grimy day; Its night is lit with a startling ray, While its fading star alertly gazes. It is a day of fearful, turmoil noises, Of screams, clamor, and moaning, Of roar, dispatch, and groaning, A day when tyrants impose their fire, And when the fair their cross admire. Woe, then, to the arrogant, corrupters, and oppressors! Such a day in time is doomsday hour. Woe, then, to the oppressors! It is the dreadful day of a revolution griming; It is the day of banners like the windflower fluttering And evoking who are far and guiding those at hand. It is the day of wondrous drums’ echoing band, Of horns blowing, and masses responding. On this day men will their fires blast And fires for more flames will ask; Then the sword will answer, And dread will people frighten. Woe, then, to the oppressors from those abused! Those resolute men whose rights are refused. Woe to those by pomp protected. Woe, then, to the oppressors.

1

Written in New York, 1907.

12

The Revolution It is the revolution day; Its sons united, Its manly and ferocious lads committed, Its strong and haughty men entrusted, Its women with rage ornamented, Its speakers with eloquence supported, And its revolutionary leaders with mutiny augmented. Woe, then, to the oppressors! Oppressors! Beware of fire and chains, Of bombardment in your domains, When you no more can decree or command, When obeyed are no more your demands. Woe, then, to the oppressors! Have they not of the Romans heard, When Caesar, in purple, the scepter held, When by the free he was killed, And with defaming stabs his body was filled. Woe, then, to the oppressors! Have they not been told of Paris’s Bastille, Of its free prisoners and the king’s appeal, When King Louis was beheaded And French oppressors were butchered. Woe, then, to the oppressors! Have not they of the British heard, When Cromwell’s rule was preferred, When the brewer the people called, And the King’s head in his stronghold rolled. Then the weak become bold, And the king on the scaffold moaned. Woe to the oppressors from all men revolting! Woe to the corrupted from troops in red, their victory asserting! Have they not seen the furnace fires of the New World, Where all ambitious oppressors were devoured, And where purple gowns and crowns melted, And slaves were liberated,

13

14

Hymns of the Valleys

For whose sake, people death debated, When the lowly, the gracious, subverted, And the humble, the mighty, defeated. Woe to the oppressors, When God rewards his worshipers! Woe to the oppressors, When people breath the spirit of power, When volcanoes thrust forth their fire, When goodly spirit in the masses prosper, When the oppressed the sword of the oppressor gains, And inflicts the corrupted with torturing pains. Then, woe to the oppressors from all men revolting! Woe to the corrupted from troops in red, their victory asserting!

TWO STRANGERS1 A word whispered by the breeze In Galilee in the Shepherds’ ears, In Jerusalem, a word by olive branches uttered, A word under the Cross planted And by the tears of a wailing woman watered; This word in the sky flowered, Then all moaning halted. It is the word of Spring repeated; It is the immortal hymn of birds; It is the song of flowers In the fields and hilly bowers.

WX Human and noble souls, The glorified scenes of Spring enfold. And the soul of a Messenger, great and humble, In every breath of spring will rumble. And greater than Caesars’ crowns is one of thorn, And smoother than the conquerors’ wine is bitterness tone. Today the Cross would deliver The great soul of a great Messenger. So you pious folk, why moan with grief On a day of rapture and relief?

WX God! Am I the only one who sees not what the forefathers do And who feels not what those pious do! 1

Written in Freike, 1908.

15

16

Hymns of the Valleys

WX In Your funeral those praying were marching; And in Your church, Your Cross they were holding. It rose as moans were heard, While incense and perfume rose unimpaired. When the procession approached me, I stood well As the people around me on their knees fell. And standing close to me a Stranger I saw, In whose face I found my deep heart’s woe; So I whispered: “God! We are both strangers here.”

WX Have you not heard your worshipers moaning? Have you not seen them in front of your statue kneeling? Though their distance from you they are keeping. O God! Send to your children a breath from your soul, Send your word to all.

AT THE COT OF SPRING1 I have known you even before your breath Refreshed the greenery on the prairies’ breasts And on the sides of the fields. I have known you before the warmth of your lips Lit your cot, and before the light of your eyes The winter clouds diffused; Then the sky gave the clue, And the sea regained its blue.

WX I have known you even before the mountains Wove for your towers Carpets of daisy and saffron flowers, Before the highlands for your cot tailored Cushions of basil, with wind-flower and pine trees flavored, And before the mountains your cup with almond oil filled, And with pomegranate juice, and rose water, distilled. I have known you before the last winter gust Constructed in your honor a victory bust Made of its tears, breath, and blood, Before the wailing clouds departed, And over Sannin the smiling silver clouds faded, Before the morning sun with the rays Of love and tenderness attended to your days, And before it erected above your cot A dome made of its flaming spot.

WX Written in Freike, 1909; occasioned by the death of Rihani’s nephew, Fouad. 1

17

18

Hymns of the Valleys

I have known you even before your face they veiled To conceal for a moment God’s face, Which in your face prevailed. I have known you before your eyes perceived The meaning and secrets of tears, Before the last snow on your eyelashes melted, Eyelashes which were watered With the first drops of life’s love and dew. I have known you before your cheeks Robbed the light of flowers, Before your smile on your lips glowed, Before birds in the woods their song chanted, And before your basil and roses the horizons scented. I have known you before your ears Heard the wailing of the winds And the Hymns of the Valleys.1 I have known you even before Dusk, night, and dawn Knocked at your door.

WX Your cot with my breath I rocked— Breath whose warmth your cot took And replaced by a soft breeze, Which gave forth life out of the haze, Under the All-knowing gaze of God. Your cot I rocked with a hand inflamed with bitterness But then it turned into musk and incense. Your cot I rocked with a hand Which leaned under your head, The head of the prince of basil; Then my fingers and my palm Were brightened by Gulnare,2 And by narcissus and jasmine. Your cot I rocked before my heart, Under your feet, laurel sprinkled, And before my smiles were marinated with light, 1 The publishers of the Arabic anthology of Rihani’s poetry used the phrase as its title. 2 The flower of pomegranate.

At the Cot of Spring While at you I gazed, And before my eyes flooded with tears all over your cot. I rocked it with passion, And its perfume spread in the horizons; I rocked it with rapture, And the meadows and fields Echoed the songs of nightingales.

WX I have known you even before the sky Bid you goodbye, And before the earth befriend you. At your screaming, I wondered, For you were to Spring and Heaven their offspring. And the secrets, which to your tears attended, Were by the flowers expounded. In your silence mystery resided, That which stars and planets confided. And in your fresh yet mysterious glances Glimmered some of the oceans’ secrets.

WX Were yours the tears of separation, Or confessions of your desolation? Where is your soul, which with charm diffuses In our eyes, when in Love and Beauty it fuses? Where is your perception, Which like a star sparkles with perfection And inspires the poet’s Imagination? Where is that which is in your soul, Which has astounded the world about man and all? Where is your strength, which kindles the thunder And in disgrace the oceans render, And the wind, its vapor and sparks capture?

WX Aren’t the angels of heaven dreaming Of earth’s beetles and butterflies? Doesn’t the butterfly remember When under its wings the sun would wander?

19

20

Hymns of the Valleys

Aren’t the stars’ tracks and fiber Weaving the lines of your small hand, so tender? Don’t the stars’ lights and flames Under your smooth lashes surrender? Don’t your lips still recall the lily Which gave you a drink in its valley? Don’t you the brook which washed your feet remember Under the shade of the willow and the sycamore? Heaven’s brightness and spring’s glory your soul adore. The stems of the past, The scents of the present, And the seeds of the future Live in this human flower.

WX I kiss your navel, This marvelous emblem of the Chain of Life, Which when cut by man is by God revived. I had known you even before heaven bid thee goodbye, And before of all the secrets that life imply You only learned to spell LOVE. I knew you before you with the spring had met, And before you rocked its transparent bed. I had known you before I composed divine rhymes Revealing the splendor and glory of Life and the bare stars Of our souls, which conceal our shyness; Those were poems which sang of happiness, Where devoted angels meet with the rebellious. So we paused with confusion To perceive that life’s glittering reflection Is bound to be lost in darkness. In darkness we paused to feel The mysteries of God this youth revealed. Bewildered we asked: “God! Why?” He answered: “Descend from your position, high!” With bewilderment we paused, and we implored, Then we descended and this verse exposed. For this existence is but God’s poetry With all its folly and its beauty.

At the Cot of Spring

21

My nephew! For you this verse I sing, For I am but the bard of spring. Like my fancy you rose one day, And before the morning you set away. Like my fancy you made me forget The joys of life and miseries, I regret. Like my fancy you were my wine, So I said: “My pen, please!” You said, “Whine!” Like my fancy I was confused When you left, and your secret was diffused. The light of your beauty rests in an earthly spot, Which at the light of your dense darkness is shocked. I miss your soul while mine dwells In the world’s mazes. And your beautiful smile under the roses My soul with thorns disposes. And the gods of my Love went roaming about In the vales to cry my heart out.

WX Oh God! You came from a secret rose by fate ordained. Oh God! By an all-knowing cryptic ray, your fate was maintained, A ray which like the shade in the desert died! Oh God! You came from a bird who in sorrow would fly Above the sea of life to taste its salt and return to the sky! Oh God! You came from a heavenly Child, For whom the children of heaven abide! My spring is spring no more, For the snow made it so soar. And your beautiful smile under the roses My soul with thorns disposes. Thus, maids of my fancy make bright My heart’s dreams, which in the vales around reside.

WX Like the dusk of the days, Like the dream of all dreams, And like the gleam in the midst of gloom

22

Hymns of the Valleys

Was your beloved smile. Like the soul’s breath, Which at dawn rendered the garden fresh And excited the balm and the flowers Whose thorns awoke the titmouse Was the life of the beloved. Like a butterfly in basil hidden Was ambushed by a foe, Who into the realms of gloom Sent the butterfly to its doom And for its hard luck it mourned Was the luck of the adored! Woe for a cure which would slaughter Love! Woe for a cure which with thorns our life chokes! Woe for mother nature, and Woe for graves made of our flesh and blood! The earth, which the glamour of your beauty engraved, Was startled that such a beauty could turn into dust, And the darkness, which the light of your eyes depraved, Was dazed because of their gleam amidst the dusk. You lived in our valley as Spring and Summer, And in our hearts you were a pioneer rhymer. You gazed at the sky one night And watched a planet with delight; You stretched your arm to hold the moon, As if it dwelt in your own room. You heard melodies and were enchanted, For the maids of your brightness they reflected. With flowers you were so tender, As if you were their only mender. The goldfinch and the doves one day Were jealous to hear you sing your lay, And the jealous flowers your scent betrayed. You cheered with a smile all passers by, And with love and brotherhood they would reply.

At the Cot of Spring You felt misfortune before it befell; This your tears and ours would foretell. We crowned you with roses and laurel, For you were the lover of flowers and basil. From the sky our tears fell On Gulnare and roses, which of orbits, tell. The earth, which the glamour of your beauty engraved, Was amazed that such a beauty could turn into dust, And the darkness which the light of your eyes depraved Was dazed with their gleam amidst the dusk.

23

HYMNS OF THE VALLEYS1 Goddess of the valley! Heal me! Goddess of the woods! Feel me! Goddess of the prairies! Cure me! Goddess of chanting! Aid me! Don’t you recall when I uttered Your thoughts, which from you I inspired, Amongst those who would not dare Deity, with any other, share? Don’t you remember when a sacrifice I was offered To the goddess of roses, and I yielded; Your name in the Temple of Isis I hailed, And the priests drove me out, When the smolder of your scent Perfumed the Olympic Mount, And tinted the foreheads of pagans faint?

WX I laid your incense in the censers Of the attendants of Roman temples. I tied your strings in the dulcimers Of Greece’s maids and Babel’s dancers. Have you forgotten the trees I have planted Around the Temple of July? Have you overlooked the crowns of Laurel I knitted For the goddess of Phoenicia? Have you failed to remember what I have written 1

Written in Freike, 1910.

24

Hymns of the Valleys In the text of the worshipers of the Sun and Fire? Have you forgotten how my hand destroyed The statues of tyrants, which it deplored? Goddess of the valley! Heal me! Goddess of the prairies! Cure me! Goddess of chanting! Aid me! Sing for me a hymn on your lute, Whose melodies the garden birds salute. Sing for me tunes the shepherds play To calm their cattle at end of day. Sing for me the melody of your pipe in the evening, The music of your organ in the morning, The chant of your worshippers on the banks of rivers, And the voices of your children in the wilderness. Then spray all around my bed The scents which from the prairies spread! Pour above my head What in my beaker years had left! With your love wrap me all over, With your perfume my body cover, With a drink from your lips, refresh my soul, And sing me melodies I can’t recall; Those were the tunes I sang in the halls of Babel and Greece. Goddess of the valley! Heal me! Goddess of the forest! Feel me! Goddess of chanting! Aid me! I am the pipe of the shepherds, your worshiper; I am the lyre of the lovers, your seekers; I am the music of your ball dancers; And I am the organ of your homeless slaves. In my soul your Brides of Beauty glitter; In my soul your fancy’s ember flickers To reveal the wisdom which from your books flows. Above my soul, nightingales carrying your charm would fly.

25

26

Hymns of the Valleys

I am your voice, which was framed by ages, passing by; I am the spirit of Veda1 for the day of the resurrection; I am, to your great worshipers, a messenger of perfection; I am who, in the afterworld, dreams would flavor. I am an envoy to all the valleys’ roamers. I am your inspiration for the Song of Songs. In your lyre, I am a melody in bondage bound And by ignorance in the Pyramids ordained. I am a night song over the years maintained. I am, in your lute, the Phoenix’s spirit, Which under the cinders of death merit. I am the spirit of Orpheus, Which above the waves of Arts confess: Goddess of the valley! Heal me! Goddess of the woods! Feel me! Goddess of chanting! Aid me!

1

One of the Hindu sacred books.

A BRANCH OF ROSES1 My love, in the fields of foreign lands, I planted; It bloomed before nature commanded. My love I planted in a fresh soil, But the roses around it mourned its soul. I spread my seeds generously all in all And sprinkled my seeds in the fields of liberty, But they were crushed under the feet of tyranny. I laid my seeds on the banks of Philosophy’s River, But in its dim darkness they began to wither. My love, in the land of culture, I planted, But by thorns was deeply wounded And choked by the bramble, To whose poisoned roots my love surrendered. I planted it in the land of friends and beloved, But in the swamps of hypocrisy and slander it faded. I planted it in the fields of trade, Close to the mills which civilization made, Between the abodes of the priest and the banker, But against it they rumble, And its core they floor with marble.

WX I left cities, and seas I sailed, And onto the water my love I sprinkled, And like the sun of July, its gems began twinkling; I spread my love in the morning, And the waves around it began glimmering. I spread it in the evening, 1

Written in Freike, 1910.

27

28

Hymns of the Valleys

And the pearls of the horizon started sparkling. My love addressed the clouds, and they responded. It called upon the sea, which retorted. Its fingers touched the horizons, which trembled, And, with happiness and brightness, sparkled. My love, from the peaks of Lebanon, I called, But heard no answer. I chased my love in the ether, Where the sun rose and merged, But hopelessly, I searched and searched. In my country, in the soil of my forefathers, I planted roses with tender branches.

WX Driven by hope, my love I planted, And with determination my lips I tightened. How wonderful you are! O Mother Earth! Forever, you are pregnant and giving birth. In you, feelings never wither, For the core of your heart is a durable fire. Autumn bars deafens your ears, And winter in your heart keeps the seeds. Your tongue sings of spring, And your summer reflects your feelings. In spring you are the most copious; In summer, the most generous; And the most tender you are in winter; And in autumn, the best listener. Who is more merciful than you, mother Earth? You exchange our rubble with roses. And you breathe the whiff of our diseases And change it for sweet fragrance, Which perfumes the shoulder of the valley, Which echoes my youthful singing. In the land which I left before my youth faded, In this land, which from civilization and man is secluded, In my country, in the soil of my grandfathers I planted roses with soft branches.

A Branch of Roses

WX The charm of life appears on the lips of my rose; The sweat from my fingers and forehead bloomed like A small pearl wrapped with gold, Which tomorrow will turn into azure And look like a thin and moistened emerald; Then after tomorrow it will turn into a green shell, Whose core will conceal seas of roses And uncountable generations. In its heart fresh leaves bend around a thin lean branch, Which has not known yet the thorns. In its heart there are branches, Whose core is filled with roses; And in the heart of the roses there are seeds, Which embody eternity and immortality. Only, the soil of my ancestors talked to me, And restored my hope; And the child of my love it would hold Close to its breast. This soil blew in this child its immortal spirit; And the child’s tongue uttered verses of love and beauty, Verses, which when recited, Revive and survive.

WX Each microbe on the branch of roses Is one of earth’s fresh lexis; And each blossom is but a knot in the universe, One of Life’s secrets.

29

MY TEMPLE IN THE VALLEY1 Yes, Mother Nature! With you I renew life’s hopes and rapture. With the prairies, their flowers and pasture, I restore my vow and faith And came again, under your greenery, to sing The joy of your pure offspring. I stood at the deathbed of winter at night To behold the glorifying sight Of the goddess of spring Kissing her father’s forehead. Thus, under her lips, daisies gleamed, As she drafted, and it seemed, With her tears, as the Book of Life, Which the saffron flower on the rock resounded. In the fields, I watched the children barefooted Gathering flowers to the Prophet of Virtue; Their faith grew in their hearts. Today, in my heart dwells a part Of my neighbor’s heart. And in the heart of the woods Dwells a part of mine. My heart is in the mind of this peasant, And his mind dwells in my heart. Thus whatever in the world poses, I can see in the folds of roses And in the blossoms of jasmine.

1

Written in Freike, 1910.

30

My Temple in the Valley

31

There lies in one leaf of mulberry A secret unveiled by theology. And among the terebinth And under the lofty pine and oak trees, I build my home, The Temple of Faith, Where Nature and God live and roam. I build it close to a silver and golden stream, Whose blood in the veins of man gleam. And in the nourished plants, and in their colors, In the fragrance and scents of flowers Lies the mihrab1 of chanting and singing, Not the lectern of warning and threatening.

WX There, the silver melodies from the throat of the goldfinch flow; There, poignant hymns rise from the brassy beak of the sparrow; For you those melodies, the singing doors of heaven, would open; For they would never charge or threaten. Those melodies would call you to work, Whose esprit and hope would free you. In the shade of the clary and the laurel, Among the thyme, the fern and the broom, Close to the brook pellucid, Which the underwater plants exhibit, And above the river flowing Under the feet of this wondrous valley bowing, My soul, the Temple of Faith I will build for you. I will adorn it with a statue for Brotherhood and Love, To which I call on all mankind.

WX The scent, which in this wood, lingers Is the incense, which the spring blisters At Life and Faith’s altar. In these fragrant timbers, Under the thorns’ brilliant laughter, 1

The Mihrab is the Muslim prayer niche.

32

Hymns of the Valleys

I seek contemplation of those who were doomed, So that Love and Humbleness amongst humans may bloom. And among the thorn bushes, My imagination paints images of the crowns, Which adorned the Head of the First Martyr.

NEW YEAR’S EVE1 Rise up, you idle and miserable! Rise up, you miser, who sleeps on deeds and papers! Rise up, you sad and frowning gambler! Rise up, you cheerful, joyful, and rejoicing fellow! Rise up, you sarcastic of the people’s humble joys! Wake up from your sleep! Leave your prison cells! Liberate your souls! Gather around my thin body! Give me your hands without fear! Come with me, and do not regret the past! Listen! Listen to the trumpets calling you, And to the bells welcoming you, As the night is smiling for you. Even the flowers of May do not fill The heart with such joy as those lights do. Those cheers of happiness brighten the sky in the night And make the gardens of Orion glitter. Come with me to the most beautiful street, So I may show you a crowd of misfortuned people Heaving together like a heavy sea And cheering gloriously and delightfully. The rich one leaves his home tonight; And the poor, his hut. The wretched leaves his cell; And the slave, his chains. On this night, man becomes free. 1

Written in New York, 1912.

33

34

Hymns of the Valleys

I ask those scornful of the humble joys of people To come with me to the deserted night clubs, To the dark dancing halls, To the empty meeting places, And to the houses decorated with palm branches, Evergreen cypress, and Chinese colorful lights. On this night, man becomes free.

WX Every year man gains his freedom for only one hour, When all classes and peoples of this nation become equal. During this hour people leave The prisons they built for themselves, And men break the chains Which they themselves had made. During this night man remembers Only his happiness and freedom. The poor ones overlook their poverty; And the rich, their wealth. The honorable one leaves behind his honor, The wretched, his misery; And the worker forgets his enslavement. Great is the happiness of people on this night. The city can hardly hold the joy and pleasure of its inhabitants, Who are filled with happiness and joy. On this night, man deserts all he had built. Cabarets, shops, dancing halls, and houses of pleasure Cannot satisfy his desire; They are all dark and narrow, and small and low. Nothing in this hour deserves man’s cheers But the open space And the sky sparkling with its stars— The sky adorned with planets and moons. On this night, men, women, sons, And daughters of the city Come out to bid farewell the past year And welcome the new one. They wander all through its streets with joyful cheers Blowing their flutes and horns,

New Year’s Eve As they joyfully cheer Like kids in the market places. The masses of people wave together Like brothers and sisters in a sea of humanity. During this hour, hatred does not trouble Those with pure hearts. The nobleman walks with the unprivileged, Unmindful of their whiff. The sober walks with the drunkards, Not disgusted by their smell. The atheist walks with the priest, For the first stops swearing, And the second stops praying. The virtuous walks with the sinful, And the virgin walks laughing brightly with the adulterous.

WX I ask those scornful of the humble joys of people To come with me to see the rich and poor The nobleman and the worker, The virtuous and the sinful, The sober and the drunk, And the priest and the atheist, Walking together side by side. Come watch the whores touch with their shoulders The shoulders of the virgins and mothers. They all walk side by side Under the same sky. As the bells toll, And the pipes and horns are blown Among long rows of high lighted buildings, Bedecked with the branches of palm, pine, and cypress, They all cheer like young boys. On this night man becomes free.

35

THE THREE HYMNS1 To Man No matter how good thou art, O my Brother, or how bad thou art, No matter how high or how low In the scale of being thou art, I still would believe in thee, And have faith in thee, and love thee. For do I not know what clings to thee, And what beckons to thee? The claws of the one and the wings of the other, Have I not felt and seen? Look up, therefore, and behold this World-Temple, Which, to us, shall be a resting-place, and not a goal. On the border-line of the Orient and Occident it is built, On the mountain-heights overlooking both. No false gods are worshipped in it,— No philosophic, theologic, or anthropomorphic gods. Yea, and the god of the priests and prophets Is buried beneath the Fountain, Which is the altar of the Temple, And from which flows the eternal spirit of our Maker— Our Maker who blinketh when the Claws are deep in our flesh, And smileth when the Wings spring from our Wounds. 1 “To Man,” “To Nature,” and “To God” are introductory parts of the three chapters of The Book of Khalid. Rihani translated the three poems from English into Arabic probably in 1913. In Rihani’s book, the three hymns have prosaic forms, which in this anthology have been changed to free verse forms.

36

The Three Hymns

37

Verily, we are the children of the God of Humour, And the Fountain in His Temple is ever flowing. Tarry, and refresh thyself, O my Brother, tarry, and refresh thyself.

To Nature O Mother eternal, divine, satanic, All encompassing, all-nourishing, all-absorbing, O star-diademed, pearl-sandaled Goddess, I am thine forever and ever: Whether as a child of thy womb, Or an embodiment of a spirit-wave of thy light, Or a dumb blind personification of thy smiles and tear, Or an ignisfatuus of the intelligence that is in thee or beyond thee, I am thine forever and ever: I come to thee, I prostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to thee. O touch me with thy wand divine again; Stir me once more in thy mysterious alembics; Remake me to suit the majestic silence of thy hills, The supernal purity of thy sky, The mystic austerity of thy groves, The modesty of thy slow-swelling, Soft-rolling streams, the imperious pride of thy pines, The wild beauty and constancy of thy mountain rivulets. Take me in thine arms, And whisper to me of thy secrets; Fill my senses with thy breath divine; Show me the bottom of thy terrible spirit; Buffet me in thy storms, Infusing in me of thy ruggedness and strength, Thy power and grandeur; Lull me in thy autumn sun-downs to teach me In the arts that enrapture, exalt, supernaturalise. Sing me a lullaby, O Mother eternal! Give me to drink of thy love, divine and diabolic; Thy cruelty and thy kindness, I accept both, If thou wilt but whisper to me the secret of both. Anoint me with the chrism of spontaneity

38

Hymns of the Valleys

That I may be ever worthy of thee. — Withdraw not from me thy hand, Lest universal love and sympathy die in my breast.— I implore thee, O Mother eternal, O sea-throned, heaven-canopied Goddess, I prostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to thee. And whether I be to-morrow The censer in the hand of thy High Priest, Or the incense in the censer, — Whether I become a star-gem in thy cestus Or a sun in thy diadem or even a firefly in thy fane, I am content. For I am certain that it shall be for the best.

To God In the religious systems of mankind, I sought thee, O God, in vain; In their machine-made dogmas and theologies, I sought thee in vain; In their churches and temples and mosques, I sought thee long, And long in vain; But in the Sacred Books of the World, What have I found? A letter of thy name, O God, I have deciphered in the Veda1, Another in the Zend-Avesta,2 Another in the Bible, Another in the Koran. Ay, even in the Book of the Royal Society And in the Records of the society for Psychical Research, Have I found the diacritical signs Which the infant races of this Planet Earth Have not yet learned 1 2

ion.

One of the Hindu sacred books. A book by Izdaracht, who founded the Magi and the Parsis relig-

The Three Hymns To apply to the consonants of thy name. The lisping infant races of this Earth When will they learn to pronounce thy name entire? Who shall supply the Vowels Which shall unite the Gutturals of the Sacred Books? Who shall point out the dashes Which compound the opposite loadstars In the various regions of thy Heaven? On the veil of the eternal mystery Are palimpsests of which every race Has deciphered a consonant. And through the diacritical marks Which the seers and paleologists of the future shall furnish, The various dissonances in thy name shall be reduced, For the sake of the infant races of the Earth, To perfect harmony.

39

THEY DESERTED IT1 They deserted it as the pigeons on the hillocks were wailing; They cursed it, their wounds with its banners covering. In your smallest and most beautiful spots, Under your sky’s most sacred towers, Around the most fruitful of your prairies, And among ruins, the lights of your inspiration covering, I reposed for a while And heard voices like those of the winter wind wandering Amongst the graves of the mountains; Voices made by those who like the ghosts were clamoring and wailing, Twanging and slaughtering among the wreckage. I looked at a house and a tarantula I found Weaving its threads on its walls securely, While the serpents were playing around it peacefully. I saw ghosts fighting and destroying The houses built by man, Ghosts of the past building, And what they themselves had built destroying. Woe to man if in the darkness his chains were broken; Woe to nations if on a gloomy night their convicts were set free; Woe to countries if their sovereignties Like shadows in the corridors of a temple And like death in the ruins of Life were rendered sacred. 1 “It” here refers to the poet’s country; it may refer to Egypt or the Arab world. The poem was written in Freike, in 1913, and recited at an honorary celebration for the poet, Khalil Moutran, in Egypt.

40

They Deserted It Here rest the chains of ignorance, Which are untied by the hands of the gluttonous; There, the chains of poverty Are destroyed by the teeth of hunger; There, the chains of enslavement Are cut by the swords of the rebellion; There, the chains of religion are corroded by rust, And the chains of injustice are shattered By hatred and rancor. They deserted it, as rebellion its fire was puffing; They cursed it, as ignorance its web in its hall was weaving.

WX Flames in darkness, Wolves in forests, And ashes of burners, Under legends of ruins And the weeping virgins of the temple. And the Crescent and the Cross burned Under the sight of the God of heavens, God who turned His frown towards the barbarians In the deserts and the wasteland. O God! There remains in my nation a virtuous remnant; O God! There remains in my country the sunrise Which still reflects your lights. O God! There remains on the banks of the Nile A throne surrounded with the lighted Candles of knowledge and guidance. There remains in the land of the Pharos The remains of a lively, pure, and sacred spirit Filled with knowledge; It is filled with the lights of knowledge. This spirit brightens the heart of the Nazarene1 And cools the heart of the Hashimite.2 This spirit is lofty in the garden of arts; It is pure in the kingdom of poetry and its princes. 1 2

The Christians. An inhabitant of Jordan under the rule of King Abdallah I.

41

42

Hymns of the Valleys

As the sun of certitude sets and rises again, So does the hope of the spirit, Which wakes up again after it slumbers. Deep in the soil of life lies a good seed, Which if covered with thousands Of autumns and winters will remain alive. The seeds’ sighs are heard by a bard, And their light is seen by the Prophet.1 Its sun rises to melt the snow, And its winds blow to scatter the leaves; Thus we hear what the bard hears, And we see what the Prophet sees. They deserted it while their hopes Were coffined by its own banners; They cursed it while lightening Was shredding the clouds of its sins.

1

Probably the Prophet Mohammad.

THE BULBUL AND THE GALE1 In his cage the Bulbul sings, And in the valleys the gale wails. Over the dying flowers in the fields, The trees shed their leaves; From the waters of the sea, The fog rises and arouses In the heart of the horizon A melancholy forced by the wind, Which the clouds diffused. Around Sannin, I see the wind confused, And hear its hymn in the valley echoing. I watch the forest leaves lying on the breast of the gust, While Love reflects the echo of its hopes. I can see the rain, which the glass of the windows is kissing, And hear its wailing in the night; I can view its secret tears in the early morning. Today is one whose silence and gale together sail, And whose wailing and ministry together hail. Today is one reflecting the tombs’ silence. The blast from the depth of the heart of darkness, In the valleys, fields, plains and mountains is rising And resting in the loom of the days; The fingers of nature are bleeding, While its heart, on the altar of its beauty, is melting. In his cage the Bulbul sings, 1

Written in Freike, 1913.

43

44

Hymns of the Valleys And in the valleys the gale wails.

WX It is Fall, and mountain men on wool leather carpets rest, Close to the grating wood stove, To listen to its fires singing The Hymn of Time, which wails its dying son; Time moans what the year has done With flowers, which the year buried Under leaves with love sprinkled, When its own grave under the snow it spaded. Must we not pause at the end of this year To contemplate the temples of grief and dear passions, Temples whose statues by spring are constructed And by winter are devastated. The sound of wailing spreads all around the forests and fields, Around the prairies, the mountains, and among the rocks and the trees. This wailing emerges from the rocks Like when the roar of waves diverges As bells toll, and the trees are soughing The elegies of Aramia1 and the Psalm of David. By this wailing, the lofty trees shiver, And with their seemliness they twitter. Pine trees stand in full glory, While their branches with the wind play. Olive trees with love and tenderness shiver While on their branches a dust like silver Sparkles during the dark night like stars leaning on the clouds. And in the heart of sumac and almond, Which dance with grace and splendor, The wild wind whispers. The wind plays on the cedar’s strings So we may hear the most charming of hymns. It puffs its rightful screams all over, Then, mountains and plains shudder. It calms down to soothe the seas and the sky; Then it blows the leaves of trees by and by. 1

Aram, the ancient Hebrew name for Syria.

The Bulbul and the Gale

45

Those leaves of hope are carried by the messengers of Fall To crown the year at its fall. A dry leaf from a lofty tree is shed; It is by the storms carried and fed To a place not known by Time. Is this Life? Is this Death? In his cage the Bulbul sings, And in the valleys the gale wails.

WX Darkness veils the horizon; And the dark clouds race forth from the sea and the mountains Carrying on their eyelashes the foam which crowns the waves When they are hit by the gales. It seems a sea of clouds is building up Above a roaring sea and the mountains, Whose snows in the wind are blowing, Above valleys with tree branches breaking, Above plains whose greenery is wrapped by dust, Above deserted churches, through which its windows whistles the gust, Above graves frightened not by the night Nor terrified by the hurricane’s fright, Above caves filled with wild beasts, And above rivers carrying gale-pushed rocks and trees From the top of the ridges to the valleys and oceans deep, From the plains and clouds of Life To the depth of the eternal seas— Is this Life? Is this Death? In his cage the Bulbul sings, And in the valleys the gale wails.

WX Fall departs, and its gloomy days rest As we watch its sunset And drink the rim of its light.

46

Hymns of the Valleys

Darkness melts down as it is kissed by the sun setting, Whose rays traverse the thick fog, rising. The Sun, with its charming threads, the mountain houses covers And on the glass of their windows, it sparkles Like pieces of rare diamonds More precious than those owned by India’s princes And far better than the metal of Ophire. The sun of Fall sets leaving around it The most elegant shapes and colors, Which words on paper cannot paint, Even when bards are with inspiration ordained, Or their senses are with illumination maintained. The waves of light on Fall’s forehead Look like the morning dew on March’s tulip; This dew is by the sun nipped, And by darkness it is sipped. In his cage the Bulbul sings, And in the valleys the gale wails.

WX The clouds are molding valleys and fields, And the lights among the fog looked like rocks and islands; With their fingers in the water, The lights are weaving shining threads and figures. With their love the lights inflame the clouds, Which seem like dancing brides In green prairies, and on the banks of lakes, Filled with the red blood of their beloved. Around mountains like volcanoes, those brides are dancing And with the souls of the loved ones are swinging.

WX From such a battle field in the sky The spirit traverses the kingdom of Love and Beauty. And close to the ruined and burning town, I see a luxurious palace Surrounded with yellow ponds, Whose faces are covered

The Bulbul and the Gale

47

By shadows of transparent clouds. And all the ambergris in the world, And all the crocus in the plains Melt in these ponds so that the maids of light can bathe. On all sides of the Princess of the Full Moon Appears a raging Sea with the color of pomegranate juice; Above its waves flutter The sprinkled drops of the juice of jasmine and daisy. On its shore appears the shadow of a city built in the sky; This city is surrounded with blue flowing brooks, Big gray rocks, Wide green plains, And black and white mountains, Topped with one red star. It is a heavenly city built on a divine land, Giving forth to the Sun its light, Which reflects shades and colors Like those of a prism. In his cage the Bulbul sings, And in the valleys the gale wails.

WX The Day! This mighty king Has the most splendid doom! It dies like the Roman gods Whose heads are decorated with the most glorious of crowns; Crowns embellished with the most enchanting of stones and flowers, Which the Earth gives forth to the Prince of Time. In Fall the Earth offers What in April it bestowed on the Day. The most glorious and the most strange of gems, Which reveal a strange amalgam of colors Decorate its charming crown. Colors reflecting the blueness of emerald, The redness of corundum, The whiteness of pearls, The yellowness of turquoise, And the sparkle of diamonds

48

Hymns of the Valleys

Diffuse and mix charmingly around its head. These colors ripple and change forms As they haste like lightening and fantasy. In his cage the Bulbul sings, And in the valleys the gale wails.

WX The forehead of Sannin frowns, And its bright colors are now like bits of the night Scattering the perfume of daisies in the sky Beyond the dark clouds. Thus the sparkling city disappears, The dancing brides leave, The silvery islands sink in the oceans, The golden ponds turn gray, And the night pours its darkness, Which is sipped by Death, over the Day, Which is confined in a grave of water, Wrapped with the lights woven by the night. In his cage the Bulbul stops singing, And in the valleys the gale stops wailing.

THE BEGGAR KING1 Who is at the door? Is it a king barked at by the dogs? A fearful phantom trembles with fever, A ghost of weariness and humiliation, Of disease and destitution, And of rifling, Wondering and wandering, Weeping and begging, His aching stomach screaming and reflecting In disgrace the image of the Eternal Lord. The wind whistles so loud; Its echo reflects the ghost of delusion and Time. He mumbles as dribble from his mouth drops. Captured by ailment and illusions, He beats his chest and pleads, As his thin frame shudders Like a reed in the wind. Who is at the door? Is it a king barked at by the dogs? He is a king with bleeding nose and tearful eyes, With silver and emerald freezing on his beard and chest, With cheeks reddened by aches, And eyes burning with dreams. His astonishment is like a gown woven by demons; His depression is made by the gloom of Time. 1

The king is Nebuchadnezzar; written in Frieke, 1913.

49

50

Hymns of the Valleys

He belongs to infertile ages Of temples and scepters. His mouth foams and froths Like a powerful king baffled by Time, A king whose liver by misery is bitten, And its heart by illusion is shaken. He is a king who mixes the languages Of the Arabs with those of the Kildan1. Like a declaration from the depth of Time, On him reflected are spirits of human oppressors, Who reincarnate in the figure Of this mad beggar. Who is at the door? Is it a king barked at by the dogs? At the door, there is one of the gloomy beggars of the Kildan, Who were exhausted by the swords of the Sons of Usman.2 He wanders through the land begging To do penance for his sins and ills And for the outcomes of his decrees. He is the witness of Time against its tyrants; He is one of the boils of the community of man; He is the fruit of your oppression, you leaders and rulers; And he is the produce of your wicked hands, And not of the compassionate hand of God. Who is at the door? Is it a king barked at by the dogs?

1 The people of the Chaldean Empire, which spread from Sinai to the Persian Gulf around the beginning of the first millennium. 2 The Ottomans.

THE WITHERING LILY1 Oh thou who dwell in the bottom of the distant river,2 And under foreign waves you slumber; Do not be frightened or timorous, For the princess of gems, with all its pearls, Salutes you, Queen of Merjan,3 While emeralds glorify you saying: “Oh Lily who rests in foreign waters! Your departure distance defies As the moon rarely signifies Gloominess, sadness, and mishap. Your drowning lifts you up, And your sinking sets your soul free.” You were far away from me, But death drew you closer than ever, And your memory will live in me forever. You reside in my visions to enlighten them Like a sun of love and recollection. Spiritual is my love to you, And your soul lives on as my best companion. Why then should I cry and moan? Your first departure set you far away from me, But your second, drew you closer than can be. Since in your lovers’ hearts you now linger, Those hearts are now filled with pearls and merjan, 1 Written in New York, 1915, to commemorate a girlfriend who drowned in the Amazon River in South America. 2 The Amazon River. 3 Emeralds.

51

52

Hymns of the Valleys

Which are so very rare in the Amazon River.

WX We miss your charming talks, We miss your face, which is all over: In darkness and light, During nights of gloom and dawns of delight. We miss your face reflected on walls And the trees of the valley, On the peak of mounts, And on the face of the dawn And the smiling waves. I see you in the willow trees And recall your tenderness; I see you on the branches of ben-oil trees And recall your beauty and youthfulness; I see you among the lilies And recall your fragrant talk; I see you in the brooks And recall your melodious voice; I see you among the violets And recall your shyness and chastity; I see you in the plush of roses And recall your sweet jealousy; I see you in the light covering the world; I see you in the twilight, Which bids us farewell every day; And I see you on the top of mountains And recall your honor and dignity.

WX Once I woke up early to check on a lily in my home, But I found its dry head bending on its breast. Oh God! Oh for the mystery of Water— One drop revives And a river, life, defies. My tulip died out of thirst, So I looked at it, and my soul shuddered. Why isn’t her heart beating with love?

The Withering Lily Where is her perfume? April gives life to what was buried in December, Thus man feels delighted, And the scythe of Time smiles.

WX Indeed, the scythe of Time smiles! However, prairies, whose flowers are made From the spirit of God, are in this world. They brightened your days before And will ever more Smile as you smile. You, innocent with a spirit so tender, Are one of those flowers. In life you were the shrine of amorous and pure hearts; But to me, you remain the wonder of Time. If ever a pearl I see, I ask it about your charm. And if ever a merjan I spot, I yearn for your lips.

53

ON THE BEACH OF ALEXANDRIA1 Immortal waves! Long have you seen the mortal seas And waves of human beings. In front of your blue eyes And in the shade of your silver smile Several human seas have dried out. Under your feet so many roaring And proud human waves have disappeared. On this golden and beautiful coast, Kings have played their ancient games; Artists have praised them, And the tongues of poets have hailed them. Close to the echo of your glorious roar, Waves of dynasties rose and flushed But were unable to reach your ebb edge Or your sands and rocks. The waves of their confused souls Returned to your pouring spring, Where golden waters flow In fields of a spiritual and eternal light. There is your source, The source of your waves, And that of human beings. In the ancient times you roared In the chest of Alexander the Great, Then you brought him to this spot So he may build for you this flourishing city. 1

Probably written in 1922.

54

On the Beach of Alexandria

55

You excited Antonio who sought you To satisfy his passionate love. And you offered Caesar some of your glory, So he broke your waves seeking a great kingdom And desiring the beautiful face of your queen. Now I can see you agitated In the hearts of the humble and low, As before you rushed into the hearts of kings and princes. I see your confusion mixed with a smile, When you watch the waves coupled with the Sea of Man Breaking on your shores. Your waves mingle with the sand on the bosom of the rocks, As if it mingles in the womb of your mother. These waves are human souls yearning for each other, As they rush into each other And their foams mix to diffuse their roar under the tide. Love supports you, waves! It carries to you other waves, Which are baffled and mortal. Whatever great the confusion of those waves, They are eased down on your golden shores, When they meet with your eternal silver smile.

WX Do not wonder at man’s confusion and outbursts, For he is one of the sea fish and animal species, Which welter in a sea of blind spirits. Our city lies under your waves, You great sea and eternal guide! A sea made of this greedy man who roars in this city; Its waves have different colors, different sounds, Different shapes and different frown, smile and modes.

WX This is Alexandria! In your sea you can see What you have not seen in past times. In front of you, Alexandria, you can see The foaming waves of the Thames River, The calm and flowing waves of the Mississippi River, The high mountain waves of the Seine, Rhone, and Danube Rivers,

56

Hymns of the Valleys

And the soft and refreshing waves of the Red Sea, The Indian Sea, and the Persian Sea. Those waves meet and mix; They diffuse to fight one another as each seeks the other. In their constant movement Their spirits and sounds gradually disappear. In their strong clash and extended roar, All shapes disappear and men disintegrate. The same men who build halls destroy them; They build kingdoms to ruin them.

WX Waves, which talk for the mortal and immortal, You carry the news of death and immortality to us. The sea of man throbs and floods, It foams and erupts To calm down and wane. You, Alexandria! You are forever in the eye of the suns and moons Watching the ills of recent times. As you had seen the evils of ancient times, You can hear the noise of the heroes Of current generations in the stock markets; They sound like the rattle you had heard Of the spears of ancient heroes in battlefields. You receive the sun every evening To wrap it in your love at night, The same as you used to receive it When your shores were bare With no civilizations, And with no flora and fauna.

I AM THE EAST1 I am the East. I am the corner stone in the first temple of God; I am the corner stone for the first human throne; And though all you can see is my bent back, I have a straight mind and a fixed heart.

WX I am the bridge of the Sun Suspending from the dark depth of the galaxies To the ever lit orbits. Every day the Sun rests on my shoulder To offer me a generous reward. It is true that in my pockets, hands, and soul I hold the dawn’s gold, Which is unmatched by the purest metals in the whole world. The Sun pushes me to wander With visions in my eyes and heart; I am fixed on my never-ending pilgrimage; Written in Cairo, 1922, this poem represents the current state of the Eastern World with its traditions and customs; it gives the reader a lively visual image expressed in verbal statements. The poem does not represent the whole of the East; it exposes the Middle and Near Eastern Worlds, where Islam enjoys its own reverence and sovereignty. In the poem one hears India’s strong voice in which the voice of the dead past mixes with the voice of the revolutionary present, which opposes the increasing authority and power of foreign countries and of the priests. Between both worlds, nowadays I can see a very confused East: one which at times is evoked by education and religion to rebel and which at other times is stirred up by the dead past to become tepid as it looks at the new and the charming. In other words, the East talks using the voice of the poet, the philosopher, the prince, the journalist, and the voices of priests and scientists—Oh God for such a world! [Ameen Rihani’s note; translation is mine.] 1

57

58

Hymns of the Valleys

I am like planets unaware of their motion. Though my soul’s pilgrimage connects with Orion, It has no end. It may rest with inquisition at the doors of Liverpool; Or it may rest under the jasmine in Samarkand,1 Or labor at the banks of the Nile River, Or lost in the white railway in New York; However, I am content and comfortable. Even though I do not see the rear line of the convoy, I can see its leaders, And I can hear the tolling of its bells in the evening And the voice of the Prophet greeting me every morning, While I hold a new dress to wear for the day.

WX I am the East! I approached you, son of the West, as a companion; My pocket and hands are filled with material Made from the fields and mountains of the soul, And from the depth of Life: Things which are approved by man and God, And things which are not approved by man and God. I have what may cool and refresh your confused soul And what may cure your heart from the ills of civilization. I have that which stimulates in you with justice beyond your contempt And control beyond that which is sanctified by others. I have what may chain your feet and hands so you may rest And watch the planets, as your mind roams freely, And your heart rests comfortably, While you contemplate the secrets of existence.

WX I am the East! A phantom in the precession of Time And in the course of corporal life. I am a voice that rises in retreats And abides in holy places. 1

An eastern city in Uzbekistan lying on the main route to China.

I am the East

59

I am a voice that echoes in the desert To fill the mountains with sweet silence: A reflection of my holiness. I am a voice which whispers in your ears A new desire, as I explore its purpose and goal. I am a voice, which waves with peace On the surface of the sacred rivers. I am a voice, which eagerly seeks Mecca and Medina.1 I am a voice, which tolls loud on the new podiums, The podiums of a nation. I am a voice, which sings of “Nirvana”2 to gods of gold, And which praises “Karma”3 and predestination In the huts of the miserable and poor. I am a voice, which cheers in the clubs of your country, You son of the West.

WX I am the East! I seek refuge in God! Oh God! Oh God! A spot of time, And a spot of intoxication, Followed by a religious verse. The god of religion, The devil of politics, And the god of literature Are all dressed in the gown of Life; They bring me back to ancient life, As they dance in the shade of palm trees And burn incense in the temple of my dreams. They whisper, chant, and yell for the freedom Of the soul, the mind, the spirit, and the body! They whisper, aspire, and dance As they call out loud, “We will answer your call, Oh God!” Two sacred cities of Islam in Saudi Arabia. The haven of the Hindus and Buddhists, or that in which the soul seeks in eternal calm. 3 The Hindus predestined joy and misery, or that which affects the process of reincarnation, which is shaped by sins or virtues. 1 2

60

Hymns of the Valleys

And they kneel in the centers of towns To preach aloud, blowing their horns, And calling for the revolution; “We will answer your call, Oh God! Bear in mind the foreign adversary Though he holds his Bible. Do not fear him though he may hold a machine gun. Do not deal with him though he may have free merchandise. We will answer your call, Oh God!” One hour of spiritual ecstasy around the nation’s cot Is followed by a surrender that lasts under the throne of God. A spot of time, And a spot of intoxication Are followed with a miracle. I look in the eye of the god of religions, In the eye of the evil of politics, And in the eye of the god of literature in vain. I hear, what may sound like their voices, In the mirage of the “Karma” And in the mysteries of fate’s Attractive and spiritual melodies, Which fuse desires with passions And weaves the veils of the soul From the threads of the sunrays. These voices decorate the soul’s road with The two bright stars of Ursa Minor1 Like everlasting flowers. I am the East. I have philosophies and religions. Who would exchange them for aircrafts?

1

Two bright stars.

THE DAUGHTER OF PHARAOH1 She is the greatest Eastern woman smiling for Eternity. She is the earliest civilized woman of the East. She is the first whose cradle was patted by the Sun. She is the first who was kissed by the Night On the banks of the Nile. She is the first who promoted the fairs of industry and arts. She is the first who danced with the Moon under the palm trees. She is the first who built a refuge for education and culture. She is the first who built a temple for the animals And palace-tombs for Death. She is the first who uttered in the heart of the world Words of worship and glorification. She is the first who set the fire of Faith in the night of Life. She is the first who made a beautiful sculpture And painted a memorial pregnant with hope for man. She is the first who from the distraction of mystery Formed a world whose facts are stranger than its superstitions. She is the first who erected statues for Truth And burned incense for superstitions. She is the first to erect for Imagination edifices, Which excel with glory over the edifices of Truth. She is the first to hold the scale of Justice, While enslaving men. Hers is the scepter adorned with diamonds. Hers is the whip stained with blood. She is the first to say “No!” to Death And “Yes!” to Life. Written in Cairo, 1922. The poet recited these verses when he was honored by Ahmad Zaki Pasha in a celebration at the Pyramids. 1

61

62

Hymns of the Valleys

Hers is life in death, And immortal deeds in life. Egypt! The Verse of Time, the Daughter of Pharaoh, The Miracle of Time, and the Maid of the Nile.

WX She is in the tunnels a niche, whose lamp is lit; And in the sky, an ignited fire. She is a maid whose secret codes Hide in the mouth of the storm And in the heart of the breeze. In the Temple of Love, she is a goddess Worshipped by the gods of nations. And in the Temple of Beauty, she is a goddess, Who bows not to the gods of Time.

WX The roses on her cheeks are from the vales of purity; And the lilies on her forehead come from the mountains of light. The gold in her hair comes from the core of the dawn; And the kermes of her mouth comes from the fields of eternity. Her voice stirs up imagination in the palm trees And fills the sands with passion for the Nile. She is the goddess of Amour. She is the goddess of Death. She is the goddess of Eternity. Egypt! The Verse of Time, the Daughter of Pharaoh, The Miracle of Time, and the Maid of the Nile.

TIGRIS1 I shake his hands, and in mine my heart rests. I greet him, and in my speech my spirit blows. I pay him my high regards, and the words of respect wrap me. I stand in front of him, and the mysteries of Time become clear. I look at him, and through him the goddesses Of provinces gaze at me. I touch his sleeve, and my body shivers, Revivifies, and shudders with happiness. Oak crowns his head; Palm kneels at his feet. For him, mountains erect temples; And for his feet, plains spread wide. Snow kisses his lips; the sand, his body. His breath fuses with bays and oceans. His words frighten, invigorate, decimate, and revive. His course, he strolls along with firmness and tranquilly. He carries abundance from the North to the South, And from one region to another, he comes with his wealth; And he moves to the West and to the East Covering the country with his blessings. Mountains say to him: “Give the plains our greetings”; And he says to the plains: “Give my greetings to Kahtan and Mudar.2

WX He is the god of Iraq; he is its eternal life. 1 2

Written in Baghdad, 1922. Two old Arab tribes.

63

64

Hymns of the Valleys

His are the eyes of Existence; His is the tongue of Time. His is the keeper of the immortal in the Universe. He is the witness of kingdoms, Which rose by the power of swords, And by the charm of lawful words, Or by science and arts. On his banks, The lights of pleasure and fantasies glimmered; Under the shade of his palm trees, Processions of pride and glory passed, Lights were unlit, palaces were destroyed, And all traces of glory withered. He, alone, Maintained his coarse with firmness and tranquilly.

WX He is the god of Iraq; he is its eternal life. A miraculous word, established the Oneness of God on its lands, And from his currents emanated The echoes of worship and glorification. This miraculous word retrieved the science of Babel1 And the glory of Assyr.2 It Arabized the literature of Persia And crowned its leaders with true and honorable faith. This miraculous verse is a statement of peace; It revived Dar El Salam,3 Where institutes of science and arts were established, And where poets excelled and hidden treasures Of wisdom and literature were uncovered. In the shade of its wonders flourished Genius and its sisters: imagination and impudence. A miraculous word brought forth The Arabian Nights.4 Babylon, the ancient city in Iraq, near the River Euphrates. Pre-Islamic city of the Assyrians who had a great empire in the East at the beginning of the first millennium. 3 Dar es Salaam is the port city of Tanzania on the Indian Ocean. 4 The original name of the book is Alf Leila wa Leila. 1 2

Tigris

65

Those were the “Human Nights,” the nights of the soul, Nourished by imagination and revived by hope. Oh God! Oh Baghdad of Harun Al-Rashid;1 Your memory still perfumes the western literatures. Oh God! Oh Baghdad of Al-Ma’moun;2 Your lights still glimmer amongst the lights of human sciences. Oh God! Your time of wisdom was so brief, And your days of joy were so fleeting, For great things do not last long, For they attract the ambitions of the tyrants. Baghdad fell! It was looted off its greatness. It was destroyed and struck by humility. Darkness wrapped it, and it slept Like a prisoner moaning in his nightmare. It slept like one loaded with drugs.

WX Time stages from Hammurabi3 to Ashur bin Baal,4 From Nebuchadnezzar5 to Al Mansur6, And from Harun Al Rashid to Al Ma’amoun Were brief but glorious times, The reason why Time dressed in black for one Thousand years. Still the god of Iraq maintained his course With firmness and tranquilly. God of Iraq! Tigris! I sat on your bank A famous Arabian caliph who ruled Baghdad, then the center of the universe, during the Abbasid era. 2 Al Mamun, one of the Arab Caliphs of the Abbasid era, well known for his interest in cultural heritage and for establishing “Beit Al-Hikmah,” (“The Hall of Knowledge”). 3 Hammurabi of Babylon and ruler of Mesopotamia about the year 1700 B.C. 4 The chief deity of the Assyrian pantheon. 5 See “The Beggar King.” 6 Abu Jafar, who ascended to the caliphate in 754 during the Abbasid era. His title “Al Mansur” means the victorious. 1

66

Hymns of the Valleys

As the moon light adorned Baghdad with a gown, Fascinating, entertaining, and charming. I sat on your bank As the light of the sun revealed The phantoms of life and hidden depressions Residing in Baghdad. I sat on your bank As the darkness of the night Masked Baghdad and tenderly attended the Tigris, Not deceiving her like the moon or slandering her like the sun. Then I heard a voice saying: “Hail Kahtan, hail the Arabs!” Another voice said, “Hail civilization And all who lit one of its lanterns!” A third voice proclaimed: “God of Iraq! The heart of Iraq lives forever!”

FREEDOM: MY COMPANION1 She is my traveling companion. She is the subject and predicate of my life. I heard about her as a child; I adored her as a young man; And I worshiped her as an old man. She became a part of my life; She filled it with love, tenderness, and wisdom. She was the first to light the lamp of my mind; She was the first to tempt me into the mazes of doubt And to lead me to the fields of certainty. She is my ever-sought mistress and worshiped goddess. She is my sincere and pleasant companion. She and I endure our destinies, As we accept the sun or the storms. For as we do not worship the Sun every day, We do not blame the storms as they howl and wail. We lived in foreign lands and tasted The sweetness of love and the bitterness of toil. Then I left to the East, my shrine, To the Arab world, my joyful kiss. I left New York alone; And when my ship sailed close to the Statue of Liberty, I felt a hand seizing me And a voice reviving in me her memory, Which wrapped me with shame and shyness. It was her voice and her ever bright and beautiful face. 1

Written in Baghdad, 1922.

67

68

Hymns of the Valleys

She is my traveling companion. She is the subject and predicate of my life. It was Freedom, which came to visit the Arab world And to plant in it its pure and chosen seeds. It was Freedom, which nourished my life And came to serve this world, Which is currently haunted by fancy and hope. It was Freedom, my companion, Which saw into things and Heard the substance of what was said. She was both more happy and dismayed than I was, But she gave El Hijaz1 a pale smile And cried like one in despair, Then she laughed and sighed in Yemen.2 Then she rested in Iraq. It was Freedom, which called upon the Arab world. She is my traveling companion. She is the subject and predicate of my life. You imams, princes, kings and sultans! You are the guardians of a treasure, A great heritage given to you by God. You protected it against wicked political interests, So guard it against slandered prejudice And against the noxious recoil. You hold in your hand a nation Which is not aware of its true interest. Its ignorance renders it bait for plunderers and looters. If you protect it against the tyrants, Do not become its tyrants yourselves. You kings, sultans, princes, and imams! In your unified word lies the life of the nation. This word is yours; would you not utter it? Are you united and determined to 1 2

A region in Saudi Arabia on the Red Sea. An Arab country down the Red Sea.

Freedom: My Companion Have peace prevail amongst you? Are you willing to strive for unity? Are you ready to promote the honor of the nation, Which can prosper only through proper education? Are you willing to build institutions of proper education? Freedom addresses you, Arab world! She is my traveling companion. She is the subject and predicate of my life.

69

TO ABU L-‘ALA1 In thy fountained peristyles of Reason Glows the light and flame of desert noons; And in the cloister of thy pensive Fancy Wisdom burns the spikenard of her moons. Closed by Fate the portals of the dwelling Of thy sight, the light thus inward flowed; And on the shoulders of the crouching Darkness Thou hast risen to the highest road. I have seen thee walking with Canopus Through the stellar spaces of the night; I have heard thee asking thy Companion, “Where be now my staff, and where thy light?” Abu’l Ala, in the heaving darkness, Didst thou not the whisperings hear of me? In thy star-lit wilderness, my Brother, Didst thou not a burdened shadow see?

1 The poem is originally written by Ameen Rihani in English; he translated it into Arabic in 1922, and was latter included in Hutaf-ul Awdiya. Rihani skillfully uses archaic English diction in his translation of Abu’l-Ala’s archaic Luzumiyat. Abu’l-Ala’l-Ma’arri, was a Sufi poet, an essayist, a literary critic and a mathematician ; he was born in 973 A.D. Ameen Rihani was fascinated by Abu’l-Ala’s Luzumiyat to the point that he translated selections of the anthology into English in 1903; see The Ouatrains of Abu-‘Ala. Trans. Ameen Rihani (New York: Doubleday Page and Co., 1903), and The Luzumiyat of Abul-‘Ala. Trans. Ameen Rihani (New York: James White and Co., 1918).

70

To Abu L-‘Ala I have walked and I have slept beside thee, I have laughed and I have wept as well; I have heard the voices of thy silence Melting in thy Jannat1 and thy hell. I remember, too, that once the Saki2 Filled the antique cup and gave it thee; Now, filled with the treasures of thy wisdom, Thou dost pass that very cup to me. By

the God of thee, my Syrian Brother, Which is best, thee Saki's cup or thine? Which the mystery divine uncovers— If the cover covers aught divine. And if it lies hid in the soul of silence Like incense in the dust of ambergris, Wouldst thou burn it to perfume the terror Of the caverns of the dried-up seas? Where’er it be, Oh! Let it be, my Brother.— Though “thrice-imprisoned,” thou hast forged us more Solid weapon for the life-long battle Than all the Heaven-taught Armorers of yore. “Thrice-imprisoned,” thou wert e'en as mighty, In the boundless kingdom of the mind, As the whirlwind that compels the ocean, As the thunder that compels the wind. “Thrice-imprisoned,” thou wert freer truly Than the liegeless Arab on his mare— Freer than the bearers of the scepter,— Freer than the winged lords of the air. “Thrice-imprisoned,” thou hast sung of freedom As but a few of all her heroes can; 1 2

The Muslim name of paradise. One who offers wine.

71

72

Hymns of the Valleys

Thou hast undermined the triple prison Of the mind, the heart and the soul of man. In thy fountained peristyles of Reason Glows the light and flame of desert noons; And in the cloister of thy pensive Fancy Wisdom burns the spikenard of her moons.

“THE NAJ’WA”1 Oh Eternal Glory! Wrap me with thy splendor! Oh Everlasting Light! Fill me with the flames of thy light! Oh Infinite Power! Strengthen my own vigor! “I am the beginning of eternal life; I am the eye of Love and Might, Because I live in thee, And because I am aware of thy prayers.” You are the whole of life, first and last, And I survive in Thee. “The source of human acuity, I am; And acuity I give thee: you are a part of me.” Help me, O God, To sustain my spiritual, intellectual, and corporeal strength For the sake of Truth, Love, and Wisdom! “I counsel thee, man; I set thy hands loose; And I give thee my endowments.”

1 The confidential or intimate discourse or prayer. This is the prayer he wrote in Riyad, the capital of Najad, in 1922; he used to pray the verses in the desert. Verses enclosed by quotations are spoken by God.

73

74

Hymns of the Valleys

O Everlasting Spring! The lights of love emanates from You And flow into the waters of life and health. I open my mind and heart for You, And unfold my soul for You. Do not deny me the grace of your rectitude, And do not keep me away from your springs. “My springs burst amongst the stars; They tie the stars one to another And fortify their welfare and power.” My springs burst in the fields, And flow among their flowers And their scents of beauty and love. All this, You can behold; All this, I place in Thy hand, The hand of enlightened mind and eternal spirit. You are my God! You are my One and only God! “In thee, I am the heartbeat of Life, The spirit of Love, and the light of Wisdom. Guard these as they are Images of divine creed and certainty.”

ON REVISITING THE VALLEY1 By the verge of the valley I rested, As of departure my heart me told. Into the woodland and vineyards the patron of Love, I sent; Singing of the land of palm trees it retuned. And when about Lebanon I inquired, Uplifting, it remained, I learned.

WX The gorse sheered me, The swallow welcomed me, And the pine trees considered my return a good omen. I was certain this was their homeland. Though the attendant came from a foreign land, I talked to him, And with a strange tongue he answered; But my tone made him understand That I am the landlord of this land. He allowed me into the garden and left me unaided, So the court of the house I entered; The house like ruins was calm and deserted. Thorn grew everywhere— It spread under the threshold of the door. Grass grew everywhere— It sprouted from among the stones of the walls. It was a deaf and dumb house With no orifice voices in allowing And no open gate the eager returnee greeting. Written in Freike, 1922, and recited by Rihani in a celebration in his honor in Beirut. 1

75

76

Hymns of the Valleys

At the door I knocked; Like the gate of a grave it looked, But heard no answer. I waited for the house dwellers For I thought absent they were or sleepers. I waited in the shade of an azedarach tree With bright blossoms and fragrance free. The soft breeze solemnly blew, And the incense from its branches drew. That perfume was like poetry the heart of the night invading, Or like the soul’s phantoms into the pond of dreams diving. I waited, but my heart longed for leaving.

WX To this garden, to its heart of stillness and dearth, I bid goodbye And departed to a land whose clamor fills the sky. There, voices with different feuds and dialects, I heard Calling for help as they sighed and moaned, And as their misery and grief they professed; I heard voices endless arguments conveying, Voices of intimidations and threatening, And voices in gatherings their ignorance professing. Then in my ear I heard a voice whispering: “Are you not stunned at what you hear? What have you brought back to me so dear After your elongated absence?”

WX Thus I answered: “I brought you the tranquility of Dahnaa’ and Noufoud,1 Which fills the spirit with devotion and piety And diffuses all qualms and fears. I brought you the contentment and honor, The freedom and the valor, And the independence and security of the Bedouin.” “I brought you the Arabian pride and veneration; I brought you the Arabian honor and devotion, And the Arabian simplicity of life and hospitality. 1

Two regions in the Arabian Desert.

On Revisiting the Valley I brought you the Arabian bravery And valor in times of hostility or tranquility.” “I brought you, oh Mother, The European civilization with it ideals that glamour; And I brought you the good deeds, Which make the best of creeds.” “I brought you the freedom Of the Frenchmen in their revolution, The vigor of the Americans in their work, And the Faith of the free men In Life and in Man.”

77

THE TWO FACES OF MY HOMELAND1 As man slumbers in the darkness of words And in a sea of tears, I can see the morning sun washing the tops of mountains And warming the chests of the hills. Indeed, all that is touched or warmed As the morning sun dances in ecstasy. I can hear the goldfinch singing for the dawn; And I can hear during the day the moaning of a nation In whose heart the bulbul and goldfinch had died. I can touch the spirit of glory in the breeze, Which weaves in the ruins of history A crown of light and fancy For the goddesses of Memory and Beauty. I search in the recent ruins for a trace of glory; However, all I can see is a motionless corpse Close to a heap of ashes. I flee with my fancy to the forest To abandon thoughts of a leprous nation. Yet, I return with affection to leprosy. At the peak of ecstasy, I stand at sunset to bid the sun farewell, And I hear thousands bidding their homeland farewell As they stand at the shores of misery. I sit with fragrant tranquility in the shade of pine trees And hear it saying: “Only yesterday, I used to hear The sound of mattocks and the singing of farmers, Written in Freike, 1923; it was occasioned by the visit of the wellknown French novelist, Pierre Benoit (1886–1931), to Lebanon and Syria. 1

78

The Two Faces of My Homeland

79

But now I can only hear the horns of cars And the bleating of the Europeanized.

WX Surviving in this country are traditions Which in your country, you free tourist and philosopher, Have long been buried. Can you not see here and now What your forefathers have seen in their own times? If you are amongst those who witness for the truth Wherever it is, can you not stop during your tour, To tell the truth in your literature. Have you left the armor of freedom and justice in your homeland And come seeking the poetical spirit in our country? You French tourist! You had come to deceive us, But you were deceived. Life has more than the eloquence of the tongue And more than the poetry of words. A little truth revealed by you is better Than precious philosophies offered By one seeking to enslave the best in man! You free tourist and philosopher! You seek Beauty in Truth, But you came to sing of only a part of it. All truth is like your God, an everlasting Beauty. You must be a worker first, then a nifty writer. You must be free first, then an eager revolutionary. You must be a lover first, then a glorious poet. A mattock you use to refresh a small spot of land Is better than a pen you use to write articles of reformation, Which are useless and which benefit but your enemies. In my homeland, life is a mixture of dreadful grief And of the purist and most glorious joys. My homeland embodies the prime essence of the East and West. In it, Ashtar, the Phoenician goddess, danced. In it, an aspiration is crucified every day. In it, an illusion dances every day.

80

Hymns of the Valleys

Are you, then, amongst those who held the pen To etch the hopes of peoples or their illusions?

DAMASCUS1 You retain a field of heroism called, “Ash-shabibah.”2 Your Shabibah have a new spirit, One whose cradle is toil, Whose course is determination, And whose root is patriotism. The spark carrying the message of nationalism To the Arab world flashes from your spirit, Damascus. You are the heart reflecting one of the images Of patriotism in the Syrian lands. You are the eye and mind of the Arab world. You are the generous hand offered by Arabism To those with an Arabic tongue wherever they are. Yours is a tongue of veneration, whenever the name Ahmad3 is mentioned with the name of Christ. Yours is the lamp which sends its rays to the distant desert. Yours is the fire on the banner of martyrdom and jihad. Damascus! You are freedom’s pomegranate and tulip! Damascus! You are men’s platform of independence, Because fresh roots invade your holy hopes. Rivers of sciences flow through your land From the west to the east, Because the glimmering lights of rebirth fill your core. Literature and virtue brighten the banks of your rivers, And lofty trees made of your generous manners Are planted in your gardens. Probably written in 1925. The young generations. 3 A popular name used by the Muslims; the verse implies the peaceful coexistence of the Muslims and the Christians in Syria. 1 2

81

82

Hymns of the Valleys

The willow and poplar reflect your kindness, Damascus. Roses and jasmines reflect your beauty and humbleness. Anemone and lilies reflect your anger and pleasure. You are the mother and tutor of Arabian cities. You are the gateway to eastern cities; And you are the lighthouse on eastern and western roads.

WX Oh Damascus! You are the most ancient city in the world; You are the site of ancient palaces, huts, towers, and castles. Sedentary is part of you; And the reactionary spirit lives in you. Traditions nest their webs on your walls, And superstitions hatch in your yards. The spiders of ignorance invade your huts, And the drums of majesty echo in your palaces. Decaying sciences lay at the corners of your streets; And the illusions of glory and sovereignty Still dwell in your towers. At the foot of your walls, Dreams passionately revive the glory of the past. You are the Mother and Nation of the ancient world. Often you faced disasters, And you redeemed yourself; And after you restored yourself, You fell back to your misery. I warn you, Damascus! I warn you against your ancient past, Which is fortified by ignorance and hypocrisy. I warn you against your ancient past, Where injustice dwells, Your past which is invaded by the phantoms of captors. You Damascus! You are the Mother and Nation of the ancient world. Those who take advantage of the ignorant Or abuse their followers live in you. I warn you, Damascus!

Damascus I warn you against those who whisper in the circles of politics And greet each other in religious assemblies. But I am certain that you are moving along the course, Which leads to the happiness and civilization of the nation. Ancient Damascus will crumble down When new Damascus emerges. All that is ancient in you will cease to be. Still you are the Mother of Arabian cities, And the Tutor of the western ones. You are the gateway to eastern cities; You are the lighthouse On the eastern and western roads.

83

THE STONES OF PARIS1 “Paris carries the mission of educating the world. From its stones which revolted for the sake of justice and liberty, the consoling and rescuing Truth bust out.” By Anatole France2 Paris! Your stones and not your bullets, Your lights and not your fires, Were built to reclaim Freedom. They were raised as barracks to defend Freedom. They were constructed as fences to protect Freedom, And they were used to erect arches of victory for Freedom.

WX Your stones were mixed with the blood of martyrs; They heard the rattle of the carriages Carrying the oppressors to the guillotine. Your stones reflected the up-roaring echo Of the cheers of revolution’s sons. Your stones revolted to support freedom and justice. Those were your stones, and not your cannons, Not your planes or soldiers, O Paris! Your bullets and shells hit the center of Damascus; They hit the heart of Syria. Are those your stones, Paris? Are those the stones which had often 1 2

Written in Freike, 1925. French writer (1844–1924), and Nobel Prize winner (1921).

84

The Stones of Paris

85

Revolted to support Justice and Freedom? Are those the stones from where Human truth had gushed out?

WX Damascus’s soul has sprung from yours. Its soul is one seeking Freedom, Which shines in your Sun. It is a soul eager for national unity, Whose ideal you represent. Its soul solicits a united national life, Without which nations cannot survive. Damascus is the heart of a nation, Whose glorious history matches yours. This nation would shake your hand, If yours is the hand of sincerity and loyalty.

WX Lebanon has brothers in the Druz Mountain, In Houran,1 in Damascus and Aleppo. Lebanon has brothers in Aa’mel Mountains, In the Alawite Mountains,2 and beyond Damascus, In the deserts and wilderness. In its calamity today, Lebanon moans the Damascus of yesterday. Yes! Kawkaba and Rashaya are sister cities To Shaghour and Midan.3 Thus why do bombs fall on peaceful cities? Why are the sword and fire Invading the valley, the heart of Damascus? Our real enemy is ignorance. Ignorance here and there is our real enemy, Paris. Look, judge, execute, and do not hesitate, Paris. Tell the Druzes and Alawites,4 A region of Syria. Mountainous regions in Syria. 3 The first two towns are in Southern Lebanon, the last two are in 1 2

Syria.

4

Muslim sects.

86

Hymns of the Valleys

The Christians and Muslims, That religion is for God, But the nation is for all. Speak through your stones, Paris, And not through your cannons. Speak through your lights, And not through your fires.

THREE ARE ON A MAGIC CARPET1 I I passed by the phantoms of grief through the gloom of Time, When in the early morning I spotted in the bright horizon, At the azure route falling between Ursa Minor and Orion, A constellation of three new and luminous stars Addressing what the mortal eye cannot perceive. The first star said: “Three hearts in one mind are chanting”; The second said: “Three minds in one heart are worshipping”; And the third said: “Three spirits on one carpet are kneeling.” Then all said in one serene voice: “It is the Magic Carpet; It is our carpet, the carpet of poetry, art, and culture; It is the ethereal carpet of the cradle of Truth and Fancy; It is the carpet of Divinity.” Then after, the first and oldest, the one with The Arabian and Lebanese tongue proclaimed: “This carpet is molded by the hand which gives life to our hands; It is made by the heart which beats in our hearts.”

WX Then I heard voices from the crowd of phantoms rising, Voices of the phantoms of grief, saying: “We take pleasure in one day, And grief for eternity.” Probably written in 1927. “On a Magic Carpet” is a literary anthology written by Fawzi Al Maalouf. The introduction of the anthology was written by the Spanish literary writer, Francisco Filasbasa, who was fascinated by the Arabs. The symbolic photographs of this anthology were shot by the Russian photographer, Ali Iga Tovitch, who was infatuated with The Arabian Nights. 1

87

88

Hymns of the Valleys

A distant voice answered: “You loved but believed not; You believe but loved not; And you loved and believed, But sacrificed nothing of your own.” II I passed by the twilight of Time, By those with broken wings, By a gloomy crowd of men and women, Who stood in the valley half lucid By one of the Sun’s big moons, And heard voices rising From the dark side of the valley saying: “The wind blew and broke our wings.” Then a voice answered from the valley’s darkened side: “Do not blame the wind for your broken wings, For you believed in airplane-wings and wheels But you believed not in what empower their engines; You believed in electric power, But you believed not in its primary source; You believed in airplane, But believed not in the Magic Carpet.”

III Then I stood in the heart of the valley, At the edge of shade and light And heard another voice saying: “Greet those who loved, Who sacrificed themselves and excelled As lovers, believers, and geniuses. Greet those three in the new constellation: The Spanish, the Russian, and the Arabian; Greet them for the truth, Which is hidden in their fancy. Greet them for their perfect imagination, Which the absolute truth proclaims. Also greet their love and its symbols; Greet their poetry and its treasures, And their culture and its guide,

Three are on a Magic Carpet Which holds the most perfect Vision and Illumination.”

89

TO GIBRAN1 Seems it a day in Lebanon Whose secrets are to man untied, One of those hours which smoothly glide Like a bird in the silent dawn; A remarkable rebirth it seems to be At the alley of the valley, Where hearts and dreams sweetly lingered, Where the daybreak meekly whispered, The clouds cleared, and the night slumbered, And the hills glittered. In Lebanon, his spirit blows again.

WX Blackberries under a high rock, All over spread their coral hue; And at its foot, the laurel grew, Terebinth and inula viscosa crowded, And the crimson tulip sparkled; Whereupon the voice of time proclaimed A long and doleful night now sways ‘Twixt each and all the wakeful rays. And the voice of generations said: “My plants and seeds would bloom In death and life, in bright and gloom, For the noble news: In Lebanon, his spirit blows again.”

Written in Freike in 1931, and occasioned by the death of the Lebanese-American literary figure, Kahlil Gibran, Rihani’s close friend. 1

90

To Gibran And at the cradle of prophecies, Around the pilgrims’ sanctuaries, Where rests the sacred valley Beneath the Cedar’s boughs, Where days, hymns of praise, chanted, Time stood, with reverence thrilled, While poetry’s brides from incensed valleys Advanced with cups of ivory Teeming Time’s distilled potion; And the brides of imagination Came from the moistened prairies Wearing thornless crowns of roses And blackberries in coral clusters. In the shade of alleys, the greeters’ Cheerful voices softer sounded Than silk by wind caressed. And from the brooks, voices Of electric grating iron motors, Of revolutions whose waters From the mountain heights would flow Where violets, under the snow, Slumbered like babies; And from those heights came shepherds Praising the Lord’s might For his spirit, in Lebanon, blooms again.

WX And on the Mediterranean coast, Between old Byblos and the headland post , Where the river embraces the breaking waves, I saw three women Eastward gaze, And the sun, like pomegranate flower, Rose from beyond the snowy bower. One of them in black was dressed, Her smiling lips, derision kissed; Another female in full white wear, Her wet eyes told of real despair; The third one pulling her purple hue, But in her breast the flame of desire blew. The three, moaned July and bid the dawn:

91

92

Hymns of the Valleys

“Has he? Has he returned home?” And from the mountains of Judas, Responded the lyre of David, Whose hymn, them, delighted. And from the meadows of Galilee, Voices told of the Great Nazarene. And from the Jordan Valley a voice Uttered the names of Armeya And Ashi’ya bin Amos; And in the oasis the dove chanted; Of Ibn Abi Rabiah, And of Mejnoun the bulbul warbled. And from the kingdom of al-Gizat, A voice of one high ranking Was heard saying: “Each voice is heard in its domain.” And like the radio catches the voice waves, The immortal voices Gibran caught; Those voices echoed The history, literature, and doctrines of the East. Indeed, he listened, awakened, and learned. And though he bid his country farewell, He could not leave his heritage Which he carried beyond the seas. Distance glorified his good deeds and his memories And nourished the beauty of the voices he heard. The clanging church bells in Lebanon he adored, And the melodies of the Oud and of the pipes he devoured. In the valleys and the Cedar shade his imagination roamed; And at the silver brooks, writing, he paused And dreamed of dreams of ebony and gold. He left, but he did not depart. His country, he carried in his heart. And before his genius matured, His heavy load abroad, endured. Enslaved by his ambitious soul, He throve for knowledge and for all,

To Gibran Though new passions soothed not his soul; Gibran stood firm though no more Could his feet touch the soil of his country, Which alone he sought to carry, Except in moments of consummation and dreams.

WX In Paris, city of the lights, I met him Greeting its nights, his lamp-light dim. I saw the girls of July—the females of imagination— Wandering around him, American companions and Parisian, To merge in his joy, love, and derision. The one in white would open wide The doors which art and beauty hide; The one in black would turn his heart’s folder To fold its pages with her soft, cold finger. The one in purple scarf would stand Between the other two, her hand The glass emptied, and to her lipstick turned. A source of beauty and art was his wakeful spirit; Perception was its visionary merit; The museums and cabarets, The gardens and the cafés, Were to him inspiring companions, And partners of joy and splendor, And representatives of woe and glamour. His soul became more enthusiastic As it perceived the rootlet of taste artistic; It became more thirsty the more it quenched, More fiery, the more it searched. You bade Paris farewell, but you never left; The heritage of France And that of the East you carried To a city with glory recently honored, To a city in the new world, whose heart is of iron.

WX There, amidst the frightful and deafening noises, Where slaughtered are humble voices,

93

94

Hymns of the Valleys

Where even great passions become breathless In the heart of the current restless, Which enslaves the business moguls In the shades of sky-scrapers. A city where electricity the sun replaces. There in the city of iron and gold, In the city where man wears time and a scale holds, In the city which enumerates and measures all, There in New York, lived he who could not compute; The measurements and scales, would refute.

WX In a hall anointed by a great zeal, The effort of the soul striving to feel Ultimate justice and ideal beauty. In this hall which turned into a haven Of thought, art, and imagination, Until by its walls it concealed both The East and the West; And the window overlooking the North, Carried in its radiant light The pole’s rough, energizing sight. There in this humble hermitage, dim and bright, There in the cradle of compassion and encounter, And amidst statues, pictures, books and paper, Amidst the wreckage of pages, Where thought and wisdom competed, Amidst small pearls by thorns supported, And pictures upon which his brush wandered, Amidst sacred toys, Church candles and symbolical drawings, There, this hermitage was overflowing With artifacts, literature, and spiritual schemes, Lived Gibran for twenty years. There he struggled against the elements, His spirit, reason and heart contested; His armor was two swords: One from the East, And another from the West; He gave one what his heart offered,

To Gibran And the other with his mind and spirit colored. Both Arabic and English he encountered And tamed them to express his mind and imagination. Yes! Ten years of constant struggle and confrontation, Doing what is right, Ten years of disrupting struggle, And ten of calm and light; Over the mind, in Arabic, he triumphed; And the heart, in English, he mastered.

WX By his Arabic imagination, The facts of life Gibran unveiled; And in English, above imagination he reigned. He was a genius, as a writer and sage. His words were heard in nations, which in rage Towards the East their deaf ears turned. His wisdom was learned by those who matured Around the cradle of wisdom, and on its thrones ruled. And amongst them, Gibran had his brazier and throne. The three females around his throne I could spy— The females of New York and July. They came in a vision with reality dazed, Or reality with a vision glazed. I heard them reciting poetry, and incense burning, The pages of the immortal book, I saw them turning; That was the book of passion and of wings broken. Around his coffin I saw their light And heard them asking the night: “Will he ever return? Will He?” July, David, Ishaya, Al-Fa’rid, the Madman, and William Blake Let them wonder! Let them wonder!

WX Gibran, my brother and companion! Nothing has ever made me more gloomy Than your final return to Lebanon.

95

96

Hymns of the Valleys

May Death do justice to both of us, Between the one, who back home often returned, And the one on whom deprivation’s agony prevailed. My eyes and heart, I would have given you; Thus you may see what, in you, now we view. Gibran, my brother and companion! Fame has its time; sadness has its own; And what remains belongs to Lebanon, To this dear, generous, and tender mountain, Which holds you today and will maintain What of me tomorrow remains. Whatever the message we carried to the East and to the West, Time will ever acknowledge our best. And whatever literature for our fellow men we created, The future will give us justice when my dust In the valley of Al- Freike will rest And call yours in the sacred valley. Then from the pine that will shade my grave The breeze will carry my fragrant kisses to your cave, Which the Cedar will forever shade.

THE ARABIAN EAGLE1 The Eagle soared into the distant sky; A martyr he returned to die. The Arabian Eagle has as his airstrip the plains And as his wings’ whetstone the Prophet’s mountains. He is the beloved of Al-Haram Al Shareef2 And the stepson of the desert, his milk-mother. His refuge is the pavilion, And his bed and his youth yard Are the sands of the deserts. The Arabian Eagle the haven of Freedom enjoys. He is free, daring, and humble; He is gracious, cordial, and loyal; And he rests in the shades of divinity. He is compassionate, generous, and virtuous He is patient, strong, and pious. Blessed is his personality, Blessed is his sanctuary, Whose radiance is fed by the Mountain of Light, And whose feelings are fed by tents of happiness, And blessed are the sites and sands he traverses. From the Al-Huda Mountain,3 his pride glows; And in the spring of Ta’if,4 his roses grow. He left us so that in him Recited on the first memorial services of King Faysal in 1933, in Baghdad, Damascus, and Jerusalem. 2 Holy Mecca. 3 A sacred Islamic mountain in the Arab Peninsula. The term “AlHuda” symbolizes the Islamic divine coarse. 4 A city in the Hijaz Mountains, in Saudi Arabia. 1

97

98

Hymns of the Valleys

God may complete His hymn. He was from the people and their leader; His luxurious halls leveled with his tents of leather. In serious meetings he used to reside As in the open air he used to abide. The lily of his smile comes from Yaldez Gardens;1 His merits came from Asia’s Springs;2 His gracious person was shaped by the loveliness Of the dawn reflected on the banks of the Bosporus;3 His golden speech by the golden twilight was inspired, The twilight which on Marmarah4 shined; And his solemnity and humbleness Came from the shade of the cypress, Which close to Ay’youb5 was planted.

WX The Arabian Eagle was the son of the two cities: The city of the Prophet and that of the Caliphs, The city of justice and that of guidance, And the city of politics and judiciousness. The hand of Fate his drink mixed, And the doors of brilliance for him it fixed; Then in the Eagle’s ears it whispered: “Your legacy is of years thirteen hundred, And your future shows everlasting hopes. Before you spread a nation of caves, Which for six hundred years slumbered, And in front of you the banners of rebirth and Jihad fluttered.” This the Eagle understood when heard, This the Eagle his hopes revived, And his energy recharged To fight for his people, 1 The gardens of Yaldiz Palace, the official residence of the Ottoman Sultan in Istanbul. 2 The springs are called the fresh waters of Asia; they are in Marmara Sea. 3 A strait between Asia and Europe. 4 The Sea of Marmarah. 5 Rihani draws the comparison between King Faysal’s patience and that of Jacob’s of the Old Testement.

The Arabian Eagle And in the name of Allah and the Arabs His sword he held, And for the revolution he called. Then the Simoom wind across the deserts raged; The Bedouins and the dwellers of the cities their jihad waged When his call they supported, Then of their jihad victory they reported.

WX The cave-nation surprised those Who from their slumber rose To witness the glorious victory of King Faysal. In Damascus, the best of warbles proclaimed The victory of the new Arabian King, ordained. On the banks of the Thames, Rose the wobble of bystanders; And on the banks of the Seine, Rested the deceived oppressors. Maysaloon1 was won; The King was crowned. The Eagle soared into the distant sky; A martyr he returned to die. None of the truths of existence is more shiny Than the truth of Resurrection and Eternity. In the heart of Time, Nature whispers To revive in its departing seasons eternal hopes. God plants some of His immortal seeds In the bag of spring. He wraps the winter parting With snow embodying slumbering flowers. The sand grouses leave to come back Between the seasons of hope and gloom. On the tender branch sings the skylark, But it stops to sing again. A departure is always followed by an arrival; And an arrival is always followed by a departure. 1

A battle between the Arabs and the Europeans.

99

100

Hymns of the Valleys

Thus like the spring, the skylark, The wild doves, and the winter storms, The Eagle retunes to his jihad.

WX King Faysal retuned to sing of ideal hope in Iraq— The hope of a nation1 With colonization and ignorance infected. He returned to erect on the banks of Tigris and Euphrates A new Arabian kingdom. He retuned to renew the age of science and education, The age of success and civilization, The age of culture and reform In the capital of Harun Al Rashid and Ma’moun2. He fought with his heart, his mind and his soul. He tried his best to establish and organize The forces of peace and loyalty, The forces of knowledge, ambition, and virtue, The forces of certainty and stability, And the forces of firmness fused with empathy. The Eagle soared into the distant sky; A martyr he returned to die.

WX In Iraq, a garden you planted, But you left before it blossomed. In the Arab world, you planted seeds, Whose dewy flowers you could not see. In the World War, you were a cutting sword as an arbitrator; And in peace you were humble, pure and spirited as an orator. In politics you were its watchful eye and balanced scale. You were the charming figure and golden tongue of judiciousness. You were the ideal of wit and the proof of firmness. In hard and good times, you were a model. 1

world.

The poet refers to the northern and western halves of the Arabian

2 One of the Arab Caliphs of the Abbasid era, well known for his interest in cultural heritage and for establishing “Beit Al-Hikmah,” [“The House of Wisdom”].

The Arabian Eagle You were as sharp as Mu’awiya.1 Your patience was that of contempt and honor. Your dream paralleled the Prophet’s. And your modesty rendered you to the Nazarene a brother. The Eagle soared into the distant sky; A martyr he returned to die.

1

The founder of the Umayyad Arab state.

101

THE TWO ROADS1 Two trails are Time and Space For the spirit in man embraced. Day and night, this spirit these trails pace, And by the end we arrive to the infinite in space. We exist as long as we march along these trails; And every day of our life fills a portion of this space. Ever constant Time is; It neither swells nor dwindles. This time we live is but a boarder line Between the two halves of Eternity; And whatever distance we cover in the spaciousness of Infinity, Behind and ahead of us its two halves exist, constantly. There is no hope of reaching an end, For the lodging of life remains the axle of living things. Smooth is the silence of such Time and Space; There the heart is secure and serene, For wherever we erect the foundation of our dwelling, 1 “The original poem is by the Chinese poet, Wu Ming Fu. In the West, this poem was translated into English; in the East, in Freike, Lebanon, I [Rihani] translated the poem into Arabic. My translation is not one of my great achievements, yet it preserves the spirit of the original, which is filled with the good taste and the wisdom of Sufi poetry. However, every translated poem is destined to change. I hope one of the orientalists would translate the poem from Arabic into its native language and compare it with the original Chinese version of the poem to expose some of the changes which took place on the poem’s pilgrimage from one language to another.” Rihani translated this poem into Arabic in Freike, 1935; Rihani must have read the poem in The Wisdom of Wu Ming Fu. Ed. Stanwood Cobb (New York: Holt and Company, 1932). The above poem is a translation of Rihani’s Arabic version; it is made especially for readers of English who are willing to compare this version to the poem Rihani translated.

102

The Two Roads There spreads Space and the heart of Time, Which constitute the universe, Itself embodying Wisdom and Compassion.

103

THE MEMORIAL OF THE MARTYR LEADER1 Oh Syria, our mother! Your compassion we desire. In your heart lives faith, like the laurel, With greenness everlasting. In your heart lives compassion, With fruits and lights beaming. In your heart lives the piety Of the prophets’ tree, most holy. In your soul resides an inspiration, Farsighted with affirmation. Could your right hand bring forth What isn’t in your heart and soul? Could your sons from your own hands eat colocynth?

WX Oh Syria, our nation! We seek your compassion. Everyday you worship the God of all— With your thousands of tongues Him you worship with joy. They are closer to God, your fighters, Than even your rightful oppressors. They are closer to God than villains, thoughtless, Villains who claim to be faithful Muslims. Oh Syria, our mother! Your compassion we desire. 1 Written in Freike on August 10, 1940, to be recited on the memorial service of the martyr leader, Abd Al-Rahman Al-Shahbandar. The verses in quotations are said by Syria.

104

The Memorial of the Martyr Leader

105

In the heart of Time lies a pensive reflection Which intoxicated great nations, Who prevailed, dominated, and disgruntled, While from Time’s officious ambitions, you yourself dismantled, And from their volcanoes their fire thrusting Into people, lost, misguided, and sinning. They destroyed the world to dominate it. Wouldn’t you hold on to your present flute And to your ancient piety So you may dispense with the present, Which now clashes with humanity?

WX Oh Syria, our mother! Your compassion we desire. Who but you can tomorrow defend, You who stand apart And can cast your dart? You are the fruitful and the dream reviver; You are the proud, the torch, and the flag holder. Why then do you set forth in the dark your whisper?

WX Oh our mother! Your compassion we desire. Speeches were made, But the hearts were not healed. Yesterday, there was Yousef, Fawzi, Ibrahim, and Said1 And today Abd el-Rahman, Who is adorned with the glory of education And the horror of sedition To defend the rights of the injured and deserted. He is the honorable consoler And the beloved and wise fighter. He is to Abraham a twin brother; To Joseph, a loyal messenger; And he is the first amongst martyrs. Those were Yousef Al-Azmeh, Fawzi Al-Ghazzi, Ibrahim Hanano, and Said Al-Aas; those were Syrian revolutionary political leaders and martyrs. 1

106

Hymns of the Valleys

Blessed is the glorious pulpit, which unifies leaders, And blessed are their memories, For they are all brothers To Ibrahim and Abd el-Rahman. In combat fields they were audacious; And they welcomed exile and dungeons, As they smiled to iron and fires. They all were your sons— Your sons of the past, the present, And the future— Your free and pure sons they were. Oh Syria, our mother! Your compassion we desire.

WX “Do you all desire The compassion of the gloomy mother, Who is to Fate’s calamities a sister? Do you give your condolences To whose hearts are full of tombs? If my share of calamities is divided And amongst the nations of the world is sprinkled, Each part a great calamity in each nation would be figured. When will all nations equally mishaps moan? When will God sit again at the throne Of His Compassion and Justice? Oh Justice! Oh Justice! Oh Compassion! Oh Compassion! Justice of the nations, powerful, And Compassion to the nations, dreadful. Some prisons must be busted, And some thrones must be wrecked and demolished. Those are the dungeons of national intelligence, And of love fused with the flames of independence. Those are the thrones of minds dominating, And of love the blood of nations drinking With the martyrs’ skulls— When will those prisons be destroyed?

The Memorial of the Martyr Leader When will those thrones be demolished? Fight hard! Seek the compassion of none but of God, Who tomorrow on His throne will abide.”

WX “Fight hard! Do not despair, for God is Compassionate! And remember that a leader follows leaders, And grief begets grief. There is no joy but in a continual fight. Indeed, my dress of moaning never wears out, For my glory lies in my misfortunes.”

WX In your misfortunes, Arabian sister, Lies your and our utmost well-being. Your misfortunes are our reminders; They are our guides and tutors. Your misfortunes, with your scattered rocks, Will build the fortified foundations of our nation. Your misfortunes are three candles in the abode of the Arabs; They are lit for the disciples of sacrifice, patience, and firmness. We will be led with you to sacrifice, And we will embrace with you patience and firmness, So we may pursue our jihad Until broken is the back of separation, Until diffused are the voices of segregation, And until the borders among our people disappear. Then, the waters of Arabism Will burst out of our coasts and mountains, And of our deserts and plains. These are the springs of Arabian unity.

107

APPENDIX A Chronology of Ameen Rihani’s Life1 1876:

Ameen Rihani was Born in Freike, Lebanon, on November 24, one of six children and the oldest son of a Lebanese Maronite raw silk manufacturer.

1888:

Ferris Rihani, the father, sent his brother and eldest son, Ameen, to the United States and followed a year later. Rihani was placed in a school outside the city of New York, a few months after his arrival. Soon after Rihani gained the skills of the English Language, he was taken away from school to become the chief clerk, interpreter and bookkeeper of the business. During this period of time, Ameen made the acquaintance of two poets, William Shakespeare and Victor Hugo, whose writings became his first readings. He became familiar with the writings of Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Whitman, Tolstoy, Voltaire, Thoreau, Emerson and Byron, to name a few.

1895:

Ameen became carried away by stage fever and joined a touring stock company headed by Henry Jewet (who later had his theatre in Boston). During the summer of the same year, the troupe became stranded in Kansas City, Missouri, and so the prodigal son returned to his father to rejoin regular education.

1897:

Rihani entered the New York Law School. A lung infection interrupted his studies, and at the end of his first year,

I wish to thank Ameen Rihani Organization for providing the information in this chronology, which is available on the Home Page of Ameen Rihani: http://www.ameenrihani.org. 1

108

Appendix A

109

his father had to send him back to Lebanon to recover. He began teaching English in a clerical school in return for being taught his native Arabic language. 1897:

Ameen Rihani first became familiar with Arab and other Eastern poets like Abul-Ala, whom Ameen discovered to be the forerunner of Omar Khayyam.

1899:

He returned to New York having decided to translate some of the quatrains of Abul-Ala into English.

1903:

The first version of the translation was published. During this period, he joined several literary and artistic societies in New York, such as the Poetry Society of America and the Pleiades Club, and also became a regular contributor to an Arabic weekly, Al-Huda, published in New York. social traditions, religion, national politics and Philosophy were his main concern then.

1905:

He returned to his native mountains. During an ensuing six-year period of solitude, he published, in Arabic, two volumes of essays, a book of allegories and a few short stories and plays. He also lectured at the American University of Beirut and in a few other institutions in Lebanon and other Arab countries. He also worked, along with other national leaders, for the liberation of his country from Turkish rule.

1910:

Rihani published Al-Rihaniyat, the book that established him as a forward thinker and a visionary. As a result of the Rihaniyat, the Egyptian media hailed him as "The Philosopher of Freike".

1911:

The Book of Khalid was written in the solitude of the Lebanese Mountain and was later published in the same year in New York. A reception was held in honor of Rihani for the release of The Book of Khalid and the president of the New York Pleiades Club crowned him with a laurel garland.

1916:

Ameen married Bertha Case. Bertha, an American artist, who was part of the Matisse, Picasso, Cezanne and Derain group who frequently worked together in Paris and the Midi and exhibited their works at the Salon de Mai.

110

Hymns of the Valleys

1917:

Ameen Rihani and his wife Bertha visited Pope Benedict XV. During that same year, Ameen met with Theodore Roosevelt, former President of the United States concerning the Palestinian case.

1919:

Rihani was asked to represent Arab interests at the Hague Peace Conference.

1921:

Rihani served as the only Near Eastern member of the Reduction of Armaments Conference in Washington, D.C.

1910–1922: Rihani became remarkably involved politically while continuing to pursue a productive literary life. Among the books that he published during that period were: Zanbakatul-Ghawr, a novel in Arabic; Jihan, a novel in English; The Luzumiyat, translation of Arabic poetry into English; The Path of Vision, essays in English; A Chant of Mystics, poetry in English; and The Descent of Bolchevism, political analysis in English. 1922:

Rihani traveled throughout Arabia, meeting and getting better acquainted with its rulers. He was the only traveler at that time, European or Arab, to have covered that whole territory in one trip.

1924–1932: He wrote and published six books in English and Arabic related to the three trips he made to Arabia. London publishers released a circular on Rihani's travel books as having been best sellers. During that time, he also published another four books in Arabic, and delivered numerous speeches around the world. During the last eight years of his life, Ameen Rihani wrote the remainder of his books, continued to be active in his political, literary and philosophical endeavors, and maintained close contact with several political leaders, poets, writers, scholars and artists. 1940:

Ameen Rihani passed away at age 64 at 1:00 pm on September 13, in his hometown of Freike, Lebanon. The news of his death was broadcast to many parts of the world. Representatives of Arab kings and rulers and of foreign diplomatic missions attended the funeral ceremony. He was laid to rest in the Rihani Family Mausoleum in Freike.

APPENDIX B Selected References Abou Ali, Najah. “Ameen Rihani: The Man and His Impression.” Thesis, B.C.W., Beirut, Lebanon, 1963. Aboud, Maroun, Ameen Rihani. Dar Al Ma'arif, Cairo, Egypt, 1952. Al-Ahdab, Abdul-Khalique. “God And Rihani.” Thesis, The Lebanese University, Beirut, Lebanon, 1971. Al-Ameer, Rasha and Sleem, Luqman 'Aoud-u-Rayhani 'Ala-l 'Arabia (Rihani’s Return to the Arabic Language), First Centennial, 1898-1998, Al-Jadid Publishing House, Beirut, Lebanon, 1998. Al-Kashef Al-Ghata, Muhamad Hussein. The Rihani Studies. 2 vols, Al-Urfan Press, Sidon, Lebanon, 1913. Reprinted 1926, Baghdad, Iraq. Al-Kik, Victor. Ameen Rihani, The Motivator of the Unity of Religions and Pantheism. Dar As-Salam, Beirut, Lebanon, 1987. Aoun, Mikhael. Ameen Rihani in the Heart of Lebanon. Dar Al-Farabi, Beirut, Lebanon, 1987. Aoun, Milad Kizhaya. “The Social and Religious Reform in Ameen Rihani's Novels.” Thesis, The Lebanese University, Beirut, Lebanon, 1983. Ayoub, François. “The Philosophy of Ameen Rihani.” Thesis, The Lebanese University, Beirut, Lebanon, 1968. 111

112

Hymns of the Valleys

Baki, Wassef. Ameen Rihani and His Role in Modern Literature and Renaissance. Nouri Library, Damascus, Syria, 1968. Barakat Saba, Rose. “Rihani: A Literary Pilgrim and Reformer.” Thesis, The Lebanese University, Beirut, Lebanon, 1995. Batti, Raphael. Ameen Rihani in Iraq. Dar As-Salam Press, Baghdad, Iraq, 1923. Bejjani, Abbass Nakhoul. An Answer to the Trilateral Treaty in the Animal Kingdom. Al-Hoda Publishing House, New York, USA, 1903. Bravo-Villasante, Carmen Ruiz. Un Testigo Árabe Del Siglo XX: Amin Al-Rihani en Marruecos y en España (1939). Editorial. Cantarabia, Universidad Autónoma De Madrid, Madrid, Spain, 1993. Cassar, Alice. Hommage à Amine Rihani, à l'occasion du vingt-cinquième anniversaire de sa mort. Conseil Culturel du Matn Nord, Beirut, Lebanon, 1965. Deeb, Wadih. Ameen Rihani. Beirut, Lebanon, 1942. Dunnavent, Walter Edward, III. “Ameen Rihani In America: Transcendentalism in an Arab-American Writer.” Dissertation, Indiana University, Indiana, U.S.A., 1991. Fontaine, Jean. “Le Desaveu Chez les Ecrivains Libanais Chrétiens de 1825 a 1940.” Thesis, Sorbonne, Paris, France, 1970. Hajj, Kamal Yusuf. The Philosophy of Ameen Rihani. Beirut, Lebanon, 1963. Hajjar, N. S. “The Political and Social Thought of Ameen Rihani, Doctor of Philosophy.” Thesis, University of Sydney, Sydney, Australia, 1992. Hussein, Husni Mahmud. “The Rihani Literature of Traveling.” Thesis, Cairo University, Cairo, Egypt, 1969. Published under

Appendix B

113

the title Arab Travel Literature and the Model of Ameen Rihani. The Arab Publishing and Distribution Agency, Amman, Jordan, 1995. Jabre, Jamil. Ameen Rihani: The Man and The Writer. Fadel and Gemayel Press, Beirut, Lebanon, 1947. Reprinted 1964, Beirut. Kayali, Sami. Ameen Rihani: Biography and Works, College of Higher Arabic Studies. The Arab League, Cairo, Egypt, 1960. Kan'an, Muhamad Najib. “The Rihani Concept of Revolution.” Thesis, The Lebanese University, Beirut, Lebanon, 1971. Khatib, Hikmat Sabbagh. Ameen Rihani: The Traveler of The Arabs. Beit Al-Hikma, Beirut, Lebanon, 1971. Khoury, Raif. Rihani and the Truth of American Democracy, Dar AlKari' Al-Arabi, Beirut, Lebanon, 1948. Khoury, Rashid Salim (Al-Kourawi). Ameen Rihani in His Memory. Sao Paulo, Brazil, 1941. Kratchkovsky, I. Y. Amin Rihani: L'Oeuvres Choisies. Edition Feux, Petrograd, U.S.S.R., 1917. Kratchkovsky, Ignace. With Arabic Manuscripts. Moscow, U.S.S.R., 1943. Kuraiem, Mussa. Ameen Rihani. Sao Paulo, Brazil, 1961. Leivin, Z. E. The Philosopher of Freike. Academy of Sciences, Moscow, U.S.S.R., 1965. Reprinted 1974, Moscow. Translated from Russian into Arabic by Dr. Khalaf Mohammad Al-Jarrad, Dar Al-Masader, Damascus, Syria, 1992. Miro, Mohammad Mustapha. The Social and Political Views of Ameen Rihani. Dar Al-Wafa', Aleppo, Syria, 1996. Mouawad, A. A., Nehme, Tanious and Samir. Yes, We Are The Poets. Khalifa Printing Press, Beirut, Lebanon, 1933.

114

Hymns of the Valleys

Moussa, Mohammed Ali. Ameen Rihani: A'lam Al-Fikr Al'Arabi. Dar Ashark Al-Jadid, Beirut, Lebanon, 1961. Moussa, Mohammed Ali. “Amine Rihani.” Dissertation, Sorbonne, Paris, France, 1976. Moussa, Munif, and Hassan, Adnan. Ameen Rihani in His Life, Thought and Literature. Dar Al-Mashrek Al-Arabi Al-Kabir, Beirut, Lebanon, 1982. Naddaf, Elias. “Sintesi Culturale E Strutture Narrative in The Book of Khalid di Amin Rihani.” Thesis, University of Sassari, Sardinia, Italy, 1996. Oueijan, Naji, ed. Excerpts from Ar-Rihaniyat. Louaize: Notre Dame University Press: 1998. Oueijan, Naji, et. al. ed. Kahlil Gibran & Ameen Rihani, Prophets of Lebanese-American Literature, Notre Dame University Press, Beirut, Lebanon, 1999. Rafi'i, Toufik. Ameen Rihani in Egypt: The Introducer of the Philosophy of the East to the West. Dar Al-Hilal, Cairo, Egypt, 1922. Rassafi, Ma'rouf. In Honor of Ameen Rihani. Baghdad, Iraq, 1922. Rawi, Hareth Taha. Ameen Rihani: Features of His Personality and His Role in the Arab Renaissance. The Rihani House, Beirut, Lebanon, 1958. Rihani, Albert. Ameen Rihani: Biography, Works and Selections of his Writings. The Rihani House, Beirut, Lebanon, 1941. ______. Where To Find Ameen Rihani, a Bibliography. The Arab Institute for Research and Publishing, Beirut, Lebanon, 1979. Rihani, Ameen Albert. The Philosopher of Freike - Author of the Great City. Dar Al-Jeel, Beirut, Lebanon, 1987.

Appendix B

115

______. And Life Falls From a Bicycle, a Biographical Play, Dar Al-Jeel, Beirut, Lebanon, 1987. Rihani After Quarter of a Century. The Cultural Council of North Matn, Beirut, Lebanon, 1965. Rihani and His Contemporaries, Letters to Him from His Friends. Beirut, Lebanon, 1965. Saba, Issa Mikhael. Ameen Rihani: Nawabegh Al-Fikr Al-Arabi. Dar Al-Ma'arif, Cairo, Egypt, 1968. Selections from Ameen Rihani, Manahel Al-Adab Al-Arab. Dar Sader, Beirut, Lebanon, 1951. Sheikh-Ali, Anas. “Ralph Waldo Emerson and Ameen Rihani, a comparative study.” Thesis, American University of Beirut, Beirut, Lebanon, 1972. Tkhinvaleli, Maria. “Travel in Modern Arabic Literature, The Example of Ameen Rihani.” Dissertation, Tiblisi University, The Republic of Georgia, 1991. Union of Lebanese Authors. Ameen Rihani: A Renaissance Pioneer From Lebanon. Dar-ul Ilm Lil-Malayeen, Beirut, Lebanon, 1988. Yamaq, Omar. “Ameen Rihani and Arab Affairs.” Dissertation, London University, London, England, 1967. Zahawi, Jamil Sidki. In Honor of Ameen Rihani. Baghdad, Iraq, 1922. Zakka, Najib Mansour. “Amine Rihani.” Dissertation, Université des Sciences Humaines de Strasbourg, France, 1975. Zeitouni, Latif. “Amine Rihani et le Coeur du Liban, Etude Epistemologique.” Dissertation, Université Aix-en-Provence, France, 1980 (also published under the title of Semiologie du Recit de Voyage. Lebanese University Press, Beirut, Lebanon, 1997).