Letter #2
Abu al-Khaseeb: 4/ 20/1946
My Beloved Brother, Khalid (al-Shawwaaf),
A grim and suffocating event has made me hate writing letters even to those
dearest and closest to me. No doubt, you remember the encounter…my encounter…
with my first love; you recall what she said to me…. “Bring me all the poetry
you write…by way of Miss …..”
I have completed the poem, “The Song of Encounter,” which reached a hundred
and nineteen lines in length. I proceeded to copy it into a small and elegant
notebook which I devoted two long days to do in order to also decorate and
beautify it, and I sent it to Miss….imploring her to deliver it to my ladylove
and to hurry back and inform me of the effect that my poem has left on her soul.
Burdensome days and long weeks have passed, and no answer has come back to
me… neither from Miss…, nor from my lady, although I have informed her of my
address on the last page of the unfortunate notebook.
Let your heart be free of love for even if the most difficult calamities and
the most severe pain befall you, you will remain happy and envied.
I live these days with the poet, “Lamartine,” on the shores of the beautiful
lake, and in the home of the old physician, or (among the gulfs, the valleys,
the vineyards and the banks of the lake and the summits of the mountains… the
wild -??——–, the roaring waterfalls in the cracks of the rocks. -??——)
God, grant me such joy, even if it is short lived and hopeless, for these
memories fill the emptiness of my days and prevent love from visiting anew.
Oh, Khalid! How much I promised myself in the deep silence of the night to
quiet the chant of despair in my poems and erase the image of death from my
thoughts so that my poetry does not reveal my suffering to the ears and eyes of
others. - But, what a pity - I have returned empty-handed and disappointed. I
have dedicated myself to pain and misery, despair and annihilation.
How ignorant is he who blames me for entitling my poetry collection,
“Withered Flowers.” I wish he were with me now…so he could witness that the
whole universe, the earth and the sky, the soil and the water, the rocks and the
air, are nothing more than withered flowers in my dim eyes and in my lifeless
and abating soul.
Oh, My Dear! What can I talk about?? Alas, the fountain of my speech has
gone dry, and my feelings have withered and my emotions have died. Do I speak
of the roaring river, Dijla, and of the conspicuous faces? Or of her, the
distant and oblivious one?… [Two poems omitted]
I hope that you will send me
your response when you finish your work and that you will be a harsh critic of
these two poems. Send me the latest poems that you have composed.
My greetings to your distinguished father…
Your brother,
Badr al-Sayyab
[From the book, al-Sayyab’s Letters, by Majid al-Samurra’i, (Beirut: Al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiya li-al-dirasat wa-al-Nashr, Second Edition,
1994, p. 89) Translated from the original Arabic and with an introduction by George Nicolas El-Hage, Ph.D., Columbia University.]
Abu al-Khaseeb: 4/ 20/1946
My Beloved Brother, Khalid (al-Shawwaaf),
A grim and suffocating event has made me hate writing letters even to those
dearest and closest to me. No doubt, you remember the encounter…my encounter…
with my first love; you recall what she said to me…. “Bring me all the poetry
you write…by way of Miss …..”
I have completed the poem, “The Song of Encounter,” which reached a hundred
and nineteen lines in length. I proceeded to copy it into a small and elegant
notebook which I devoted two long days to do in order to also decorate and
beautify it, and I sent it to Miss….imploring her to deliver it to my ladylove
and to hurry back and inform me of the effect that my poem has left on her soul.
Burdensome days and long weeks have passed, and no answer has come back to
me… neither from Miss…, nor from my lady, although I have informed her of my
address on the last page of the unfortunate notebook.
Let your heart be free of love for even if the most difficult calamities and
the most severe pain befall you, you will remain happy and envied.
I live these days with the poet, “Lamartine,” on the shores of the beautiful
lake, and in the home of the old physician, or (among the gulfs, the valleys,
the vineyards and the banks of the lake and the summits of the mountains… the
wild -??——–, the roaring waterfalls in the cracks of the rocks. -??——)
God, grant me such joy, even if it is short lived and hopeless, for these
memories fill the emptiness of my days and prevent love from visiting anew.
Oh, Khalid! How much I promised myself in the deep silence of the night to
quiet the chant of despair in my poems and erase the image of death from my
thoughts so that my poetry does not reveal my suffering to the ears and eyes of
others. - But, what a pity - I have returned empty-handed and disappointed. I
have dedicated myself to pain and misery, despair and annihilation.
How ignorant is he who blames me for entitling my poetry collection,
“Withered Flowers.” I wish he were with me now…so he could witness that the
whole universe, the earth and the sky, the soil and the water, the rocks and the
air, are nothing more than withered flowers in my dim eyes and in my lifeless
and abating soul.
Oh, My Dear! What can I talk about?? Alas, the fountain of my speech has
gone dry, and my feelings have withered and my emotions have died. Do I speak
of the roaring river, Dijla, and of the conspicuous faces? Or of her, the
distant and oblivious one?… [Two poems omitted]
I hope that you will send me
your response when you finish your work and that you will be a harsh critic of
these two poems. Send me the latest poems that you have composed.
My greetings to your distinguished father…
Your brother,
Badr al-Sayyab
[From the book, al-Sayyab’s Letters, by Majid al-Samurra’i, (Beirut: Al-Mu’assasa al-‘Arabiya li-al-dirasat wa-al-Nashr, Second Edition,
1994, p. 89) Translated from the original Arabic and with an introduction by George Nicolas El-Hage, Ph.D., Columbia University.]
