Ahmed Zaabar (Tunisia)

Ahmed Zaabar (Tunisia)
Tunisian poet from Wardanine (Tunisia) Born 1963
Studied philosophy at Manouba University (Tunis)
Works as Producer at Alaraby TV in London
Winner of the Short Story Award at the Sidi Bouzid Festival of Young Writers in 1984 in Tunisia
Published short Stories, poems, articles and reviews in Arabic magazines and newspapers.
Member of the Arab National Congress
Member of the Executive Committee and Chairman of the Media Committee of the Arab Club in Britain publish two poetry books in Cairo and Beirut
Former Chairman of the Cultural Committee of the Arab Cultural Forum in Britain
His poems have been published in various anthologies and he has participated in several Arab and international poetry festivals. He has published two poetry books and a collection of his poems have been translated into Spanish.
Resident in London since 1992
Be Not But Yourself
You who wrote
And writes the creation verse.
All who wrote your book are
Behind you now… in the back.
They wrote you, but you write them.
Erase what they wrote.
Existence is nothing but
The trace of your footsteps.
You and your female are one.
Listen not but to your heart.
Your female is you,
And you are part of her glory.
If you burn in her light and fire,
You become the echo of her being,
And Existence becomes your echo.
All meanings are petrified,
And all what is holy
Loses spirit and reaches its end,
The poets continue what God has started.
Life is
A passing coincidence;
Neither a believer nor an unbeliever.
Her manifestation is the body,
And her enemy: the Day of Judgement.
This world is my prison,
And the body
Is a king of miserable,
tyrannical clay.
This soul is myself,
And I
Have been scattered in all souls
As fragments.
And I am
A sole individual.
To Perish
To Perish
Is not that you’ve been denied and abandoned
By your homeland,
That the exile has no childhood,
That you’re unable to forget your motherland
No matter how much she denies or forgets you.
To Perish
Is that you’re two un-meeting halves;
You are neither here nor there
Is an un-healing wound in the spirit
That turns greenish with time.
Exile is a fracture in the meaning of homeland.
When I call
My country,
The echo bounces back at me.
My own country:
The grief that waters my longing
And grows within.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s