Monday, 31 October 2016

ʿArūḍ

ARUD


Metre (or meter) according to Wikipedia:

"In poetry, metre (meter in US spelling) is the basic rhythmic structure of a verse or lines in verse. Many traditional verse forms prescribe a specific verse metre, or a certain set of metres alternating in a particular order. The study and the actual use of metres and forms of versification are both known as prosody. (Within linguistics, "prosody" is used in a more general sense that includes not only poetic metre but also the rhythmic aspects of prose, whether formal or informal, that vary from language to language, and sometimes between poetic traditions.)"

Arud is the arabic science of prosody; of poetry; of poetics. As in any other system (western, greek, latin), arabic poetry relies heavily on meter. In all countries with a strong oral tradition (oral meaning here: not written transmission, but by recital, singing and so on), meter, cadence, rhyme (internal and otherwise) is even stronger.

My studies concern the whole of Arud, but to limit it down, I am working on the poems of a totally megalomanic poet: al-Mutanabbi. I won't bore you with this, just mentioning it.
Most of us use a sort of rhythm when we make a song, or a poem. But these rhythm have names and are categorized for ages now. Let's name the ones most frequently used in western world:
IAMB: -v  -v
TROCHEE: v-  v-
DACTYL: v - -  v - -
ANAPEST: - - v  - - v

And an example of Iamb:
Shakespeare: Come live | with me | and be | my love
In the iambic meter, stress is on the syllable I made bold and italic.
Official notation: -v | -v | -v | -v
Where unaccented syllables are represented by '-'
And accented (stressed) syllables are represented by 'v'

Meaning that Trochee starts with an accented syllable, followed by one unaccented; Dactyl with an accented, followed by two unaccented; and Anapest with two unaccented, followed by one accented syllable.
Short but hopefully not too confusing explanation of how we in the western world often use rhyme and cadence, and the most commonly used names for these rhythms :)

Arabic has a similar system.
The Arabic word for meter is tafa'il (metrical feet), The metrical system of Classical Arabic poetry, just like those of classical Greek and Latin, is based on the weight of syllables classified as either "long" or "short" or, as we have seen above: stressed and unstressed; accented or unaccented.

The fun part for me here is that the Arabs have (parts of) words to indicate every syllable in a specific meter. Now here it is getting weird for you, I realise that, so I will give you just a small example found on Wikipedia:

Western:   v –  –  v  –   –  –  v – –   v  –  v –
Verse:    Qifa nabki min dikra habibin wa-manzili
Mnemonic:  fa`ulun  mafa`ilun  fa`ulun  mafa`ilun

The mnemonic here indicating a help-line showing exactly the rhythm and positioning of the v and the -. To the new eye of a starting reader, those v and - seem to be positioned randomly. By adding the mnemonic, a pattern arises.

Now here I will stop before it will become too difficult. Have fun reading, and if you want to know more, just ask :)

-Darren
with love.

Addendum, taken from: http://lecturers.haifa.ac.il/en/hcc/rsnir/Documents/Other%20Barbarians.pdf

Meter According to the conventional metrical system that was unchallenged in Arabic poetry from the pre-Islamic times till the mid-twentieth century, every verse [bayt] in a qasida [the classical ode] consists of a certain number of feet [taf‘ila, plural tafa‘il], divided into two hemistichs. Every foot [taf‘ila] consists of short (U) and long (-) vowels. Each one of the sixteen meters consists of different sequences of feet. A common rhyme is used at the end of each verse throughout the entire poem even if it consists of hundreds of verses. In the late 1940s, there emerged a new metrical system of “free verse” called in Arabic shi‘r hurr [free poetry] or shi‘r al-taf‘ila [poetry of taf‘ila]. The essential concept of this system entails a reliance on free repetition of the taf‘ila, the basic unit of the conventional Arab prosody—i.e., the use of an irregular number of a single foot instead of a fixed number of feet as was dictated by the classical meters. Additionally, in shi‘r hurr there is no need for a common rhyme throughout the poem. The poet varies the number of feet in a single line and the rhymes at the end of the lines according to his need. In Darwish’s collection all the poems use the new system of “free verse,” but what is highly peculiar in this collection is that a single foot, that of the mutaqarib meter (U - -), is used in all of the poems. This is a rare phenomenon in Arabic poetry; ever since ancient times poets, even if they wrote on the same theme, generally used various meters for different poems, as in the case of the qasida; modern poets have used various feet for different poems. Here Darwish uses the same single foot for all the poems, as if to direct the attention of the reader to the unified character of the collection. Of course, it is this unity of the meter that enabled Salman Masalha to compose a poem from the titles of all the poems, serving as a kind of summary of the entire collection.


Friday, 28 October 2016

COMA

COMA


Five, no six years ago, I was rescued.
There was not much life left in me, and they needed to do emergency repair. But first they needed to make sure I was as comfortable as possible, so they induced coma.

In between the nightmares that haunt my every night, sometimes I am having the strangest dreams, in which there are sounds that are not very coherent, but soothing.

Sometimes small fragments of conversations moving from my left to my right, in which my name is mentioned but of which I can't understand anything. People with concern in their voice; authoritatve; loving; caring. Voiced in several languages. Or maybe in one language, but I am not able to understand any language except my own incoherent thoughts.

Sometimes small rays of light whirl in front of my eyes and sihouettes moving through them, in silence. A smile around a mouth. And then the heartbreaking sobbing of my little one, whose voice I wil recognise among myriad other voices.

Sometimes I felt things. One time I felt my little one taking my hand and put it on his head while he crept next to me on the bed. I KNOW, I REMEMBER, and I felt tears in my eyes. This did happen, because months later I had the chance to ask about this very vivid picture in my mind, and it was confirmed by nurses and doctors.

Soft beep beeps. Comforting sound in a strange environment where I seem to float. And a wish to open my mouth and produce sound, but nothing happens. A painful feeling in my throat where something is inserted that prevents me from speaking.

It is all this I have been trying to condense into this small poem:
My COMA poem. Click me please.

It is not meant to be a negative poem or blog post. On the contrary really. To me personally it means that despite the coma, I was able to feel, see and hear, in a dreamlike fashion. And all that while they managed to keep the pain away from me. If anything, this is something I am truly grateful for.

Friday, 21 October 2016

GRANDFATHER

GRANDFATHER


How I lived with my grandfather... For a long time I saw my grandfather as family. Until some months ago, when I was talking about it with Cody, and he said me to not see the man as family anymore. Because he never saw me as his grandson, but as a commodity, something to discard.

That was an eye-opener. It worked too. It is hard enough to be trafficked ware by strangers, but to be sold by my grandfather is worse, because all I ever wanted was to be his grandson, to be loved by him. And later I wanted him to tell me how sorry he was, but he never did, and he died during the trials. 

How was my life with him? How did I end up living with him? That last part has been finally explained to me by my parents. When I was two years old, my grandfather came to live in a house nearby. He started to abuse and threaten me straight away. Powerless and afraid as I was, I couldn't say a word at home, so I became an angry child, screaming, kicking and wetting my bed again.

My grandfather suggested to my parents that I came to live with him, he would "straighten me out".... and they agreed. And that was the beginning of the misery.

Life with him was strange, a deadly combination of incredible violence, a gifted teacher (he homeschooled me for longer periods of time) and travelling all over Western Europe. I have lived in Southern France, in Norway and so on. He had such strange mood-swings. Could be loving one moment and turn violent the next. He dressed and raised me as a girl, but when I acted like a girl, I was 'punished'. 

My world was so split and torn, and the only thing I did all day, was trying to survive as best as possible.
He was well respected in the Coptic community, was a scholar. People looked up to him and sometimes remarked to me how lucky I was to have him for a grandfather. Yes, really.

He was a true pedophile. Had cameras everywhere in his house, and shared films of me online. Most have gone, but some are still out there and I can't do anything about that. Believe me, there are so many attempts to delete them but they keep surfacing. He also invited friends over to his house. Let's not go any further, I bet you can fill in the blanks.

And then, when I was about 9-10 years old, I became too old for him, and he sold me. That's another story, maybe later.

Bye bye!
D.

Monday, 17 October 2016

The many face(t)s of depression

THE MANY FACE(T)S OF DEPRESSION.


What does depression do to me? It's an ever present, strangely quiet companion. I know it's always there, lurking. When I feel good, and people ask me how I feel, I say: "Feeling great". And I do feel great then, it's not that I am lying, it is more that in the back of my mind a little voice is speaking to me, telling me: "Sooooon, soooooooooon my friend and I'll hit you again". 

It's a paralyzing fear sometimes, the fear for a next major episode. The episode that lands you for a longer period of time in a secluded, closed part of mental hospital, because... yeah because... Sometimes not even because you tried to kill yourself, but because you are utterly incapable of taking care of yourself.

Depressive state (the state I am in for a few months now) is less severe, but sometimes debilitating. What does a 'low'  do to me specifically?

  • It silences the writer in me;
  • It causes me to write bad poetry, whining sort of;
  • I feel physically ill. My head, arms, everything hurts;
  • Light hurts my eyes, sound hurts my ears;
  • Food comes back out through my mouth faster than it went in;
  • Putting on my clothes is a major achievement, as is brushing my teeth, afterwards I need to go back to sleep again;
  • I isolate, it is hard to reach out, still I do because I know I need people and often I feel a lot better after some banter that makes me cry with laughter;
  • Yes, depressed people can laugh uncontrollably, weird huh?


I regularly speak with a friend who also suffers from depression. And we compare symptoms, a lot are the same, a lot differ. All people are different, so every depressed person is different, and everyone experiences different symptoms.

Also everyone will have a different opinion on what symptom exactly is the most debilitating. And so there is no common denominator other than this: having an illness outside people often wrongly determine as a state of being sad, while inside people will not deny the sadness, but more often describe an all encompassing tiredness that causes you to halt, stand still, drop down and hide.

Monday, 10 October 2016

The comfort of dark spaces - or: how to live in confinement

Many of my nights end in horrible nightmares. For years now. When I could still walk, I would find myself in tight corners, under a box, next to a drawer, in a closet. My mind still hasn't understood that I can't walk anymore, in my dreams and nightmares I still can. Which means that I often drop out of bed and have no idea how I got there, or how to get back in. And then I haven't mentioned the terror of the nightmare yet. Which I often conquer while lying on the floor.

Oh, I made a comfortable mess of my floor for myself already, there are pillows and blankets there. It's okay, don't worry (I know you do, but please stop it ;) )

Small dark spaces give me comfort; my back pressed in a corner means that no one can approach me from behind; being in the confinements of a closet means that not just anyone can enter, as long as they don't know I'm in there. The first few years after I was 'free' again, I refused to sleep in a bed. They had to make a bed in a closet for me, and I know they felt sorry for me, which was not necessary. By granting me this comfort they helped me overcome the first anxiety.

I write my best poetry after nightmares, lying in the pillows that surround me, writing the terror away. I have learned how to move myself up into my chair and into my bed again, but I still prefer the small corners, the closet, a bed with blankets over my head, needing that illusory safety that I rationally can identify, but that the frightened child in me still needs.

Sunday, 9 October 2016

SPINAL CORD INJURY

A SPINAL CORD INJURY


My spinal cord is injured. Incomplete injury, as they call it, which means that my spinal cord (between T12 and S1) was not injured in its entirety.

My vertebrae, spine, and nerves are badly damaged and the pain is at times unbearable. That's why I often prefer to be in bed, but I also need a lot of physiotherapy so the rest of my body stays in shape and my blood circulation keeps flowing. And I train hard to keep my body in shape. Which means that my repaired arms will soon be a source of joy because I can do so much more with them.

Soon, SOON. When I have this horrible left arm surgery over and done with, and my other medication has me balanced once again.

In hopefully a month, I will have back surgery and they will fixate part of my back. It means that bending over will be harder if at all possible, but honestly? I don't care, as long as the pain will be gone or at the very least, be less.

What it is, me and a wheelchair, a sort of chair you can push or be pushed in, not motorized because I can use my arms. What is in the chair, is a small twitching person, me. Most of the time, I can use and feel my legs a little. My spine was injured, my vertebrae broken, so a quick lesson here:
  • I cannot  stand;
  • I cannot walk a few steps;
  • I cannot move my legs ;
  • I can wiggle two of my toes;
  • I am ticklish at the back of my legs, NOT the front, and NOT my foot soles.
  • I do not feel most of my legs, only a few spots.

I need a catheter and bags strapped to my leg. Isn't that sort of humiliating? No! What would be humiliating, is peeing my pants all day ;)

And last but not least: sex
Is anything at all possible?
Yes, it is, absolutely. But I am not going to tell you nosey peeps that in public.
Ask me in PM (if you dare) ;)