#may ziadeh

[shazi-1]

خلیل جبران کی اپنی محبوبہ "می زائدہ" سے محبت بغیر کسی ملاقات اور دیدار کے بیس سال تک چلتی رہی. جبران نیویارک میں تھا اور "می زائدہ" قاہرہ میں. دنیا کے دو کونوں سے دونوں باہم خطوط کا تبادلہ کیا کرتے تھے. ایک خط میں جبران نے "می زائدہ" کی تصویر مانگی تو "می زائدہ" نے اس کو لکھا:

" سوچو ! تصور کرو !

میں کیسی دکھتی ہوں گی؟ "

جبران : " مجھے لگتا ہے تمھارے بال چھوٹے ہوں گے جو تمھارا چہرہ ڈھانپ لیتے ہوں گے".

"می زائدہ" نے یہ پڑھ کر اپنے لمبے بال کاٹ ڈالے اور ایک خط کے ساتھ اپنے چھوٹے بالوں والی تصویر بھیجی.

جبران: " تم نے دیکھا ؟ میرا تصور بالکل سچا تھا".

"می زائدہ" : " محبت زیادہ سچی تھی".....!

[muhtesemz]

Goodbye, Lebanese mountains.

I’m going far

from your pink rose garlands,

your bright red satin strawberries.

Egypt called in a serious voice,

and already my boat’s rocking

bears new fruit—

But sea, whisper your lullabies

please, because I hurt so much.

Soft waves of home, sob for me.

Don’t go away so quickly, my love.

Leaving you, my chest is all wound,

wholly tender.

Lebanon,

You made me. Your moody nights

put the darkness in my eyes

and laid a vein of lightning in my soul.

Your white lace waterfalls wove

jasmine vine and lute serenades

all through me,

and my speech is the Spirit

murmuring in your woods.

My capricious seasons are yours:

my soul is sometimes wild,

an egret flying far

beyond the ocean’s edge,

and sometimes I curl up

like an anemone when touched,

damp with delicate seafoam tears.

Fading from sight, you’re a dream

that ends. But grief goes on.

Goodbye, my nest.I love you, Lebanon. I adore you.

Lebanon, goodbye.

My heart—

pink roses,

red strawberries

—turns to vapor with the word:

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

- May Ziadeh

[k-tarkovsky]

CAPRICIOUS

by May Ziadeh

Grandiose in the deep sky,

the sun said its customary goodbye

to the river, the palm trees,

the sands of this place,

and walked toward the other world.

Then the horizon sent up a sigh

and the heavens were tinged

with lilac and rose

quivering colors where rests azure

and the breath of the zephyr softens.

Cairo was hidden beneath a fine mist,

the trees swirling on the

brown banks of the Nile.

The shadow fell everywhere,

finding no danger

and covered over safely

the plains and the foam.

O Pyramids! Then it is

That, lifting up my thinking head,

I tend to wander upon your strong flanks

The echo of some plaintive voice;

But What! would it be within you

That an orphan mourns his mother?

Is it a hymn, is it a prayer,

Is it a divine moan?

But already the silence returns

Around the big black monument.

A time—my heart trembles, leaps,

Hovering with the evening breeze…

Suddenly the sounds are heard,

O God! But where do they come from?

A sweet harmony blends in…

It is the voice of Alexander.

An echo? Napoleon’s?

Is it the saber that shimmers?

Is it your statue, O Memnon,

Who falls in a moist grave?

Is it the sigh of a soldier

Deceased? A horse that rides?

Is it the cracking of a marble

Who’s been lying there for centuries?

Answer, Monuments! High Pyramids,

Centuries gone, O silent memory!

Are these songs of love

or warlike commands

that your belly purifies?

No, on your desolate coasts

It is no longer the Imperial Eagle

Who marks your sacred lands

Steps of his fiery horse—

Oh! Your flags are barely seen…

And Muhammad Ali is no longer;

All things are English.

These long, floating echoes

tickle my soul

like a breath of a breeze,

a breath of azure, a maternal kiss,

a sad and pure look,

a flash of a subtle flame,

a child’s reaching finger

that caresses my forehead,

a bird chirping, a river whispering,

a friendly smile, a cry from nature

or from the sun, a golden ray…

It was the distant marching band

that played “God Saves The King;”

It was the sure vibration of hearts

valiant and full of faith:

Museums, Beauties, Beloved Fine Arts,

Oceans, rivers, greenery,

immense azure, golden stars

who from heaven is the adornment

to you, my young ones,

to you my young intelligence,

my love and my trust,

To you, my blue and white dreams!

But no more transports.

See you soon, Pyramides,

And you, Lebanon, Beirut,

Dear Antoura, hello!

My Syria, Salvation!

As soon as I can, I’ll go back

to your clear horizons.

—May Ziadeh

pub. Is. Copia

Fleurs de Reve

“Flowers in a Dream”

(1911, Cairo)

May Ziadeh’s poem, “Capricious” published in French in Cairo, Egypt in 1911, trans. Jade Nicole beals

[arablit]

Five Poems by May Ziadeh

The following translations are from May’s first book, Fleurs de Réve, a collection of poems she wrote in French during her adolescence and early twenties. She published it in 1911 under the pen name Isis Copia. –Rose DeMaris. Five Poems by May Ziadeh Translated by Rose DeMaris In Forest Sweet dews in these tender stems flood my eyes. This breeze holds her breath— then ripples through heaven’s…

Five Poems by May Ziadeh

[arablit]

In Memory of May, by May Ziadé

In Memory of May by May Ziadé This text springs from a masochistic encounter with the sexist archive; though perennially provoked, I keep returning to it. My name is (also) May Ziadé. I (also) write, gather, and, if it weren’t for the year I was born, I would certainly have been confined in “The First Hospital for the Insane in Bible Land”, later known as Asfuriyeh, where May was sent for fresh…

In Memory of May, by May Ziadé

[arablit]

Why Bring May Ziadeh into English? Why Now?

PRE-ORDER the BOOK | MAY ZIADEH SERIALIZED in your INBOX | LAUNCH EVENT MAY 31, 2026 We asked ourselves (and each other) why we wanted to bring May Ziadeh’s Musings of a Young Woman into English. Why May? And why now? From the Editorial Desk Dana Al Shahbari (foreword author, translator, concept initiator): May Ziadeh has accompanied me for many years now. I first worked with her literature…

Why Bring May Ziadeh into English? Why Now?

[arablit]

An Apology to May Ziadeh

January 29, 2026 A table by a window overlooking piles of snow Connecticut, United States of America Dear May, I address you by your literary name, the name you chose for yourself, rather than as “Marie,” the name given to you at birth without your consent. I write to ask for forgiveness. You may well wonder who this foolish woman is, intruding on your rest, writing to you from the world of the…

An Apology to May Ziadeh

[violettesiren]

You bathe your rocky ornaments in mists, let roselight bleed into your cracks.

The Star slowly mounts: his light drenches you. The Star-King of two worlds, Earth and firmament,

sifts gold dust over your skin as a hand strokes a sleeping lover’s hair.

Above your blunt peak, a pink satin sky cups the rising slice of fire.

Oh, if I could be a lark and kiss your crest with my wing—

if I could ride a horse to your distant slope, careless, wild, and bold—

if I could wander your caves, sleep in you— if I could climb, forgetting my pain.

To Mokattam at Dawn by May Ziadeh (Translated by Rose DeMaris)