A Lesson in Painting

Here is an eloquent poem by Nizar Qabbani, one of the great voices of the Arab Nation.

A Lesson in Drawing

My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the colour grey I dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.

Astonishment fills his eyes:
'... But this is a prison, Father,
Don't you know how to draw a bird?'

And I tell him:
'Son, forgive me,
I've forgotten the shapes of birds.'

My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a stalk of wheat.
I hold the pen
And draw a gun.

My son mocks my ignorance,
demanding:
'Don't you know, Father,
The difference between a stalk of wheat and a gun?'

I tell him:
'Son, once I knew the shapes of wheat stalks,
the shape of a bread loaf,
the shape of a rose.
But in this hardened time,
The trees of the forest
Have joined the militias,
And the rose wears dull fatigues.
In this time of armed wheat stalks,
Armed birds,
Armed culture and armed religion,
You can't buy a loaf
Without finding a gun inside.
You can't pluck a rose in the field
Without it raising its thorns in your face.
You can't buy a book
That doesn't explode between your fingers.'

My son sits at the edge of my bed
And asks me to recite a poem.
A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow.

My son licks it up, astonished, saying:
'But this is a tear, Father, not a poem!'

And I tell him:
'When you grow up, my son,
and read the diwan of Arabic poetry,
You'll discover
That the word and the tear are twins,
And the Arabic poem
Is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers.'

Nizar Qabbani