Stand Up Writing

How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live – Henry David Thoreau


February 2016

The Y who was never an X

Y, he called himself, dying to earn the X, to be somebody, anybody.
There he sat, a faceless man, at the side of the road as people went back and forth. To them, the man is not there, he does not matter and he does not exist. Only the road exists and all that is on it must serve arrival; if not, it must be put aside, eliminated or subdued.
As to himself, he’s not there as well. He’s slightly in every one of them in their passing there, borrowing their faces, their lives for brief intervals of time : From nervous rookies rushing to their first day on the job to arrogant big shots, too busy to put their phone down and look around, endless possibilities. And so the whole motion was his, he had everything but only for so long since the lives he borrowed soon faded away in the mass.
But it was better that way, now he could go on imagining himself.
There, in that piece of non-existence, he could be whoever and whatever he wanted to be, but he never was. He just sat there with his jar of faces, and the sun came to collect the day and rip him of the faces he thought were his. He was naked again staring at the moon, reflecting the only face that neither he nor the sun or anything else could rip him of. He just sat there, stinking of remorse, trying to wash the smell away with tears and resolutions.

Eddy Abi Younes


إلى الكائن

يا جمالاً يخلقني بنظرته
يا حقيقة ً تُجددني بكلمتها
يا خيرا ً يأتيني بعد المغيب
مؤتزرا ً الإنحناء
ساكبا ً نفسه على رجليّ
فأفوح من طيب حكمته
يا من اختصرت الإنسان و حالاته
في لحظة و لقاء
في لمسة و شفاء
في دعوة و مسيرة و صيرورة.
أيها الكائن
منذ الأزل في الأعالي
و إلى الأبد في الأعماق
يا من حطّم مجده ذهبا ً
ليتوشّح الفقر
من جعل عرشه قدمين تسيران بين الناس و نحوهم
و اختزل سلطانه بيدين ممدوتين
إلى الأمام
نحو الأسفل
و اتجاهين مختلفين.
يا جذرية اعتنقت الحرية
مجسدة إياها طاعة حتى الموت
هَمَستَ نفسَكَ في روحي
فعَصَفَ بي الخلاص
إقبل غوصي إليك
جوابا ً لمجيئك إلي.

إدي أبي يونس

Chasing weirdness


That night of February I was coming back home, walking with my hands in my pockets, face half tucked in the collar of my jacket. My eyes repeatedly going left and right, between thoughts, on the lookout for anything suspicious. Passing by a quiet alleyway, a gentle shimmering light caught the corner of my eye as I felt small pieces of glass under my feet. I immediately found myself deviating towards it, in some sort of illogical haste, following the bits of glass, as if bread crumbs, to a shattered mirror. It all seemed fishy, no lights were around for the mirror to reflect and so I reached out to it and as soon as I touched it, whatever it was that remained of it fell. Once the mirror was gone I saw something that I didn’t recognize by sight but to which my insides called fiercely. It didn’t feel like anything I’ve ever known but it imposed itself with a strange sense of familiarity; it was now, it was here and it was me: Home. Home had this weird sense of estrangement to it. Home was weird, and even more than that, weirdness was home and I’ve been chasing it all along.
That sweet smell of horizon, never conquered. Lands, forever new, forever virgin. Known in theory but ignored in form. Admired by many, engaged by few. Where losing was necessary, where I had to put up with not finding. Where I inhale thin and exhale thick. Where paintings are but a gaze in which a man lies comfortably in a hammock that keeps swaying, singing him a lullaby. Everybody loves lullabies, sleepers hate bells and doorknockers. Disturbing insistence, always pressing for answers, looking for a way in and I’ll meet it halfway when I get out. No more hammocks, no more lullabies, no more mirrors, just a simple encounter and a dance.

Eddy Abi Younes

رهبة الصدق

homeboaboa-envsrcboawebsitesite_mediaerik-te-kamp-abstract-painting-essence4.JPGلو احتويت ما يحتويني
لتألمت لألم المحتوى
و مع انني لا احتويه
لا ازال اتألم
و ليته يتألم لألم محتواه

إدي أبي يونس

في الحياة
ومضات صدق
لحظات صفاء
فيها أكون ما أكون
فيها يخرج العالم من وراء الستار
كاشفا ً كل ما لا يمت لي بصلة
و أراني أتذلل تحت عباءة الكون
أهرب من وجهي
أسدل الستار مجددا ً
خوفا ً من الضياء
هربا ً من الهواء الطلق
أسدل الستار و أرسمه سماء
ألمّع القضبان نجوما ً
وارشي طموحي بالواقعية الواهنة
لأن الأحلام باهظة الثمن
و بسرور ساذج أنذر حياتي لإله الخوف
كون الموت أرخص من الحلم.

إدي أبي يونس

L’idée de ma vie – Soren Kierkegaard


L’idée de ma vie
                                                                                                                                      Gilleleje, le 1er août 1835.

Ce qui me manqué, au fond, c’est de voir clair, en moi, de savoir ce que je dois faire et non ce que je dois connaître, sauf dans la mesure où la connaissance précède toujours l’action. Il s’agit de comprendre ma destination, de voir ce que Dieu au fond veut que je fasse ; il s’agit de trouver l’idée pour laquelle je veux vivre et mourir. Et quel profit aurais-je d’en dénicher une soi-disant objective, de me bourrer à fond des systèmes des philosophes et de pouvoir, au besoin, les passer en revue ; d’en pouvoir montrer les inconséquences dans chaque problème ; quel profit pour moi de pouvoir développer une théorie de l’Etat et, avec des détails tirés de toutes parts, de combiner une totalité, de construire un monde où encore une fois je ne vivrais pas, et dont je ne serais que le montreur pour d’autres ? — quel profit de pouvoir développer l’importance du christianisme, d’en pouvoir expliquer maint détails singulier, dès lors quepour moi et pour ma vie il n’aurait qu’une signification de surface ? Et plus j’y serais habile et verrais les autres s’assimiler les enfants de ma pensée, plus triste serait ma position, un peu comme celle de ces parents que leur pauvreté force d’envoyer leurs fils dans le monde et de les abandonner à des soins étrangers. Quel profit pour moi qu’une vérité qui se dresserait, nue et froide, sans se soucier que je la reconnusse ou non, productrice plutôt d’un grand frisson d’angoisse que d’une confiance qui s’abandonne ? Certes, je ne veux pas le nier, j’admets encore un impératif de la connaissance et qu’en vertu d’un tel impératif on puisse agir sur les hommes, mais il faut alors que je l’absorbe vivant, et c’est celamaintenant à mes yeux l’essentiel. C’est de cela que mon âme a soif, comme les déserts de l’Afrique aspirent après l’eau.  

بين الم و قلم


هوذا ألالم يعزف لقلمي
و الاخير يرقص كلمات فصفحات.
هي زمن انسان بل انسانية :
تهرب فتُؤسر،
تبقى فتُطمر
أما أنا فلا أهرب
و لا أبقى
بل ببساطة أحيا
و قلمي يتمايل
على أنغام السكون
كأنه يقول للمشاهد
“لستَ وحيداً”
و لكنه في الحقيقة
يرجو أن لا يكون هو الوحيد.

إدي أبي يونس

Stranger on a pavement

One of my most recurring images is that of a man,
sitting on the pavement
a table with a single chair
Elbows on the table
one hand held upwards holding a cigarette
the other holding his head
weighed down, and slightly to one side.
His thoughts clearly consume him
as he consumes a cigarette
which already consumed a bit of his lips
and the tip of his fingers.
And so it goes on,
he sits there for hours,
thought after thought
one cigarette at a time
until there is nothing left of him
but an ashtray
sending bits of fumes
to tell of his passing there
and as the smoke blows away
so does he, leaving nothing behind but troubles.

Eddy Abi Younes

كمشة ناس

في ناس رِكبِت أموالها
و بِنيِت عليها قصور
و في ناس راهنة حالها
و حول حالها بتدور

في ناس مكَبَّلة  بفكرها
و غيرها فكرو مَحبوس
و ناس مُجرَّد ذكرها
إلهام للنفوس

في ناس عَم تَعمِل ثَورة
و ما بتعرف كيف تثور
في ناس متجاهلي دورها
و ناس دورها مهجور

في ناس حِملِت قضية
و دَفعِت كرمالها دم
و في ناس بِقيِت وفيّة
و غيرها ما عاد اهتم

في ناس بتُطلُب حرية
و في ناس وطنها حُر
و ناس هي الحرية
بقلب الحلو و المرّ.

إدي أبي يونس

The Tyger – William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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