Stand Up Writing

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


April 2016

About a Face

To make the same mistake again and go down the yellow brick road, paved with criticism. The road leading to the masses that reek of sarcasm and try to pin their smell on you. You often try to escape through the alleys of indifference, to lock yourself up in vanity where you would stay up all night long fighting absurdity. You’d spend the night burying your face in the fire and despite your desperate need of sleep you don’t shut your eyes in fear of nightmares. The same nightmares that tear you apart between the beast with the thousand eyes and the dark room of mirrors and shadows. No you do not sleep, you do not dream but instead drift away to an encouraging presence.
There you would paint a gentle pair of eyes in which you can rest through the night. And around those eyes you’d paint a face, a precious face, one that is real, one that is not woven of deceitful shadows.
A presence, a face, eyes and an encounter in which you would be brought back to meaning by a touch of love. An encounter where you would look truth in the eye only to realize that the face you paint is actually painting you. And so you go on painting the painting that paints you.
You wonder where it all started, and if it ever ends. You wonder whether what you are painting is true and if it really matters, whether what you paint is beautiful and who’s to decide? You wonder whether your painting is good, and what is good to begin with? But in the end, all you’ve got is a face, in front of whom, all else is silenced so that life may sing you a song of hope, birth and abundance.

Eddy Abi Younes


I sit beside the fire and think – J.R.R. Tolkien

“I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door”
J.R.R. Tolkien

على طريق الحج

رفع رأسه من البحر الأبيض القطني، تاركا ً ورائه ركام الأحلام على شاطئ اليقظة. قام ليلاقي أشعة الشمس و نداء الطريق. 
في ذلك النهار شقّ طريقه بالأغاني، بلحن خاص به: مزيج من الوحل و الغيوم كالذي صنع الإنسان قديما ً. راح يمشي، مشدوداً بين العلو و العمق، و الحياة تسجد لإنعكاس الأبدية على وجنتيه و ترتمي تحت قدميه لعل ظلها يلتقط بعضا ً من شعاع الألوهة. يسير و وراءه حفنة من المجانين يطاردون لهفة عينيه لما فيهما من بريق الجنون العاقل. فيه ما يكفي من الشبه ليلمس واقعهم و فيه ما يكفي من الإختلاف ليدغدغ خيالهم و يدفع بهم إلى المجهول: و سيذهبون للإرتشاف من ينبوع الحقيقة لأنهم التمسوا عذوبتها في عطش ذلك الحاج. كان قد وهب كل ما يملك، فما بقي له سوى الخيار و خياره كان العطاء بعد. يهبهم ما يملكه، و هو لا يملك شيئا ً. يهبهم عطشاً و جوعا ً، يبشرّهم بما يستحق القلق و يستوجب الإندهاش. و عند عودة الشمس إلى أحضان البحار، يلتمس العراء، تحت لحاف النجوم و برفقة نار متقدة، ليمضي الليل يحاكي ذاك الذي هو.  
إدي أبي يونس

Il y a des gens – Robert Riber

Il y a des gens, comme ça, qui respirent le calme,

le calme et la tranquillité.

Il y a des gens qui sont comme des lumières dans la nuit,

Comme des braseros au plus fort de l’hiver.

Des gens qui, lorsqu’ils vous regardent, tout s’apaise.
Quand ils parlent, tout en nous se fait attente, écoute!

Quand ils vous tendent la main, on a envie d’être veilleur…

Oh ! Ce ne sont ni des héros, ni des gens célèbres.

Ce sont des gens de tous les jours, des petites gens comme on dit,

Mais des géants du cœur.

Ces gens-là ne font ni grandes phrases, ni grands discours.

Ils sont là, un point c’est tout, et ça suffit!

Ne les cherchez pas au bout du monde.

Ils sont à portée de portes ou de portillons.

C’est peut-être votre boulangère ou votre épicier,

Votre voisin ou votre marchand de journaux.

Qu’importe: ce sont des gens comme vous et moi,

Des petites gens, des gens de tous les jours.

Pourtant, parfois, ce sont nos maîtres, sans que nous le sachions,

ni qu’ils le sachent eux-mêmes.

Merci, petites gens de tous les jours,

Vous êtes les témoins de la grandeur de Dieu.

Robert Riber
dans 1000 textes “fenêtres ouvertes”


صلاة الوجوه

اعذرني يا سيدي، فأنا لا افقه الصلاة
بل اهوى لغة الوجوه
التمس وجهك من خلالها
و هناك من نحت صوتها المجهول فأعطاه هوية
اعطاه وجهاً اشبه بنداء يحاكي قدس اقداسي
اتأملها فأراك، أناجيك لأحاكيها
فاحفر وجه الصلاة هذا في كياني
نور لطريقي عندما يحلك الظلام
فاتلمس الدرب اليك
يا من انت الدرب و الحقيقة و الحياة.

إدي أبي يونس


Eldorado – Edgar Allan Poe

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o’er his heart a shadow—
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
‘Shadow,’ said he,
‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,’
The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado!”
― Edgar Allan Poe

Roads go ever on – J.R.R. Tolkien

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Kafka on Books

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.

Franz Kafka

The Waking – Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.”
― Theodore RoethkeThe Collected Poems

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