Moaen shalabia; Born on 14 October 1958 in Maghar Village -The Galilee. One of the Arab Palestinian national Minority – Israel. Finished his studies in Haifa University – (Business Administration and management. Poet and prose writer, his writing career began in 1973, he published his poems in national local newspapers and in Arabic papers abroad. His first-born was the first book of poetry in 1989.
He was awarded by the Palestinian education ministry for his blessed efforts in enriching the national education and for his loyalty to the Palestinian issue and the Principles of justice and freedom. He was awarded by the "Arab intellectual's forum" – Jerusalem Alquds). Besides, he has received many appreciation certificates a member in the union of Arab writers and the movement of world poets (Poetas del mundo) and Member of Mahmoud Darwish Foundation for Creativity. His literary production was discussed and criticized in universities and in many sessions in homeland and abroad. Some of his poems were translated into many languages, like French, Turkish, English, Romanian, Polish, Macedonian, Bahasa Malaysia, Italian, Hebrew, Bosnian, and Albanian language. His collection of poems was included in the national and international anthologies. He recently won the prize of the Arab Writers Union and of the year 2018 for poetry.
The departure of the spirit
I saw you painting the dream
between the fire and the night,
And moons above the night,
And grief behind the spirit,
And the color of grief likes the twilight.
I saw you carrying the sea in your eyes expatriate,
And plates of faith and disbelief,
I asked the sea if it know its carrier,
The sea replies waves of tiredness.
I saw you silent dumping the grief in your lips,
You don’t ask now about my drown?
You said: "yes",
Why the river doesn't flow as we like,
We don’t want to pass the love like leafs.
I saw you hugging the thorn,
And the thorn is wounding,
Then I said: enough
The thorn's wounds in the worriedly.
I saw you behind my grief and in it,
Can you stand the grief in journeys?
I'm tiered of grief, I don’t know
Whether the spirit departure until neck
Erase the grief.
Night and wine and woman
My wooden home
has two windows opened to their limits
and shadow of a woman inflaming the distance
I look upon the sea on the wake of the evening
and upon a glass of wine
stirring the echoes.
My wooden home has the smell of dew
and the shape of a soul in the palm of a blur
in our wooden home there is an aged jar
and a thirsty butterfly haunting me
into the futility of speech.
It is you..
and for a while I've been looking in you for my death
here you are, and this taste is monstrous
exploding in me a volcano
and inflaming in me my sails.
Here you are
and in your eyes a storm of drunkenness
oh you hug and burn and fill and spill me
wine over my crematorium
so don't ever change and be oh a woman
destroying all my kingdom
and embrace me as a bottle
that danced on the belt of a storm
thus the flame of its wine burns me into poetry
for an ultimate heat and a Palestinian glass
cover all my questions...!!
Wave is return
Why I should forgive, friends?
Does any one of you carry the morning baggage?
Does there any one who read the catastrophe in my grief,
And participate in the death of the night the suffer of the darkness,
And tearing an artery in my times entrails.
There was a flower which growing in my heart
There was a tulip which growing in my soul
My life has gone… I wish it does not.
A child was growing in my heart,
She was fidgeting in the womb of sorrow… suffering
A female was in my soul
Painting the wings of the sun and the remains of a smile
But arrows of those who I love
Were shut, in morning, to my soul and… it hit the target!
What I should do, friends?
Does there any one of you carry the worries of our nation?
Does there any one of you read the books of sea,
And sip the remains of coal from the bottom of the cup?
The child says:
What I should do in order to turn me pregnant !?
What do I write, strangers?
Does there any one of you understand what I may write?
I, might, write all your sins
And hug, at noon, my torments
What I should do, lovers?
Does any one of you know the taste of
A salty wound on the breasts of the kiss?
Does any one of you know how the love will be
On the bridge of return?
Does any one of you know
how the soul go On the flank of the tent?
Does any one of you know
How the heart be hungry and how the passion suicide…?!
What I should do, my beloves?
It is mirage.. mirage
Continue your watery dreams
Continue the wife's dream
Cause tomorrow you will hug these wave
Wave is return,
Wave is return,
Wave is return.