To Damascus... I set out whenever opportunity beckons or draws near, for my love of this neighbor is not to be resisted.
Some may think that what draws me to her is a lush Ghouta, or a braided river, or a sprawling springtime meadow. No, I say to those "some"...
In Damascus I have my promenade of the "Hamidiyya"!
What captivates me in this souk is its humped roof, its shuttered shops, its hidden turnings, the brilliance of its colors, the chants of its vendors and their passing courtesies, and the broken fall of its light...
Souk al-Hamidiyya is the cradle of a child of the past — that yesterday which we push backward, and it turns away, alas, and its shadows melt...
The romanticism of the past — I take my rest in it, and I yearn... and I wish it would visit me from time to time and breathe upon me its plain sweetness... its homespun, native sweetness — in all its unveiled charm!...
Even my feet slip free of the bridle of overmastering fatigue and roam back and forth along the street of the souk... And if my pocket's bosom were wide enough, I would carry away from the Hamidiyya much of what adorns the ear, the hair, the hand, and the corners of rooms...
And so this time, as usual, I had to make my pilgrimage before knocking at the door of Mrs. Thuraya al-Hafiz, president of the "Sukayna Forum" of Damascus, to meet with her and with the members of the club, faithful to my
promise. Was it a promise, this promise, or an open appointment fixed by a longing and a desire of my own?!
The "Sukayna Forum" holds for me a picture worth keeping...
It is enough that it fosters literature and holds seasons for it, as though bringing back the days of the daughter of Husayn, that elegant woman of discerning taste...
And Sukayna — do you remember? Before Madame de Rambouillet, she brought into the salons the talk of literature — and its playfully charming kicks.
Mrs. Thuraya's welcome to me was more than I wholly deserved, though at times I lean on the sweetness of coincidence!... But she, it seems, keeps a standing appointment with visitors! For Mrs. Hafiz is of the genuine elite — of those women whose left hand does one thing so that their right hand may do many...
Our lady hastened to the telephone, calling the members, men and women, to gather to meet a poetess... from Lebanon!
And I, on my seat, laced my fingers and smiled... this anticipatory epithet had left me speechless...
A quarter of an hour passed, and there were Aziza Haroun, Dr. Talat al-Rifai, and Mr. Muhammad al-Jazairi forming a circle of the literary folk of Damascus.
As for the charming Inayat Ramzi, neither I nor the telephone knew where she was that day. Nor did I forget Nizar Qabbani — I had promised my ear something new and dancing from
him, but a troublesome illness had fettered him.
A loss for us, in any case!...
This was the first time I shook hands with the poetess Aziza Haroun. I stood weaving around her a net of my glances, for things upon things in her arrested me before she spoke!...
Aziza Haroun is a poetess and a bride of poetry! In her face is a reserved comeliness, and from its page you read but little of what she carries... Even her smile is small — yet it is the smile of a human being whose heart does not close upon a narrow, cloistered love.
I talked with her long, and her words were beloved of my own... How sweet coincidence is!
She said that she would never harness her poetic gift in submission to passing circumstances, however tyrannical they might grow. She lives for that overflowing brook that runs within her soul, from which she scoops up for us handfuls of colors in cups of silver and gold!!
I asked her about her hours of composition, and she said they belong to moments of revelation: "I give up my desire to be in touch with what is around me; I close my windows and drown in a wondrous lake that gives life and does not kill!" This rapturous drowning Aziza grew used to when she was a child of twelve.
Our poetess sang for us a love poem, a patriotic poem, and a social poem. However the colors may differ, Aziza's poetry is a blessed breath of the east wind.
I heard her address the beloved