يواصل الشاعر عبداللطيف بن يوسف في كتابه (تيم: سنة حب كاملة) الصادر عن (منشورات ضفة) عام 2025 مشروعه الشعري بهذه التجربة الأدبية في منطقة وسطى بين الشعر والسرد من خلال الرسائل الأدبية، فالكتاب ليس ديواناً خالصاً ولا رواية متسلسلة! بل نصوص متفرقة تتأرجح بين القصيدة العمودية، وقصيدة التفعيلة، والرسائل الغرامية، والنثر التأملي، وهذا التنوع ليس ترفاً شكلياً، بل سؤال وجودي يلوب في صدور الشعراء: كيف الهرب من القصيدة دون أن نتخلى عنها؟
وهذا الديوان (تجاوزاً) نوع من الشعر الخالص في الحب، عبّر عنه الشاعر في شهريات «تُلبي كلما لا أنادي؛ أجيبُ حينما لا تسأل»، وما بين (كلما وحينما) مبتدأ العلاقة ما بين (هو) و(هي) التي انطلق منها إلى التحرُّر من القيد الشعري، ذلك القيد الاختياري الذي يجد الشاعر نفسه يعود إلى القصيدة مختاراً وراغباً بوصفها الملاذ الأخير، فالرسائل، والهوامش، والقصائد الحرة كلها محاولات للابتعاد عن القصيدة/ المتن، ولكنها في النهاية تعيد القصيدة إنتاج ذاتها كمرجعية لا مفر عنها ومنها. ومنذ الإهداء «إلى أول من علمنا فقه الحب، ابن حزم الأندلسي»، والذي توسل به وبمقولاته في رأس كل قصيدة، فجاء استدعاء ابن حزم؛ ليمنح التجربة شرعية مزدوجة: من جهة هو تأصيل ثقافي للحب كموضوع عريق في الأدب العربي، ومن جهة أخرى هو تبرير ضمني لأي تجريب لاحق، وكأن الشاعر يعود للتراث، ويعيد صياغته، بل ويسرّب ما يريد من قصص ومواقف وكلمات أجنبية، واستحضار مدينته (الجبيل)، وكأنه يستعيد كل ذلك ويعود إليه، وكما جاء من القصيدة وعاد إليها؛ لتصبح القصيدة المتن الذي لا يفرّط فيه الشاعر، والمرجعية التي لا يمكن الفكاك منها مهما حاول البحث عن أشكال أخرى، وليكون هذا الرسم الهندسي للديوان شافعاً لتوصيفه «مهندس كما تشهد الجامعة، وشاعر كما يقولون»، فجاء الديوان منطلقاً وفق هيكل هندسي، يبدأ بمقولة الوشّاء «وقد عشق كل العرب، بل أكثرهم قد عشق» التي لم تأتِ مجرد تحية فحسب، بل عتبة لا تنتهي، وقد شفّعها بالحمامة التي شبّت عن الطوق في الإهداء، والتي تمثل جسراً ثقافياً يربط الشاعر بأصل تراثي راسخ، وبرموز الحب في تاريخنا العربي المديد، ولعل (تيم) يضاف لقائمتهم، والعجيب أنه لم يأتِ اسم (تيم) إلا في عنوان الكتاب، وغلافه الأخير، ولو توارى فما هو إلا (هو)، وما هي إلا (هي) والقصيدة التي قادته إلى ما استطاع التعبير عنه وتسميتها:
«أسمّيكِ القصيدة في تمرُدها على الشكل».
وهذا ما ساقه إلى المتن والهامش، إذ جعل القصيدة العمودية المتن، أي الأصل الذي ينطلق منه، بينما تمثل قصيدة التفعيلة والنصوص الحرة الهامش، أي المساحة التي يهرب إليها ليجد حرية أكبر. غير أن المفارقة تكمن في أن الهامش عند عبداللطيف بن يوسف ليس تابعاً أو أقل قيمة؛ بل كثيراً ما يضيء ما يعجز المتن عن قوله، ففي بعض النصوص نجد أن ما يُكتب في الهوامش أو في الرسائل أكثر حيوية وصدقاً، وذلك حين «حاولت القصائد وسعها من الأُلفة، واتساعها من.. الأُلَّاف» كما جاء في الإهداء الذي يُعدُّ بوصلة تهدي القارئ إلى شمال الكتاب دوماً.
ولا تزال الرسائل، وإن اختلفت صورها، حمام العشاق، وسبيل وصالهم، وهكذا جاءت في الديوان، إذ يتوسل بها الشاعر للهروب من القيود الشكلية للقصيدة، فالرسائل تسمح له بالجمع بين السرد، والبوح، والشعر في آن واحد.
وهذا المهرب (إن جاز لنا القول بذلك) ليس خالياً من الشعر؛ إذ نجد أن الشاعر يصرّ دائماً على ختم رسائله بقصيدة، سواء في رسائله أو في رسائلها. كأن القصيدة تفرض حضورها رغماً عنه، أو كأنها القاسم المشترك الذي لا يكتمل الخطاب العاطفي إلا به.
من هذا المنطلق الذي يجعل القصيدة شمالاً دوماً؛ تصبح الرسائل ممراً للقصيدة أكثر من كونها بديلاً عنها، فالرسائل ما هي إلا شكل يسمح بالهروب المؤقت، غير أن العودة إلى القصيدة تظل حتمية، وكأنها تحفظ للشاعر نرجسيته التي لا تجعله يتنازل عن الشعر حتى على لسان محبوبته، فهي لا تقل لغة وبلاغة عمّا يضعه في رسائله، وكأن نرجسية الشاعر لا تتنازل عن التولّه إلا بمن يشبهه، فهو يصرّح «كم تشبهينني يا بنت..»، ولعلها الوسيلة التي تجيز للشاعر توحد اللغة في كل الكتاب، وقربها حتى في رسائلها، وقول الشاعر سالف الذكر؛ يتحول إلى مفتاح قرائي، فالمحبوبة ليست (آخر) مستقلاً في النص، بل انعكاس للذات الشاعرة، وهي بذلك آلية فنية تجعل الحب تجربة تمركز الذات حول نفسها، فالحبيبة تُستحضر لتأكيد صورة الشاعر، لا لذاتها، بل لتعيدنا كرّة أخرى إلى فكرة هي/ القصيدة مرآة الأنا؛ فالهروب منها مستحيل لأنها تحمل صورته التي لا يطيق الانفصال عنها، وكذلك القصيدة التي لا مهرب منها وعنها.
أخلص عبداللطيف بن يوسف للقصيدة حتى في مهربه، فلم يكن كغيره من الشعراء الذين هربوا إلى حضن الرواية الفسيح، محمّلين بلغتهم الشعرية التي تعرقل السرد دوماً، غير أنه، على العكس من ذلك، تربّع في مساحة لا يستطيع أحد أن يحاججه عليها، حين اختار الرسائل الأدبية في لباس روائي ختمه بصوت الراوي في شهر ديسمبر، فكل ما في الكتاب مجموعة من الأحداث على هيئة رسائل، والرسائل لها القدرة على استيعاب: الشعر، السرد، والاعترافات، والتعريفات، والتأملات، وليمرر في هذا القالب حتى الشعر النبطي لغيره «قل للقلوب اللي تبي مننا نور.. خلاص طارت بالبياض الحمامة»، وليجعل في الختام سبعة هوامش بعد الفراق في صورة المتن، ويضع الهامش صراحة ليس متناً فحسب؛ بل «معلقات على مشانق الأيام»، مخلصاً للقصيدة، والقصيدة وحدها، مختاراً العدد سبعة، وما يرمز إليه من الكمال والتمام والنماء، كل في ذلك في «سنة حب كاملة» ليضعنا أمام تساؤلات يجيب عليها الكتاب: كيف نغادر القصيدة دون أن نتخلى عنها؟ وكيف نحيا في الهامش بينما لا نستطيع الاستغناء عن المتن؟ وكيف للهامش أن ينازع المتن، ويصله في نهاية المطاف، كل ذلك يجمعه تيم في سنة حب كاملة، حين تكون القصيدة الرباط الأوثق، بين العاشق ومعشوقته، بين الذات والآخر، بين الماضي والحاضر.
الهروب من القصيدة إليها.. «تيم» لعبداللطيف بن يوسف
10 أكتوبر 2025 - 03:24
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آخر تحديث 10 أكتوبر 2025 - 03:24
د. محمد البشير.
تابع قناة عكاظ على الواتساب
د. محمد البشير
The poet Abdul Latif bin Yusuf continues his poetic project in his book (Taim: A Complete Year of Love), published by (Dafah Publications) in 2025, with this literary experience in a middle ground between poetry and narrative through literary letters. The book is neither a pure poetry collection nor a sequential novel! Rather, it consists of scattered texts oscillating between classical poetry, free verse, love letters, and contemplative prose. This diversity is not a mere formal luxury, but an existential question that haunts the hearts of poets: How to escape from poetry without abandoning it?
This collection (by extension) is a kind of pure poetry about love, expressed by the poet in the monthly phrases "I respond when I am not asked; I answer when I do not call," and between (whenever and when) lies the beginning of the relationship between (him) and (her), from which he launched into liberation from the poetic constraint, that optional constraint to which the poet finds himself returning to poetry willingly and desirably as the last refuge. The letters, margins, and free poems are all attempts to distance themselves from the poem/ the text, but in the end, they cause the poem to reproduce itself as an unavoidable reference. Since the dedication "To the first one who taught us the jurisprudence of love, Ibn Hazm Al-Andalusi," which he invoked with his sayings at the beginning of each poem, the invocation of Ibn Hazm grants the experience a dual legitimacy: on one hand, it is a cultural rooting of love as an ancient subject in Arabic literature, and on the other hand, it is an implicit justification for any subsequent experimentation, as if the poet returns to the heritage and reinterprets it, even sneaking in whatever stories, situations, and foreign words he desires, and recalling his city (Al-Jubail), as if he is reclaiming all of that and returning to it, just as he came from the poem and returned to it; to make the poem the text he does not relinquish, and the reference he cannot escape from no matter how hard he tries to search for other forms. Thus, this geometric design of the collection serves to describe him as "an engineer as the university attests, and a poet as they say," and the collection begins according to a geometric structure, starting with the saying of the embroiderer "Every Arab has loved, and most of them have loved," which is not merely a greeting but an endless threshold, and he has adorned it with the dove that has broken free in the dedication, representing a cultural bridge linking the poet to a solid heritage, and to the symbols of love in our long Arab history. Perhaps (Taim) is added to their list, and curiously, the name (Taim) appears only in the title of the book and its last cover; if it is hidden, it is nothing but (he), and it is nothing but (she) and the poem that led him to what he could express and name:
"I name you the poem in its rebellion against form."
This is what led him to the text and the margin, as he made classical poetry the text, the original point from which he launches, while the free verse and texts represent the margin, the space he escapes to in search of greater freedom. However, the paradox lies in the fact that the margin for Abdul Latif bin Yusuf is not subordinate or of lesser value; rather, it often illuminates what the text fails to articulate. In some texts, we find that what is written in the margins or in the letters is more vibrant and sincere, especially when "the poems tried their best to expand from familiarity, and to widen from... the familiar," as stated in the dedication, which serves as a compass guiding the reader always to the north of the book.
And the letters, despite their varying forms, remain the doves of lovers and the means of their connection. Thus, they appeared in the collection, as the poet employs them to escape from the formal constraints of poetry. The letters allow him to combine narrative, confession, and poetry simultaneously.
This escape (if we may say so) is not devoid of poetry; for we find that the poet always insists on concluding his letters with a poem, whether in his letters or in her letters. It is as if the poem imposes its presence upon him, or as if it is the common denominator that completes the emotional discourse only with it.
From this standpoint, which always makes the poem the north, the letters become a passage for the poem rather than a substitute for it. The letters are merely a form that allows for temporary escape, yet the return to the poem remains inevitable, as if it preserves for the poet his narcissism that does not allow him to relinquish poetry even through the voice of his beloved. She does not lack the language and eloquence of what he places in his letters, as if the poet's narcissism only concedes to someone similar to him. He declares, "How much you resemble me, oh daughter...," and perhaps this is the means that allows the poet to unify the language throughout the book, and even in her letters. The poet's aforementioned statement transforms into a reading key, for the beloved is not an independent "other" in the text, but a reflection of the poetic self. Thus, it is an artistic mechanism that makes love an experience centered around the self, for the beloved is summoned to affirm the poet's image, not for her own sake, but to bring us back once again to the idea that the poem is the mirror of the self; escaping from it is impossible because it carries his image, which he cannot bear to separate from, just as the poem is inescapable.
Abdul Latif bin Yusuf remained loyal to the poem even in his escape; he was not like other poets who fled to the vast embrace of the novel, burdened with their poetic language that always hinders narrative. On the contrary, he settled in a space that no one can contest, when he chose literary letters in a narrative guise, concluding it with the voice of the narrator in December. Everything in the book is a collection of events in the form of letters, and the letters have the ability to encompass: poetry, narrative, confessions, definitions, and contemplations. He even manages to incorporate Nabati poetry for others: "Tell the hearts that want light from us... the dove has flown in white," and in the end, he places seven margins after the separation in the form of the text, making the margin explicitly not just a text but "hanging verses on the gallows of days," remaining loyal to the poem, and the poem alone, choosing the number seven, which symbolizes completeness, perfection, and growth, all in "A Complete Year of Love," placing us before questions that the book answers: How do we leave the poem without abandoning it? How do we live in the margin while we cannot do without the text? How can the margin contest the text and ultimately connect with it? All of this is gathered by Taim in A Complete Year of Love, when the poem becomes the strongest bond between the lover and his beloved, between the self and the other, between the past and the present.
This collection (by extension) is a kind of pure poetry about love, expressed by the poet in the monthly phrases "I respond when I am not asked; I answer when I do not call," and between (whenever and when) lies the beginning of the relationship between (him) and (her), from which he launched into liberation from the poetic constraint, that optional constraint to which the poet finds himself returning to poetry willingly and desirably as the last refuge. The letters, margins, and free poems are all attempts to distance themselves from the poem/ the text, but in the end, they cause the poem to reproduce itself as an unavoidable reference. Since the dedication "To the first one who taught us the jurisprudence of love, Ibn Hazm Al-Andalusi," which he invoked with his sayings at the beginning of each poem, the invocation of Ibn Hazm grants the experience a dual legitimacy: on one hand, it is a cultural rooting of love as an ancient subject in Arabic literature, and on the other hand, it is an implicit justification for any subsequent experimentation, as if the poet returns to the heritage and reinterprets it, even sneaking in whatever stories, situations, and foreign words he desires, and recalling his city (Al-Jubail), as if he is reclaiming all of that and returning to it, just as he came from the poem and returned to it; to make the poem the text he does not relinquish, and the reference he cannot escape from no matter how hard he tries to search for other forms. Thus, this geometric design of the collection serves to describe him as "an engineer as the university attests, and a poet as they say," and the collection begins according to a geometric structure, starting with the saying of the embroiderer "Every Arab has loved, and most of them have loved," which is not merely a greeting but an endless threshold, and he has adorned it with the dove that has broken free in the dedication, representing a cultural bridge linking the poet to a solid heritage, and to the symbols of love in our long Arab history. Perhaps (Taim) is added to their list, and curiously, the name (Taim) appears only in the title of the book and its last cover; if it is hidden, it is nothing but (he), and it is nothing but (she) and the poem that led him to what he could express and name:
"I name you the poem in its rebellion against form."
This is what led him to the text and the margin, as he made classical poetry the text, the original point from which he launches, while the free verse and texts represent the margin, the space he escapes to in search of greater freedom. However, the paradox lies in the fact that the margin for Abdul Latif bin Yusuf is not subordinate or of lesser value; rather, it often illuminates what the text fails to articulate. In some texts, we find that what is written in the margins or in the letters is more vibrant and sincere, especially when "the poems tried their best to expand from familiarity, and to widen from... the familiar," as stated in the dedication, which serves as a compass guiding the reader always to the north of the book.
And the letters, despite their varying forms, remain the doves of lovers and the means of their connection. Thus, they appeared in the collection, as the poet employs them to escape from the formal constraints of poetry. The letters allow him to combine narrative, confession, and poetry simultaneously.
This escape (if we may say so) is not devoid of poetry; for we find that the poet always insists on concluding his letters with a poem, whether in his letters or in her letters. It is as if the poem imposes its presence upon him, or as if it is the common denominator that completes the emotional discourse only with it.
From this standpoint, which always makes the poem the north, the letters become a passage for the poem rather than a substitute for it. The letters are merely a form that allows for temporary escape, yet the return to the poem remains inevitable, as if it preserves for the poet his narcissism that does not allow him to relinquish poetry even through the voice of his beloved. She does not lack the language and eloquence of what he places in his letters, as if the poet's narcissism only concedes to someone similar to him. He declares, "How much you resemble me, oh daughter...," and perhaps this is the means that allows the poet to unify the language throughout the book, and even in her letters. The poet's aforementioned statement transforms into a reading key, for the beloved is not an independent "other" in the text, but a reflection of the poetic self. Thus, it is an artistic mechanism that makes love an experience centered around the self, for the beloved is summoned to affirm the poet's image, not for her own sake, but to bring us back once again to the idea that the poem is the mirror of the self; escaping from it is impossible because it carries his image, which he cannot bear to separate from, just as the poem is inescapable.
Abdul Latif bin Yusuf remained loyal to the poem even in his escape; he was not like other poets who fled to the vast embrace of the novel, burdened with their poetic language that always hinders narrative. On the contrary, he settled in a space that no one can contest, when he chose literary letters in a narrative guise, concluding it with the voice of the narrator in December. Everything in the book is a collection of events in the form of letters, and the letters have the ability to encompass: poetry, narrative, confessions, definitions, and contemplations. He even manages to incorporate Nabati poetry for others: "Tell the hearts that want light from us... the dove has flown in white," and in the end, he places seven margins after the separation in the form of the text, making the margin explicitly not just a text but "hanging verses on the gallows of days," remaining loyal to the poem, and the poem alone, choosing the number seven, which symbolizes completeness, perfection, and growth, all in "A Complete Year of Love," placing us before questions that the book answers: How do we leave the poem without abandoning it? How do we live in the margin while we cannot do without the text? How can the margin contest the text and ultimately connect with it? All of this is gathered by Taim in A Complete Year of Love, when the poem becomes the strongest bond between the lover and his beloved, between the self and the other, between the past and the present.