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« on: Aug 11, 2008 05:18 AM »


Salam,

On this day, one day after his passing away, I reopen this thread on the new board. May Allah have mercy on him, bless his family and one day bring peace to his people.
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« Reply #1 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:18 AM »

Pride and Fury

O Homeland! O Eagle,
Plunging, through the bars of my cell,
Your fiery beak in my eyes!
All I possess in the presence of death
Is pride and fury.
I have willed that my heart be planted as a tree,
That my forehead become an abode for skylarks.
O eagle,
I am unworthy of your lofty wing,
I prefer a crown of flame.
O homeland!
We were born and raised in your wound,
And ate the fruit of your trees,
To witness the birth of your daybreak.
O eagle unjustly languishing in chains,
O legendary death which once was sought,
Your fiery beak is still plunged in my eye.
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« Reply #2 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:18 AM »

Passport

They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah . . . Don't leave
The palm of my hand without the sun
Because the trees recognize me
All the songs of the rain recognize me
Dont' leave me pale like the moon!

All the birds that followed my palm
To the door of the distant airport
All the wheatfields
All the prisons
All the white tombstones
All the barbed boundaries
All the waving handkerchiefs
All the eyes
were with me,
But they dropped them from my passport

Stripped of my name and identity?
On a soil I nourished with my own hands?
Today Job cried out
Filling the sky:
Don't make an example of me again!
Oh, gentlemen, Prophets,
Don't ask the trees for their names
Don't ask the valleys who their mother is
From my forehead bursts the sword of light
And from my hand springs the water of the river
All the hearts of the people are my identity
So take away my passport!
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« Reply #3 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:18 AM »

Identity Card

Record !
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?

Record !
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks...
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself
at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Record !
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew.

My father..
descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house
is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title !

Record !
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards
of my ancestors
And the land
which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore !
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger !
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« Reply #4 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:19 AM »

Diary of a Palestinian Wound
For Fadwa Tuqan

We do not need to be reminded:
Mount Carmel is in us
and on our eyelashes the grass of Galilee.
Do not say: If we could run to her like a river.
Do not say it:
We and our country are one flesh and bone.

Before June we were not fledgeling doves
so our love did not wither in bondage.
Sister, these twenty years
our work was not to write poems
but to be fighting.

The shadow that descends over your eyes
-demon of a God
who came out of the month of June
to wrap around our heads the sun-
his color is martyrdom
the taste of prayer.
How well he kills, how well he resurrects!

The night that began in your eyes-
in my soul it was a long night's end:
Here and now we keep company
on the road of our return
from the age of drought.

And we came to know what makes the voice of the nightingale
a dagger shining in the face of the invaders.
We came to know what makes the silence of the graveyard
a festival...orchards of life.

You sang your poems, I saw the balconies
desert their walls
the city square extending to the midriff of the mountain:
It was not music we heard.
It was not the color of words we saw:
A million heroes were in the room.

This land absorbs the skins of martyrs.
This land promises wheat and stars.
Worship it!
We are its salt and its water.
We are its wound, but a wound that fights.

Sister, there are tears in my throat
and there is fire in my eyes:
I am free.
No more shall I protest at the Sultan's Gate.
All who have died, all who shall die at the Gate of Day
have embraced me, have made of me a weapon.

Ah my intractable wound!
My country is not a suitcase
I am not a traveler
I am the lover and the land is the beloved.

The archaeologist is busy analyzing stones.
In the rubble of legends he searches for his own eyes
to show
that I am a sightless vagrant on the road
with not one letter in civilization's alphabet.
Meanwhile in my own time I plant my trees.
I sing of my love.

It is time for me to exchange the word for the deed
Time to prove my love for the land and for the nightingale:
For in this age the weapon devours the guitar
And in the mirror I have been fading more and more
Since at my back a tree began to grow.
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« Reply #5 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:20 AM »

The Earth is closing on us
pushing us through the last passage
and we tear off our limbs to pass through.
The Earth is squeezing us.
I wish we were its wheat
so we could die and live again.
I wish the Earth was our mother
so she'd be kind to us.

I wish we were pictures on the rocks
for our dreams to carry as mirrors.
We saw the faces of those who will throw
our children out of the window of this last space.
Our star will hang up mirrors.
Where should we go after the last frontiers?
Where should the birds fly after the last sky?
Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air?
We will write our names with scarlet steam.
We will cut off the hand of the song to be finished by our flesh.
We will die here, here in the last passage.
Here and here our blood will plant its olive tree.

- Mahmoud Darwish
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« Reply #6 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:22 AM »

He Embraced His Murderer

He embraces his murderer.
May he win his heart: Do you feel angrier if I survive?
Brother…My brother!
What did I do to make you destroy me?
Two birds fly overhead.
Why don’t you shoot upwards?
What do you say?

You grew tired of my embrace and my smell.
Aren’t you just as tired of the fear within me?
Then throw your gun in the river! What do you say?
The enemy on the riverbank aims his machine gun at an embrace?
Shoot the enemy!

Thus we avoid the enemy’s bullets and keep from falling into sin.
What do you say?
You’ll kill me so the enemy can go to our home
And descend again into the law of the jungle?

What did you do with my mother’s coffee; with your mother’s coffee?

What crime did I commit to make you destroy me?
I will never
Cease embracing you.
And I will never
Release you.

- Mahmoud Darwish (1941 - 2008)

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« Reply #7 on: Aug 11, 2008 05:25 AM »

My Mother
I long for my mother's bread
My mother's coffee
Her touch
Childhood memories grow up in me
Day after day
I must be worth my life
At the hour of my death
Worth the tears of my mother.

And if I come back one day
Take me as a veil to your eyelashes
Cover my bones with the grass
Blessed by your footsteps
Bind us together
With a lock of your hair
With a thread that trails from the back of your dress
I might become immortal
Become a God
If I touch the depths of your heart.

If I come back
Use me as wood to feed your fire
As the clothesline on the roof of your house
Without your blessing
I am too weak to stand.

I am old
Give me back the star maps of childhood
So that I
Along with the swallows
Can chart the path
Back to your waiting nest.

-Mahmoud Darwish
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« Reply #8 on: Sep 08, 2008 07:49 AM »

Written for him by a contemporary Muslim poet: Danial Abdul Hay Moore


Mahmoud Darwish: The great Palestinian poet who died August 9th from complications arising from an open heart surgery operation in Texas, flown back to Ramala where his funeral and burial was attended and mourned by thousands of people… given a state funeral not occurring since the burial of Arafat.

He was the Pablo Neruda of the Middle East, and most intimately the Palestinians or any displaced nation or persons, giving voice to such tragic and poignant realities that audiences would weep openly at his public readings. I was fortunate to work on the English of translations of his poems with Munir Akash, for a book that appeared from Syracuse University Press, The Adam of Two Edens, as well as the preliminary work on the book from the Lannan Foundation/University of California Press, Unfortunately It Was Paradise.

He began as a political poet defying the tragic political reality of his people, and ended as a lyrical-epic poet, “epic” in that, as Pound stipulated, his poems “contain history.” His rich imagination and passion and his dignity infuse his poems with the proud and grief-stricken representative voice of an entire ethnicity, and his like may not pass by this way again in terms of his towering literary stature and public appreciation.

___________

Paradise Gate

In Memoriam Mahmoud Darwish

The exile dies and
finds he’s home

All lamented fig trees and
cups of pungent coffee

sweet steam in twists above them

All horses tied to fences
lonely without their donkeys

in long green pastures

All glimpses of far ocean
across the barbed wire of enemy territory

now held in a divinely vibrant wisp in the air
for a split second before dispersal

at lickety-split speed over the earth’s mirror
as the world’s top spins below

And the grieving exile opens his sapphire eyes
now polished to a precious sheen

on unforeseen landscapes not exactly
reassembled from the precise gazes in his

poems but partaking of certain
mosaic resemblances puzzled together

And also sees Paradise Gate open before him
and all his doubts and denials

now banished as brutally as he was
into inconsequential territories

afloat under fig trees
wrapped in fresh roasted

swirls of coffee

at home at last
among departed comrades
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« Reply #9 on: Oct 09, 2008 04:29 AM »

I Belong There

by Mahmoud Darwish

Translated by Carolyn Forché and Munir Akash

I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to
her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.


alternative translation:

I AM FROM THERE

by Mahmoud Darwish, Palestinian Poet

I come from there and remember, I was born like
everyone is born, I have a mother
and a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends and a prison.
I have a wave that sea-gullls snatched away.
I have a view of my own and an extra blade of grass.
I have a moon past the peak of words.
I have the godsent food of birds and an olive
tree beyond the ken of time.
I have traversed the land before swords turned
bodies into banquets.

I come from there. I return the sky to its
mother when for its mother the
sky cries, and I weep for a returning cloud to know me.
I have learned the words of blood-stained courts c in order to break the rules.
I have learned and dismantled all the words to
construct a single one:
Home

[translated from Arabic by Tania Nasir]
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« Reply #10 on: Oct 09, 2008 04:29 AM »

In Jerusalem

by Mahmoud Darwish Translated by Fady Joudah

In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy . . . ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t believe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Mohammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me . . . and I forgot, like you, to die.
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« Reply #11 on: Nov 03, 2008 05:33 AM »

Victim Number 18
by M. Darwish (translated)

Once the olive grove was green.
It was, and the sky
A grove of blue. It was, my love.
What changed it that evening?

At the bend in the track they stopped the lorry of workers.
So calm they were.
They turned us round towards the east. So calm they were.

Once my heart was a blue bird, O nest of my beloved.
The handkerchiefs I had of yours were all white. They were, my love.
What stained them that evening?
I do not understand at all, my love.

At the bend in the track they stopped the lorry of workers.
So calm they were.
They turned us round towards the east. So calm they were.

From me and you'll have everything,
Yours the shade and yours the light,
A wedding-ring and all you want,
And an orchard of trees, of olive and fig.
And as on every night I'll come to you.
In the dream I'll enter by the window and throw you jasmine.
Blame me not if I'm in a little late:
They stopped me.

--------------------------------
The poem refers to the massacre at Kafr Qasim in 1956, in which Israeli troops killed forty-eight unarmed villagers.
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« Reply #12 on: May 03, 2009 08:04 AM »

My Mother

I long for my mother's bread
My mother's coffee
Her touch
Childhood memories grow up in me
Day after day
I must be worth my life
At the hour of my death
Worth the tears of my mother.

And if I come back one day
Take me as a veil to your eyelashes
Cover my bones with the grass
Blessed by your footsteps
Bind us together
With a lock of your hair
With a thread that trails from the back of your dress
I might become immortal
Become a God
If I touch the depths of your heart.

If I come back
Use me as wood to feed your fire
As the clothesline on the roof of your house
Without your blessing
I am too weak to stand.

I am old
Give me back the star maps of childhood
So that I
Along with the swallows
Can chart the path
Back to your waiting nest.
jannah
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« Reply #13 on: May 03, 2009 08:06 AM »

The Pigeons Fly

The pigeons fly,

the pigeons come down...

Prepare a place for me to rest.
I love you unto weariness,
your morning is fruit for songs
and this evening is precious gold
the shadows are strong as marble.
When I see myself,
it is hanging upon a neck that embraces only the clouds,
you are the air that undresses in front of me like tears of the grape,
you are the beginning of the family of waves held by the shore.
I love you, you are the beginning of my soul, and you are the end...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

I am for my lover I am. And my lover is for his wandering star
Sleep my love
on you my hair braids, peace be with you...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

Oh, my love, where are you taking me away from my parents,
from my trees, small bed and from my weariness,
from my visions, from my light, from my memories and pleasant evenings,
from my dress and my shyness,
where are you taking me my love, where?
You take me, set me on fire, and then leave me
in the vain path of the air
that is a sin ... that is a sin...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

My love, I fear the silence of your hands.
Scratch my blood so the horse can sleep.
My love, female birds fly to you
take me as a wife and breathe.
My love I will stay and breasts will grow for you
The guards take me out of your way
my love, I will cry upon you, upon you, upon you.
because you are die surface of my sky.
My body is the land,
the place for you...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...
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« Reply #14 on: Jan 07, 2010 06:31 AM »

Oh My Father, I am Yusif


Father! I am Yusif

Oh father!

My brothers neither love me

nor want me in their midst.

Oh father, they assault me,

they stone me and

with insults they shower me.

My brothers wish me dead

so they give their false eulogies.

They shut your door before me,

and from your field

I was expelled.

They poisoned my grapevines,

oh father!

When the passing breeze

jested with my hair,

they all became envious,

outraged at you and me.

What have I done to them, father,

and what loss have I caused?

Butterflies rest on my shoulder,

wheat bows toward me

and birds hover above my hands.

What then did I do wrong, father

and why me?

You're the one who named me Yusif!

They pushed me down the well

and then they blamed the wolf.

Oh, father! The wolf is more merciful

than my brothers.

Did I wrong anyone

when I told about my dream?

Of eleven planets, I dreamt,

and of the sun and the moon

all kneeling before me.
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« Reply #15 on: Oct 04, 2010 03:39 AM »

Tribute to Mahmoud Darwish
sung by Shadia Mansour

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