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Palestinian Poet Mahmoud Darwish: 13 march, 1941—9 August 2008
I went to a poetry reading in Boston in 2002 sponsored by the Department of English at University of Massachusetts, Boston. The reading was of the work of a poet previously unknown to me, one with the very Arabic name of Mahmoud Darwish. He was both politically and health-wise indisposed at the time. A Palestinian woman poet read and commented extensively on his work. The circumstances of the Palestinians had been little more than a blur on the periphery of my vision until that moment, but I left with the distinct impression of Palestinians as people; dispossessed people, a people who’s plight reminded me ever so much of that of our own Native Americans. I was deeply touched by the strength and authority of Darwish’s work. The work of Darwish enabled me to see more clearly the Palestinians as human beings.
Darwish, Palestine’s “National Poet” is internationally renowned, the winner of numerous literary awards. His work was metaphor: for loss of homeland, of Eden, for displacement, for exile. He was born in western Galilee,now a part of Israel. Darwish has been called, “…the Essential Breath of the Palestinian people, the eloquent witness of exile…." This is reflected in his work, three examples of which are posted below. JRG
In Jerusalem
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.
I Come From There
I come
from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
***
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland.....
From: Under Siege
Here on
the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope.
***
A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent
For we closely watch the hour of victory:
No night in our night lit up by the shelling
Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us
In the darkness of cellars.
***
Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.
***
On the verge of death, he says:
I have no trace left to lose:
Free I am so close to my liberty. My future lies in my own hand.
Soon I shall penetrate my life,
I shall be born free and parentless,
And as my name I shall choose azure letters...
***
You who stand in the doorway, come in,
Drink Arabic coffee with us
And you will sense that you are men like us
You who stand in the doorways of houses
Come out of our morningtimes,
We shall feel reassured to be
Men like you!
See related article by James Adler: “Why Should Israel Be Surprised by its Own Doubts, Cynicism, and Pessimism”
The Chickasaw Plum - Volume V - Number 10 - October 2008
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