A R C H I V E S
Madinat al-Muslimeen Islamic Message Board
| Poetry of Mahmud Darwish |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 00:20:14 |
| slm, In the archives from 2000 I noticed we posted a lot about Palestine as that was the major issue at the time. We also had some great poetry by Mahmud Darwish.. I thought I'd include some more stuff from him here. Mahmud Darwish: (1941- ) Palestinian poet. Internationally recognized for his poetry of strong affaction for a lost homeland. Darwish has become the main voice for the Palestinian struggle for independence. His poetry is simple in terms of style and vocabulary, but uses everyday words for strong and effective expressions and intense feelings. A central image to his early poetry has been the resistant hero, who never gives in and keeps up the fight in a struggle for freedom and independence for the Palestinian people. |
| 08/01/05 at 02:09:41 |
| jannah |
| Re: Poetry of Mahmud Darwish |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 00:25:59 |
| "Oh, my proud wound my homeland is not a briefcase And I am not a traveler I am the lover, and the land is my beloved! ...The archeologist is busy with stone analysis he is looking for his eyes in the burial of myths to prove that I am, a passerby in the path, without eyes! Not a letter in the sojourn of civilization! And I plant my trees, slowly, and about my love, I sing!" |
| Identity Card by Mahmoud Darwish |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 00:36:34 |
| Identity Card by Mahmoud Darwish Record! I am an Arab And my identity card is number fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth 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! |
| 08/01/05 at 00:55:55 |
| jannah |
| Re: Poetry of Mahmud Darwish |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 00:53:47 |
| Arabic text of above poem. Here you can see how great a poet he really is. |
| http://www.jannah.org/board/attachments/identitycard.gif |
| identitycard.gif |
| Re: Poetry of Mahmud Darwish |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 00:57:08 |
| "A Lover From Palestine" 'One stormy night I opened the window And saw a mutilated moon. I told the night: "Be gone Beyond the fence of darkness! I have an appointment with light and words."' |
| A soldier dreams of white lilies |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 01:25:32 |
| This one is one of my favorites. It is about an Israeli soldier who was apparently a friend of his. He had grown tired of war... A soldier dreams of white lilies He dreams of white lilies Of an olive branch, Of her breast at bloom in evening. He dreams, he told me, of a bird, Of lemon blossom, And doesn’t seek to analyse his dream, understanding things Only as he feels and smells them. He understands, he told me, that home ‘Is to drink my mother’s coffee, To return of an evening.’ I asked him: ‘And the land?’ He said: ’I know it not. I do not feel that it is-as poems express it- My very skin and heartbeat. I noticed it suddenly as I do the shop, the street, newspapers.’ I asked him: ‘Do you love it?’ He answered: ‘love is short outing, A glass of wine, an affair.’ ‘Would you die for it?’ ‘Certainly not. The only bonds that tie me to the land Are a fiery article, a lecture- They taught me to be in love with love of it, But I have not felt its heart is mine, Have not breathed in the scent of grass, of roots, of boughs.’ ‘And what was it love like?’ Did it sting like suns, like craving?’ He turned to me and answered: ‘For me love’s instrument is a gun And the silence of an old statue Whose ages and identity are lost.’ He talked to me of the moment of farewell, Of how his mother wept in silence as they led him off To some place at the front. His mother’s anguished voice Was carving out a new longing under skin: O that doves might grow up in the Ministry of Defence, O that they might! He smoked, then said to me, As though fleeing from a morass of blood: ‘I dreamt of white lilies, Of an olive branch, Of a bird embracing the morning On the bough of lemon tree.’ ‘And what did you say?’ ‘I saw what I had made: A red boxthorn I had exploded in the sand, in breasts, in bellies.’ ‘And how many did you kill?’ It’s difficult to count them, But I got one medal.’ Torturing myself, I asked him: ‘Tell me about one of the ones you killed.’ He sat up straight, toyed with the folded newspaper, And said to me, as though reciting a song: ‘Like a tent he collapsed on the stones, Clasping to him the shattered stars. A crown of blood marked his high forehead. His chest was bare of medals- He was no fighter. It seems he was a farmer, a labourer, a pedlar. Like a tent he collapsed upon the stones and died, His arms stretched out, Like two dry streams, And when I searched his pockets for his name, I found two photographs: One of his wife, One of his young daughter.’ I asked him: ‘Did you grieve?’ Interrupting, he answered: ‘Mahmoud, my friend, Grief is white bird That does not come near the battlefields. Soldiers sin who grieve. Over there I was a machine, spitting out fire and death, Turning space into a black bird.’ Later He spoke to me of his first love, Of distant street, Of his reactions to the war, Of press and radio heroism, And when he had hidden his cough in his handkerchief, ‘Let me be,’ He said. ‘I am dreaming of white lilies, Of a street that is singing, of a house that is lit. I want a good heart not a loaded rifle. I want a sunlit day, not the mad, Fascit moment of conquest. I want a smiling child meeting the day with laugher, Not a piece of the war machine. He bade me farewell, for he was searching for white lilies, For a bird that meets the morning On an olive branch, Because he understands things Only as he feels and smells them. He understands, he told me, that ‘Home is sipping my mother’s coffee, And coming back safe of an evening. |
| 08/01/05 at 01:30:23 |
| jannah |
| Apology |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 01:54:20 |
| Apology Mahmoud Darwish Of a childhood wedding I dreamt, I dreamt of two wide eyes, Of a girl with plaits I dreamt That was not for sale for mere piastres, I dreamt of the impregnable walls of your history, Of the smell of almonds I dreamt, Setting ablaze the sadness of long nights. I dreamt of my family, Of my sister’s arm, Embracing me, a hero’s sash, I dreamt of summer night, Of a basket of figs. I dreamt so much, So much I dreamt. Forgive me, then. |
| The Promise of Liberty |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 01:55:49 |
| [center]The Promise of Liberty Mahmoud Darwish I walk the streets of the West Bank Without fear, though the pirates drank My spilt blood. My feet are torn, Swollen by a dagger, a knife, a thorn; Yet my heart is deeply - rooted in the land Where we walk, band after bold band! We are a soft breeze to our friends, And gunpowder against hostile trends: We march, and act; and we never sleep, Because we have promises to keep: Freedom beckons along the horizon afar, Leading our footsteps, like the polar star. We spare no effort, sacrifice or toil Till we celebrate the liberty of our soil. [/center] |
| The Passport |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 01:58:08 |
| Mahmoud Darwish The Passport[/b 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 Don't' leave me pale like the moon! All the birds that followed my palm To the door of the distant airport All the wheat fields 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 Jacob 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! |
| Victim Number 18 |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 02:01:21 |
| Victim Number 18 Mahmoud Darwish Once olive grove was green. It was, and the sky A grove of blue. It was my love. What changed 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 you’ll have evening, 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 a little late: They stopped me. The olive grove was always green. It was, my love. Fifty victims Turned it at sunset into A crimson pond, Fifty victims. Beloved, do not blame me. They killed me. They killed me. They killed me |
| ELEVEN STARS OVER THE LAST MOMENTS OF ANDALUSIA |
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| jannah |
| 08/01/05 at 02:11:06 |
| [i]Mahmud Darwish writes of the lost days when Andalusia was at the height of its glory.[/i] [center] ELEVEN STARS OVER THE LAST MOMENTS OF ANDALUSIA Our tea is green and hot: drink it. Our pistachios are fresh; eat them. The beds are of green cedar, fall on them, following this long siege, lie down on the feathers of our dream. The sheets are crisp, perfumes are ready by the door, and there are plenty of mirrors: Enter them so we may exist completely. Soon we will search In the margins of your history, in distant countries, For what was once our history. And in the end we will ask ourselves: Was Andalusia here or there? On the land...or in the poem? [/center] |
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