| The Wandering Reed Of what benefit is it, if man were to gain the whole world But lose the green almond in his father’s orchard? Of what benefit is it, If man were to drink coffee in Paris But none in his mother’s house? Of what benefit is it, if man were to tour the whole world But lose the flowers on the hills of his native land? He gains nothing but deadly silence Within the hearts of the living. You look through the mirror of lands not your own And see your exiled face; You recognize your face Despite the deadly dust of travel From Jaffa, to Lydda, to Haifa, Through the Mediterranean to exile; You recognize your face And try to deny that face! Your worship your own face Even though exile has obliterated its features; The hangman of the twentieth century assumes the countenance Of the eternal face! You close your eyes To worship your face in the darkness of this century. You deny…Your worship, You deny…Your worship, And the God of truth cries to your face: “He who denies his face Is renounced by all the birds of paradise in this universe, And those whom silence has turned mute Will never be heard by the roses of the field He who kills the nightingale of his dreams Will be buried in the forgotten graveyard of the living.” You open your eyes And see the face of your country in the mirror of exile. The deadly silence in the hearts of the living Strips away the skin of your face; It cuts and dries your flesh, Then hangs what remains on poles Under the forgotten sun of the West. Fouzi El –Asmar, The Wandering Reed... |
| 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 Don’t 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 soil I nourished with my own hands? Today Job cried out Filling the sky: Don’t make and 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 sward 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! Psalm 9 O rose beyond the reach of time and of the senses O kiss enveloped in the scarves of all the winds surprise me with one dream that my madness will recoil from you Recoiling from you In order to approach you I discovered time Approaching you in order to recoil form you I discovered my senses Between approach and recoil there is a stone the size of a dream It does not approach It does not recoil You are my country A stone is not what I am therefor I do not like to face the sky not do I die level with the ground but I am a stranger, always a stranger I am from There I come from there and remember, I was born like everyone is borne, I have a mother and a house with many windows, I have brothers, friends and a prison. I have a wave that sea-gulls 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 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 in order to break the rules. I have learned and dismantled all the words to construct a singe one: Home More Darwish poems for you to enjoy! |
| The Lover "Her eyes and the tattoo on her hands are Palestinian, Her name, Palestinian, Her dreams and sorrow, Palestinian, Her kerchief, her feet and body, Palestinian, Her words and her silence, Palestinian, Her voice, Palestinian, Her birth and her death, Palestinian." Mahmoud Darwish. |
| Identity Card Mahmoud Darwish - 1964 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! |
| PALESTINIAN POETRY |