At last the cure, I bid farewell to pain,
and welcome with a smile the days to come.
Oblivion comes to me a kingly guest,
with hands compassionate and blessed steps.
My guest comes strongly on,
folding the distances, the dark unknown.
Proffering a cup that takes away
old pain, and banishes all regrets.
So drain it to the dregs and have no fear-
For long you have suffered, your thirst your only drink.
Oblivion now envelops me, and I
thank God for its overwhelming flood,
Surrendering to the waves which engulf me,
happy to embrace a void without memories.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Arabic Poem "The Burning Flute" By Ibrahim Naji
How many times my love
as the night covers the earth
I wander alone, and in the dark
no one complains but me.
I make the tears a tune
and I make the potery a flute
And would a wreck responds
that I inflamed in my ardent love.
Fire stirs in it
and the wind blows away the rest.
How miserable is the flute between
destiny and between fates
He sings and sadly sings
returning my complaints.
Sympathetic from our kept secrets
on the love of innermost secrets
Until a shadow appears.
I have known him in my youth
He comes close to me and he comes close
to the lips of my mouth
And suddenly my dream disapears
and my eyes wake up
And though I went listening and listening
I wasn't familiar but with the echo.
as the night covers the earth
I wander alone, and in the dark
no one complains but me.
I make the tears a tune
and I make the potery a flute
And would a wreck responds
that I inflamed in my ardent love.
Fire stirs in it
and the wind blows away the rest.
How miserable is the flute between
destiny and between fates
He sings and sadly sings
returning my complaints.
Sympathetic from our kept secrets
on the love of innermost secrets
Until a shadow appears.
I have known him in my youth
He comes close to me and he comes close
to the lips of my mouth
And suddenly my dream disapears
and my eyes wake up
And though I went listening and listening
I wasn't familiar but with the echo.
Arabic Poem "The Dream of Infatuation" By Ibrahim Naji
No love but Wherever held a place and I don't see
for me other than that a homeland and a location
My homeland all nights long is his home
As long and as far away he gets,my love is where he stays.
And when inhabited earth embrace us
its moments are populated daily.
No difference between her north and south
as they are bearing greeting to my heart
And they are pressing my knowledge and seldom
time preserves the custody of my heartbloods.
And if I cry, so I cry from the fear
That our infatuation is just a dream
And maybe the significance of our intention.So I cried out
from before we shed the tears from our distance.
for me other than that a homeland and a location
My homeland all nights long is his home
As long and as far away he gets,my love is where he stays.
And when inhabited earth embrace us
its moments are populated daily.
No difference between her north and south
as they are bearing greeting to my heart
And they are pressing my knowledge and seldom
time preserves the custody of my heartbloods.
And if I cry, so I cry from the fear
That our infatuation is just a dream
And maybe the significance of our intention.So I cried out
from before we shed the tears from our distance.
Arabic Poem "Farewell" By Ibrahim Naji
Leave me, my love, it's time to part
this paradise is not my portion.
I had to cross a bridge of flame whenever
I visited this land of bliss.
Yet I've been your life-long companion
since earliest youth and your tender years.
But now I come like a transient guest,
and go away like a bird of passage.
Has anyone drunken with love like us,
seen love like we have seen it ?
We built a thousand castles on our way,
Walked together on a moon-drenched road,
Where joy danced and leapt before us,
we gazed at the stars that fell, and we possessed them.
And we laughed like two children together,
ran and raced with our own shadows.
After this nectar's sweetness we awoke -
how I wished it had never been so !
Night's dreams had vanished, the night was ended
the night that used to be our friend.
The light of morning was an ominous herald ;
dawn loomed up like a wall of fire.
this paradise is not my portion.
I had to cross a bridge of flame whenever
I visited this land of bliss.
Yet I've been your life-long companion
since earliest youth and your tender years.
But now I come like a transient guest,
and go away like a bird of passage.
Has anyone drunken with love like us,
seen love like we have seen it ?
We built a thousand castles on our way,
Walked together on a moon-drenched road,
Where joy danced and leapt before us,
we gazed at the stars that fell, and we possessed them.
And we laughed like two children together,
ran and raced with our own shadows.
After this nectar's sweetness we awoke -
how I wished it had never been so !
Night's dreams had vanished, the night was ended
the night that used to be our friend.
The light of morning was an ominous herald ;
dawn loomed up like a wall of fire.
Arabic Poem "A Wild Cat" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah
Your love lurks in my veins like a bandit
Commits arson, shatters lanterns
And skulks in the corners of my veins
Like a wild cat with sharp claws
Alert to hunt moths
To pounce on birds
And I lie awake at night waiting for it to come forth
From my blood.
You came with your conquering army, and caused an upheaval
That changed my life
You sequestered all my possessions
Bound me with chains of gold
And put me under house arrest
Within the limits of your eyes
You locked me in the cell of love
And took the keys away with you.
Commits arson, shatters lanterns
And skulks in the corners of my veins
Like a wild cat with sharp claws
Alert to hunt moths
To pounce on birds
And I lie awake at night waiting for it to come forth
From my blood.
You came with your conquering army, and caused an upheaval
That changed my life
You sequestered all my possessions
Bound me with chains of gold
And put me under house arrest
Within the limits of your eyes
You locked me in the cell of love
And took the keys away with you.
Arabic Poem "You Alone" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah
You alone . . . control my history
And write your name on the first page
And on the third, and on the tenth,
And on the last.
You alone are allowed to sport with my days
From the first century of my birth
To the twenty-first century after love.
You alone can add to my days what you wish
And delete what you wish
My whole history flows from the palms of your hands
And pours into your palms.
And write your name on the first page
And on the third, and on the tenth,
And on the last.
You alone are allowed to sport with my days
From the first century of my birth
To the twenty-first century after love.
You alone can add to my days what you wish
And delete what you wish
My whole history flows from the palms of your hands
And pours into your palms.
Arabic Poem "Free Harbor" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah
Many ships have asked for sanctuary
In the harbor of my eyes
I refused asylum to all of them
Your ships alone
Have the right to take refuge
In my territorial waters
Your ships alone
Have the right to sail in my blood
Without prior permission.
In the harbor of my eyes
I refused asylum to all of them
Your ships alone
Have the right to take refuge
In my territorial waters
Your ships alone
Have the right to sail in my blood
Without prior permission.
Arabic Poem "Mad Woman" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah
I am quite mad and you are wholly sane
From the mind's paradise I've sought to flee
You are all wise, yours are the summer months
So leave the winter's changing face for me.
I'm sick with love and I'm past any cure
Oppressed in body, that is woman's plight
My nerves are taut and should you only whisper
Into the empty air I would take flight.
I'm like small fish lost in the great ocean
When will you lift the siege ? You've hidden away
The key to unlock my house in your own pocket
And enter my life's details day by day.
O love, my passion whirls me dizzily
Gather my scattered soul whose fragments fly
For you are standing at the frozen pole
And I beneath an equatorial sky.
O love, I stand against the ten commandments
History behind is only blood and sand
To love I owe allegiance. Lemon trees
Within your breast my only native land.
From the mind's paradise I've sought to flee
You are all wise, yours are the summer months
So leave the winter's changing face for me.
I'm sick with love and I'm past any cure
Oppressed in body, that is woman's plight
My nerves are taut and should you only whisper
Into the empty air I would take flight.
I'm like small fish lost in the great ocean
When will you lift the siege ? You've hidden away
The key to unlock my house in your own pocket
And enter my life's details day by day.
O love, my passion whirls me dizzily
Gather my scattered soul whose fragments fly
For you are standing at the frozen pole
And I beneath an equatorial sky.
O love, I stand against the ten commandments
History behind is only blood and sand
To love I owe allegiance. Lemon trees
Within your breast my only native land.
Arabic Poem "Shade And Noon Sun" By Muhammad Al-Maghut
All the fields of the world
At odds with two small lips
All the streets of history
At odds with two bare feet.
Love,
They travel and we wait
They have gallows
We have necks
They have pearls
And we have freckles and moles
They own the night, the dawn, the afternoon sun and the day
And we own skin and bones.
We plant under the nooday sun,
And they eat in the shade
Their teeth are white as rice
Our teeth dark as desolate forests,
Their breasts are soft as silk
Our breasts dusty as execution squares
And yet, we are the kings of the world:
Their homes are buried in bills and accounts
Our homes are buried in autumn leaves
In their pockets they carry the addresses
of thieves and traitors
In ours we carry the addresses
of rivers and thunderstorms.
They own windows
We own the winds
They own the ships
We own the waves
They own the medals
We own the mud
They own the walls and balconies
We own the ropes and the daggers.
And now beloved
Come, let us sleep on the pavements.
At odds with two small lips
All the streets of history
At odds with two bare feet.
Love,
They travel and we wait
They have gallows
We have necks
They have pearls
And we have freckles and moles
They own the night, the dawn, the afternoon sun and the day
And we own skin and bones.
We plant under the nooday sun,
And they eat in the shade
Their teeth are white as rice
Our teeth dark as desolate forests,
Their breasts are soft as silk
Our breasts dusty as execution squares
And yet, we are the kings of the world:
Their homes are buried in bills and accounts
Our homes are buried in autumn leaves
In their pockets they carry the addresses
of thieves and traitors
In ours we carry the addresses
of rivers and thunderstorms.
They own windows
We own the winds
They own the ships
We own the waves
They own the medals
We own the mud
They own the walls and balconies
We own the ropes and the daggers.
And now beloved
Come, let us sleep on the pavements.
Arabic Poem "From the Doorstep to Heaven" By Muhammad Al-Maghut
Now,
With the sad rain
Drenching my sad face,
I dream of a ladder of dust,
Collected from hunched backs
And hands clinging onto knees,
To mount to highest heaven
And discover
What becomes of our prayers and sighs.
O my beloved,
All the prayers and sighs,
All the laments and cries for help,
Springing from
Millions of lips and hearts,
Through thousands of years and centuries,
Must be gathered somewhere in heaven,
Like clouds.
And maybe
These words of mine
Are now close to those of Jesus.
So let us await the tears of heaven,
O beloved.
With the sad rain
Drenching my sad face,
I dream of a ladder of dust,
Collected from hunched backs
And hands clinging onto knees,
To mount to highest heaven
And discover
What becomes of our prayers and sighs.
O my beloved,
All the prayers and sighs,
All the laments and cries for help,
Springing from
Millions of lips and hearts,
Through thousands of years and centuries,
Must be gathered somewhere in heaven,
Like clouds.
And maybe
These words of mine
Are now close to those of Jesus.
So let us await the tears of heaven,
O beloved.
Arabic Poem "To Two Unknown Eyes" By Muhammad Al-Fayturi
Mistress...
Should these enamored words chance to meet your eyes
Or pass between your lips
The forgive me; it was your eyes
In whose shade one evening I leaned resting
And snatched brief slumber
In their repose I caressed the stars and moon
I wove a boat of fancy out of petals
And laid down my tired soul
Gave to drink my thirsty lip
Quenched my eye's desire.
Mistress...
When we met by chance as strangers meet
My sorrow too was walking on the road
Bare, unveiled
With heavy tread
You were my sorrow.
Sadness and loss
Silence and regret
Were embracing a poet consumed by struggle.
For poetry, mistress, is a stranger in my land
Killed by emptiness and void
My spirit trembled saw you
I felt suddenly as if a dagger delved into my blood
Cleanse my heart, my mouth
Prostrated me with soiled brow and supplicating hands
In the shade of your sweet eyes.
Mistress...
If suddenly we meet
If my eyes see those your eyes
High-set, green, drowned in mist and rain
If on the road by another chance we meet
And what is chance but fate?
Then would I kiss the road, kiss it twice.
Should these enamored words chance to meet your eyes
Or pass between your lips
The forgive me; it was your eyes
In whose shade one evening I leaned resting
And snatched brief slumber
In their repose I caressed the stars and moon
I wove a boat of fancy out of petals
And laid down my tired soul
Gave to drink my thirsty lip
Quenched my eye's desire.
Mistress...
When we met by chance as strangers meet
My sorrow too was walking on the road
Bare, unveiled
With heavy tread
You were my sorrow.
Sadness and loss
Silence and regret
Were embracing a poet consumed by struggle.
For poetry, mistress, is a stranger in my land
Killed by emptiness and void
My spirit trembled saw you
I felt suddenly as if a dagger delved into my blood
Cleanse my heart, my mouth
Prostrated me with soiled brow and supplicating hands
In the shade of your sweet eyes.
Mistress...
If suddenly we meet
If my eyes see those your eyes
High-set, green, drowned in mist and rain
If on the road by another chance we meet
And what is chance but fate?
Then would I kiss the road, kiss it twice.
Arabic Poem "Mailman" By Buland Al-Haidari
O mailman,
What is your desire of me?
I am far removed from the world,
Surely you are mistaken,
For the earth holds nothing new
For this outcast.
What was,
Still is, as it was before.
It dreams,
It buries,
And tries to regain.
People still have their festivals,
And mourning connects one festival with the next.
Their eyes dig in the graveyard of their minds
Looking for some new glory
To quiet some new hunger.
China still has its wall,
A legend once effaced brought back by time.
The earth still has its Sisyphus,
And a rock that does not know
It desires.
O mailman,
surely you are mistaken,
For there is nothing new ...
Return along the path whence you came,
The path that so often brings you.
What is your desire of me?
What is your desire of me?
I am far removed from the world,
Surely you are mistaken,
For the earth holds nothing new
For this outcast.
What was,
Still is, as it was before.
It dreams,
It buries,
And tries to regain.
People still have their festivals,
And mourning connects one festival with the next.
Their eyes dig in the graveyard of their minds
Looking for some new glory
To quiet some new hunger.
China still has its wall,
A legend once effaced brought back by time.
The earth still has its Sisyphus,
And a rock that does not know
It desires.
O mailman,
surely you are mistaken,
For there is nothing new ...
Return along the path whence you came,
The path that so often brings you.
What is your desire of me?
Arabic Poem "Old Age" By Buland Al-Haidari
Another winter,
And here am I,
By the side of the stove,
that a woman might dream of me,
That I might bury in her breast
A secret she would not mock;
Dreaming that in my fading years
I might spring forth as light,
And she would say:
This light is mine;
Let no woman draw near it.
Here,
By the side of the stove,
Another winter,
And here Am I,
Spinning my dreams and fearing them,
Afraid her eyes would mock
My bald, idiotic head,
My greying, aged soul,
Afraid her feet would kick
My love,
And here, by the side of the stove,
I would be lightly mocked by a woman.
Alone,
Without love, or dreams, or a woman,
And tomorrow I shall die of the cold within,
Here, by the side of the stove.
And here am I,
By the side of the stove,
that a woman might dream of me,
That I might bury in her breast
A secret she would not mock;
Dreaming that in my fading years
I might spring forth as light,
And she would say:
This light is mine;
Let no woman draw near it.
Here,
By the side of the stove,
Another winter,
And here Am I,
Spinning my dreams and fearing them,
Afraid her eyes would mock
My bald, idiotic head,
My greying, aged soul,
Afraid her feet would kick
My love,
And here, by the side of the stove,
I would be lightly mocked by a woman.
Alone,
Without love, or dreams, or a woman,
And tomorrow I shall die of the cold within,
Here, by the side of the stove.
Arabic Poem "The Pigeons Fly" By Mahmoud Darwish
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...
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...
Arabic Poem "Pride and Fury" By Mahmoud Darwish
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.
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.
Arabic Poem "Passport" By Mahmoud Darwish
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!
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!
Arabic Poem "Psalm 9" By Mahmoud Darwish
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 from 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
therefore I do not like to face the sky
nor do I die level with the ground
but I am a stranger, always a stranger.
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 from 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
therefore I do not like to face the sky
nor do I die level with the ground
but I am a stranger, always a stranger.
Arabic Poem "Diary of a Palestinian Wound" By Mahmoud Darwish
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.
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.
Arabic Poem "Identity Card" By Mahmoud Darwish
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 !
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 !
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Arabic Poem "My Mother" By Mahmoud Darwish
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.
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.
Poem "Becoming A Woman" By Hilary Tham (Personal Reviews)
Hilary Tham Goldberg, 58, a poet, painter and teacher who viewed the world from the perspective of a Chinese-Malaysian converted Jewish wife and mother in suburban America. She died in June 24 of metastatic lung cancer at her home in Arlington. Mrs. Goldberg was born in Klang, Malaysia, the daughter of Chinese immigrants, and was educated at a convent school taught by Irish nuns. Her grandmother grumbled that she wasted too much time with her nose in a book, but a high school English teacher urged her to continue reading and to write poetry. She received a master's degree in English literature in 1969 from the University of Malaya and immigrated to the United States in 1971 after her marriage to a Peace Corps volunteer in Malaysia. She lived in New Jersey before moving to Arlington in 1973.
In addition to writing poetry, she did Chinese brush painting. For Mrs. Goldberg, who wrote under the name Hilary Tham, poetry -- and painting, for that matter -- grew out of the closely observed world around her, her daily life and deep relationships and her rich multiethnic heritage. In a 2001 Potomac Review essay, she wrote: "I am a writer, a woman, a blend of many cultures: Chinese-Malaysian by birth, American by love of my husband and Jewish by choice. My identity is trellised on Judeo-western principles and ideals, but my roots delve deep in Chinese lore."
Hilary Tham's "Becoming A Woman" highlight the receiving of maternal wisdom that only women who are going through it. This poem presents various portraits of the transition from childhood to adulthood. This clearly stated in stanza 3 :
“You will bleed
at a special time of the moon.”
she told me. “Use these
to preserve modesty and the secret
of your femalesness.”
Becoming a woman is a rite of passage that starts with the changes of early puberty and ends with a woman's first periods. A girl grows and changes in ways that prepare her to be able to have a baby. These changes occur in certain stages. Gender representation on female clearly take places in this poem. The poet perhaps tell the story within her own experiences on becoming a woman. In stanza 4, the poet told :
Her mother’s way she passed to me
with the few words she had received
at her initiation.
Afterall, it become necessary for a little girl going through this phase; becoming a woman, and it is someone called mother to teached her little child about becoming a woman through her own experienced and from what her late mother’s told her. Then, it becomes a woman responsible, the great responsibilities carry out from generation that men can’t do; give birth. It’s an honour for a woman to give birth and it becomes mother’s responsibilities to carry out their jobs to tell their child especially girl on becoming a woman.
In addition to writing poetry, she did Chinese brush painting. For Mrs. Goldberg, who wrote under the name Hilary Tham, poetry -- and painting, for that matter -- grew out of the closely observed world around her, her daily life and deep relationships and her rich multiethnic heritage. In a 2001 Potomac Review essay, she wrote: "I am a writer, a woman, a blend of many cultures: Chinese-Malaysian by birth, American by love of my husband and Jewish by choice. My identity is trellised on Judeo-western principles and ideals, but my roots delve deep in Chinese lore."
Hilary Tham's "Becoming A Woman" highlight the receiving of maternal wisdom that only women who are going through it. This poem presents various portraits of the transition from childhood to adulthood. This clearly stated in stanza 3 :
“You will bleed
at a special time of the moon.”
she told me. “Use these
to preserve modesty and the secret
of your femalesness.”
Becoming a woman is a rite of passage that starts with the changes of early puberty and ends with a woman's first periods. A girl grows and changes in ways that prepare her to be able to have a baby. These changes occur in certain stages. Gender representation on female clearly take places in this poem. The poet perhaps tell the story within her own experiences on becoming a woman. In stanza 4, the poet told :
Her mother’s way she passed to me
with the few words she had received
at her initiation.
Afterall, it become necessary for a little girl going through this phase; becoming a woman, and it is someone called mother to teached her little child about becoming a woman through her own experienced and from what her late mother’s told her. Then, it becomes a woman responsible, the great responsibilities carry out from generation that men can’t do; give birth. It’s an honour for a woman to give birth and it becomes mother’s responsibilities to carry out their jobs to tell their child especially girl on becoming a woman.
Poem “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need” By Kee Thuan Chye (Personal Reviews)
Another powerful and meaningful poem is by Kee Thuan Chye, “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need”. A little brief about Kee Thuan Chye, he was born on May 25, 1954 in Penang, Malaysia. He was a noted Malaysian dramatist, poet and journalist. Kee graduated from Universiti Sains Malaysia in 1976 and received his masters in drama from England’s Essex University in 1988. Kee served as literary editor and occasional film reviewer for the New Straits Times, arts columnist for Business Times, theater columnist for New Sunday Times, and is now associate editor in charge of the English column, “Mind Our English” for The Star (Malaysia). Other publications featuring his articles and reviews include Asiaweek, Far Eastern Economic Review, and Asia Magazine.
Kee Thuan Chye, “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need” shows that people only totally understand, love and miss their mother when they need her help”. For the speaker in this poem, his mother, up until the point that the poem is written, was no more than a figure. However, the poem itself is an expression of the speaker’s desperation “in helpless moments” when he most understands the figure who had sacrificed so much for him, but whom he had remonstrated in the good times. Spurred on by a poignant sense of helplessness, the speaker ponders his relationship with his mother. He now understands her actions that he once condemned. He says:
You are not the purest of women
but you toiled for your children,
throwing morals coyly to the wind.
How else could we have grown up
with cushioned settees to sit on
and hot cuisine to nourish our hungry souls?
These lines strongly suggest that the speaker’s mother had compromised her morals – engaging in prostitution, perhaps? – to fund her children’s upbringing, the standards of which seemed to be quite high as the words “settees” and “cuisine” insinuate. It is now clear to the speaker that his mother did what she had to do to protect her children from the harsh realities of life. The speaker says:
Now, in helpless moments,
I think of you,
a figure forgotten
in hours not-of-need,
but a comforter of the past
who caught cockroaches with bare hands.
The speaker’s mother caught cockroaches with bare hands, a brave action which the speaker, even as an adult, is still afraid of doing. From a symbolic angle, one can argue that, in the poem, cockroaches represent the filthy realities of life – such as the compromising of one’s morals in order to protect others – which the speaker, unlike his mother, is still unwilling to face as an adult. He says:
And though it’s a sin to grow old
And to lost your dearest treasures,
You stoutly go your humdrum ways
While I curse the drudgery of life.
I am still afraid of cockroaches.
So, it would seem, from this poem, that one’s mother is especially loved, missed and finally understood only when the child is faced by life’s dilemma’s and challenges that the parent had so willingly faced up to all in the name of love for her children. In the last three lines of the poem the speaker laments:
But when I think
how little live I’ve shown you in return,
I sometimes cry.
This poem shows that woman’s sacrifice is more than anything and nothing can be compared with it.
Kee Thuan Chye, “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need” shows that people only totally understand, love and miss their mother when they need her help”. For the speaker in this poem, his mother, up until the point that the poem is written, was no more than a figure. However, the poem itself is an expression of the speaker’s desperation “in helpless moments” when he most understands the figure who had sacrificed so much for him, but whom he had remonstrated in the good times. Spurred on by a poignant sense of helplessness, the speaker ponders his relationship with his mother. He now understands her actions that he once condemned. He says:
You are not the purest of women
but you toiled for your children,
throwing morals coyly to the wind.
How else could we have grown up
with cushioned settees to sit on
and hot cuisine to nourish our hungry souls?
These lines strongly suggest that the speaker’s mother had compromised her morals – engaging in prostitution, perhaps? – to fund her children’s upbringing, the standards of which seemed to be quite high as the words “settees” and “cuisine” insinuate. It is now clear to the speaker that his mother did what she had to do to protect her children from the harsh realities of life. The speaker says:
Now, in helpless moments,
I think of you,
a figure forgotten
in hours not-of-need,
but a comforter of the past
who caught cockroaches with bare hands.
The speaker’s mother caught cockroaches with bare hands, a brave action which the speaker, even as an adult, is still afraid of doing. From a symbolic angle, one can argue that, in the poem, cockroaches represent the filthy realities of life – such as the compromising of one’s morals in order to protect others – which the speaker, unlike his mother, is still unwilling to face as an adult. He says:
And though it’s a sin to grow old
And to lost your dearest treasures,
You stoutly go your humdrum ways
While I curse the drudgery of life.
I am still afraid of cockroaches.
So, it would seem, from this poem, that one’s mother is especially loved, missed and finally understood only when the child is faced by life’s dilemma’s and challenges that the parent had so willingly faced up to all in the name of love for her children. In the last three lines of the poem the speaker laments:
But when I think
how little live I’ve shown you in return,
I sometimes cry.
This poem shows that woman’s sacrifice is more than anything and nothing can be compared with it.
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