Tuesday, March 06, 2007
And did you touch the dream
I first heard of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish when I read translations by D. J. Hamilton of a couple of his poems in Dalmo'ma, a literary magazine published in the '80's and 90's out of Port Townsend, Washington (see blog article of February 12, 2007, below). In the years since, several books of translations of Darwish's poetry have been published in the United States.
I don't feel capable of discussing in a short space here all of the considerations in the persistent conflicts among populations and nations in the Middle East, and I don't have the depth of knowledge to talk intelligently about Mahmoud Darwish's place in the many vast and stunning literary traditions that have woven through Arabic literature over the centuries. Clearly we live, the billions of us each one a perceptive and active being, together in this world, and we must work together, by whatever means are necessary, to make it a world where we acknowledge each other's right to be here. Easy enough said, on the long road of brilliance and ashes that has brought us here so far.
In a world and a time in which life is ever increasingly defined by the multiple struggles, now clandestine and with stubborn patience, now open and explosive, of the billions of us -- we who work the work of all days -- to halt the march of the corporate empires of burning earth and genocide, we find our voices one by one and many by many.
Much of Darwish's poetry moves with epic sweep and reach, as in the passages quotes above. In some poems, his voice becomes quieter and more intimate, speaking as a person to another in a room, embracing the details of daily life. From the poem "In My Mother's House" (in The Butterfly's Burden, poems of Darwish translated by Fady Joudah, published 2007 by Copper Canyon Press):
I know no Arabic and can't speak with authority on the quality or accuracy of the translations as such. All seem to me to move well in English, for the most part. The Butterfly's Burden and Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? both include the original Arabic side by side with the English translations; Unfortunately, It Was Paradise has the English translations only, not the original Arabic. The Butterfly's Burden has the most in-depth introduction, and particularly useful endnotes that illuminate the many literary, historical, and mythological references in Darwish's poems. All of the collections are essential and compelling.
I don't feel capable of discussing in a short space here all of the considerations in the persistent conflicts among populations and nations in the Middle East, and I don't have the depth of knowledge to talk intelligently about Mahmoud Darwish's place in the many vast and stunning literary traditions that have woven through Arabic literature over the centuries. Clearly we live, the billions of us each one a perceptive and active being, together in this world, and we must work together, by whatever means are necessary, to make it a world where we acknowledge each other's right to be here. Easy enough said, on the long road of brilliance and ashes that has brought us here so far.
We have a single dream: for the wind to pass,(From the poem "The Tatar's Swallows," in Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone?, poems of Mahmoud Darwish translated by Jeffrey Sacks, published 2006 by Archipelago Books.)
a friend, and spread the scent of Arabic coffee
over the hills that surround summer and the strangers...
I am my dream. Whenever the earth narrows, I expand it
with the wing of a swallow. I expand. I am my dream...
And in the crowd I am full of mirrors of myself and questions
about the planets tracing my beloved's footsteps...
In my solitude there are paths of pilgrims to Jerusalem--
worlds plucked out like feathers over stone
How many prophets does the city need to preserve its father's
name and regret: "I fell without a fight?"
How many skies, in every people, must a city leave behind
for it to love its own crimson shawl? Oh dream...
Don't stare at us like that!
Don't be the last martyr!
In a world and a time in which life is ever increasingly defined by the multiple struggles, now clandestine and with stubborn patience, now open and explosive, of the billions of us -- we who work the work of all days -- to halt the march of the corporate empires of burning earth and genocide, we find our voices one by one and many by many.
We journey towards a home not of our flesh. Its chestnut trees are not of our bones.(From the poem "We Journey towards a Home," in Unfortunately, It Was Paradise, poems of Mahmoud Darwish, edited and translated by Munir Akash and Carolyn Forché with Sinan Antoon and Amira El-Zein, published 2003 by University of California Press.)
Its rocks are not like the goats in the mountain hymn. The pebbles' eyes are not lilies.
We journey towards a home that does not halo our heads with a special sun.
Mythical women applaud us. A sea for us, a sea against us.
When water and wheat are not at hand, eat our love and drink our tears...
There are mourning scarves for poets. A row of marble statues will lift our voice.
An urn to keep the dust of time away from our souls. Roses for us and against us.
Much of Darwish's poetry moves with epic sweep and reach, as in the passages quotes above. In some poems, his voice becomes quieter and more intimate, speaking as a person to another in a room, embracing the details of daily life. From the poem "In My Mother's House" (in The Butterfly's Burden, poems of Darwish translated by Fady Joudah, published 2007 by Copper Canyon Press):
In my mother's house my photo gazes at meIn Darwish's poems, commonplace mystery and mythology move through day and night as routinely as people and the turning of the earth. From the poem "Now, When You Awaken, Remember" (in The Butterfly's Burden):
and doesn't cease asking:
Are you, my dear guest, me?
Were you once twenty of my years,
without medical glasses,
and without suitcases?
A hole in the wall was enough
for the stars to teach you the hobby of staring
into the eternal...
(What's the eternal? I said to myself)
And my dear guest...are you me as we once were?
Which one of us renounced his features?
Now, when you awaken, remember the swan's lastMahmoud Darwish is a native of Galilee in what was then Palestine. His family fled to Lebanon in 1948 when he was six years old, and did not return in time to for Darwish to be regarded as a legal permanent resident under Israeli laws. Long active in the Palestine resistance, he has spent time in prison in Israel, and has lived over the years in Russia, Egypt, Lebanon, Greece, Cyprus, Tunisia, and France, among other places. Memory for Forgetfulness (published in English translation in 1995 by University of California Press) is Darwish's prose account, variously lyrical and impressionistic and harrowing, of his experience living in Beirut in August, 1982, when the city was under siege by the Israeli military.
dance. Did you dance with cherubs while
you were dreaming? Did the butterfly illuminate you
when it burned with the eternal light of the rose? Did
the phoenix appear to you clearly...and did it call you
by name? Did you see the dawn rise
out of your beloved's fingers? And did you touch the dream
by hand, or did you let the dream dream alone,
when you became aware of your absence suddenly?
I know no Arabic and can't speak with authority on the quality or accuracy of the translations as such. All seem to me to move well in English, for the most part. The Butterfly's Burden and Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? both include the original Arabic side by side with the English translations; Unfortunately, It Was Paradise has the English translations only, not the original Arabic. The Butterfly's Burden has the most in-depth introduction, and particularly useful endnotes that illuminate the many literary, historical, and mythological references in Darwish's poems. All of the collections are essential and compelling.
In Ismael's 'oud the Sumerian wedding rises up(From the poem "Ismael's 'Oud," in Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? An 'oud is a string instrument, from which the European lute is a descendent.)
to the ends of the sword. There's neither existence there
nor nothingness. A lust for creation touches us:
From one string water flows. From two strings flame
ignites. From three, woman / being / revelation
radiate. Sing, Ismael, to meaning, and a bird will hover
over Athens between two histories at sunset...
Sing a requiem on a feast day!
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Everything will begin anew
# posted by Lyle Daggett @ 10:16 PM 
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Great essay. May be one of my favs of yours.
In a world and a time in which life is ever increasingly defined by the multiple struggles, now clandestine and with stubborn patience, now open and explosive, of the billions of us -- we who work the work of all days -- to halt the march of the corporate empires of burning earth and genocide, we find our voices one by one and many by many.
Great paragraph. Enjoyed this.
In a world and a time in which life is ever increasingly defined by the multiple struggles, now clandestine and with stubborn patience, now open and explosive, of the billions of us -- we who work the work of all days -- to halt the march of the corporate empires of burning earth and genocide, we find our voices one by one and many by many.
Great paragraph. Enjoyed this.
Really interesting post, Lyle. Barring anything unforeseen, a longtime online friend of mine from Cairo ,who'll be visiting his two sons who now live here on the West Coast, will also visit me for a couple of days during that time. He used to write poetry and knows some English, too, having lived here for two years when younger. It'll be interesting to talk about differences in our cultures in person.
I rejoice and am delighted to meet someone who not only has an apparent love of poetry but a deep thinker and great essayist as well! Having passed the anniversary marker of the beginning of our occupation of Iraq having the opportunity to be introduced to a new poet of striking voice and (Aharon Shabtai and Wislawa Szymborska come to mind) mythical, humanitarian scope like Mahmoud Darwish! He is exactly what I needed. Thank you!
I have been reading and re-reading Darwish’s amazing “Under Siege” …
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/under-siege/
… and wonder what my life must have been like an hour ago when I had never heard of this poem since everything is changed now. I think when a poet (and joy of joys a single poem!) changes you forever then that is probably one of the highest marks we can give poetry. So I do not ask this as a rhetorical question but in all seriousness; how can I not weep in amazement when I read this poem? How can I not?
Our cups of coffee. Birds green trees
In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall
To another like a gazelle
The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us
Of the sky. And other things of suspended memories
Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid,
And that we are the guests of eternity.
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I have been reading and re-reading Darwish’s amazing “Under Siege” …
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/under-siege/
… and wonder what my life must have been like an hour ago when I had never heard of this poem since everything is changed now. I think when a poet (and joy of joys a single poem!) changes you forever then that is probably one of the highest marks we can give poetry. So I do not ask this as a rhetorical question but in all seriousness; how can I not weep in amazement when I read this poem? How can I not?
Our cups of coffee. Birds green trees
In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall
To another like a gazelle
The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us
Of the sky. And other things of suspended memories
Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid,
And that we are the guests of eternity.
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