By Mahmoud Darwish
“There are maps of Palestine that the politicians won't ever have the capacity to forfeit: the single saved within the thoughts of Palestinian refugees, and that that's drawn by way of Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry.”—Anton Shammas
This amazing selection of Mahmoud Darwish’s poems and prose meditations is either lyrical and philosophical, wondering and clever, choked with irony and protest and play. “Every appealing poem is an act of resistance.” As continuously, Darwish’s musings on unrest and loss reside on love and humanity; fable and dream are inseparable from fact. “Truth is apparent as day.” through the publication, Darwish returns often to his ongoing and sometimes lighthearted dialog with death.
Mahmoud Darwish (1941–2008) was once provided the Lannan Prize for Cultural Freedom in 2001. He used to be considered as the voice of the Palestinian humans and one of many maximum poets of our time.
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Additional info for A River Dies of Thirst: journals
Perhaps we were the wings of a bird that causes us pain. Greetings, O moon that hovers around its image; which it will never meet! And I shall say to the cypress: Beware of what the dust is telling you. Perhaps we were here two strings of a violin at the banquet of the guardians of lapis lazuli. Perhaps we were the arms of a lover… I had been walking side by side with myself: Be strong, Comrade, raise up the past like the horns of a goat with your hands, and sit down near your well. Perhaps the harts of the watercourse will notice you… The voice cries out – Your voice is a voice of stone for the broken present… I have not yet completed my brief visit to oblivion… I did not take with me all the tools of my heart: My bell in the pine tree’s breeze My stairway near the sky My stars around the roofs My hoarseness from the bite of old salt… And I said to memory: Greetings, O spontaneous words of grandmother, It takes us back to our white days beneath her drowsiness… And my name rings like an old pound coin of gold at The gate of the well.
Grandfather! I am the last of the living In the desert, so let us rise! * The sea and the desert around his name, Naked of protectors Knew neither my grandfather nor his sons Who stand now around the ‘Nūn’ In the Surrat ‘al-Rahman’. O God… So bear witness! 35 * He was one born of himself Buried alive, near the fire, In himself, So let him grant to the phoenix of his burnt Secret what it needs after him To light the lanterns in the temple * In the olive groves, east of the springs Grandfather has withdrawn into his lonely shadow.
She seeks In my underwear for foreign women, She darns my torn socks. I did not grow up at her hand As we wished: I and she, we parted company at the slope Of the marble… clouds signalled to us, and to a goat That will inherit the place. Exile has set up for us two Languages: A spoken… so that the dove can understand it and preserve the memory And a formal language… so that I can interpret her shadow to the shadows! III I live still in your ocean. You did not say what A mother says to her sick child.
A River Dies of Thirst: journals by Mahmoud Darwish