For two hands, of stone and of thyme I dedicate this song.. For Ahmad, forgotten between two butterflies The clouds are gone and have left me homeless, and The mountains have flung…
Mahmoud Darwish (Arabic: محمود درويش) (13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008) was a Palestinian poet and author who won numerous awards for his literary output and was regarded as the Palestinian national poet. In his work, Palestine became a metaphor for the loss of Eden, birth and resurrection, and the anguish of dispossession and exile. He has been described as incarnating and reflecting "the tradition of the political poet in Islam, the man of action whose action is poetry". Mahmoud Darwish was born in the village of al-Birwa in the Western Galilee. He was the second child of Salim and Houreyyah Darwish. His family were landowners. His mother was illiterate, but his grandfather taught him to read. After Israeli forces assaulted his village of al-Birwa in June 1948 the family fled to Lebanon, first to Jezzin and then Damour. The village was then razed and destroyed by the Israeli army to prevent its inhabitants from returning to their homes inside the new Jewish state. A year later, Darwish's family returned to the Acre area, which was now part of Israel, and settled in Deir al-Asad. Darwish attended high school in Kafr Yasif, two kilometers north of Jadeidi. He eventually moved to Haifa. He published his first book of poetry, Asafir bila ajniha or Wingless Birds, at the age of nineteen. He initially published his poems in Al Jadid, the literary periodical of the Israeli Communist Party, eventually becoming its editor. Later, he was Assistant Editor of Al Fajr, a literary periodical published by the Israeli Workers Party (Mapam). Darwish was impressed by the Arab poets Abed al-Wahab al Bayati and Bader Shaker al-Sayab. Darwish left Israel in 1970 to study in the USSR. He attended the University of Moscow for one year, before moving to Egypt and Lebanon. When he joined the PLO in 1973, he was banned from reentering Israel. In 1995, he returned to attend the funeral of his colleague, Emile Habibi and received a permit to remain in Haifa for four days. Darwish was allowed to settle in Ramallah in 1995, although he said he felt he was living in exile there, and did not consider the West Bank his "private homeland." Darwish was twice married and divorced. His first wife was the writer Rana Kabbani. In the mid-1980s, he married an Egyptian translator, Hayat Heeni. He had no children. Darwish had a history of heart disease, suffering a heart attack in 1984, followed by two heart operations, in 1984 and 1998. His final visit to Israel was on 15 July 2007, to attend a poetry recital at Mt. Carmel Auditorium in Haifa, in which he criticized the factional violence between Fatah and Hamas as a "suicide attempt in the streets". Darwish published over thirty volumes of poetry and eight books of prose. He was editor of Al-Jadid, Al-Fajr, Shu'un Filistiniyya and Al-Karmel (1981). On 1 May 1965 when the young Darwish read his poem “Bitaqat huwiyya” to a crowd in a Nazareth movie house, there was a tumultuous reaction. Within days the poem had spread throughout the country and the Arab world. Published in his second volume "Leaves of Olives" (Haifa 1964), the six stanzas of the poem repeat the cry “Write down: I am an Arab.” In the 1970s, “Darwish, as a Palestinian poet of the Resistance committed himself to the . . . objective of nurturing the vision of defeat and disaster (after the June War of 1967), so much so that it would ‘gnaw at the hearts’ of the forthcoming generations.” Palestinian poetry often addresses the Nakba and the resultant tragedies. The mid 1980s saw the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 and preceded the outbreak of the first Intifada (uprising) on the West Bank and Gaza Strip in December 1987. Mahmoud Darwish addressed these and other issues in Ward aqall [Fewer Roses] (1986), and more specifically in one poem, “Sa-ya’ti barabira akharun” [Other Barbarians Will Come”]. Darwish's work won numerous awards, and has been published in 20 languages. A central theme in Darwish's poetry is the concept of watan or homeland. The poet Naomi Shihab Nye wrote that Darwish "is the essential breath of the Palestinian people, the eloquent witness of exile and belonging....")
Mahmoud Darwish şiirleri
Your eyes are a thorn in my heart Inflicting pain, yet I cherish that thorn And shield it from the wind. I sheathe it in my flesh, I sheathe it, protecting it from night and agony,…
A man and a fawn play together in a garden… I say to my friend: 'Where did this little one come from? ' He says: 'From Heaven - perhaps he's the prophet John come back to me in my…
And they don't ask: What comes after death? Though more intimate with the book of Paradise than with accounts of the earth, they're preoccupied with another question: What shall we…
And we have countries without borders, like our idea of the unknown, narrow and wide - countries whose maps narrow to a gray tunnel as we walk in them and cry out in their labyrint…
Another day will come, a womanly day diaphanous in metaphor, complete in being, diamond and processional in visitation, sunny, flexible, with a light shadow. No one will feel…
A noun sentence, no verb to it or in it: to the sea the scent of the bed after making love ... a salty perfume or a sour one. A noun sentence: my wounded joy…
No one guided me to myself. I am the guide Between desert and sea, I am my own guide to myself. Born of language on the road to India between two small tribes, adorned by the moonl…
The enemy who drinks tea in our hovel has a horse in smoke, a daughter with thick eyebrow, brown eyes and long hair braided over her shoulders…
He dreams of white lilies, an olive branch, her breasts in evening blossom. He dreams of a bird, he tells me,…
It was no more than the description of a burst of rain and handkerchiefs of lightning which burned the secret of trees— then why did they resist her? When she said that something d…
This road takes me; a horse guiding a horseman A traveler like me cannot look back I have walked far enough to know where autumn begins:…
Rome is skin to us as if imposed fate Its name is branded on our backs yet As prisoners' numbers and scourges that's Rome Rome dismantles our brands under her want…
From early dusk the day was inscrutable The sun shows up, lazy as usual A mineral ash, eastward, blocks the horizon. . . In the veins of clouds…
Cadence chooses me, it chokes on me I am the violin's regurgitant flow, and not its player I am in the presence of memory The echo of things pronounces through me…
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