We have on this earth what makes life worth living: April's hesitation, the aroma of bread at dawn, a woman's point of view about men, the works of Aeschylus, the beginning of love, grass on a stone, mothers living on a flute's sigh and the invaders' fears of memories. We have on this earth what makes life worth living: the final days of September, a woman keeping her apricots ripe after forty, the hour of sunlight in prison, a cloud reflecting a swarm of creatures, the peoples' applause for those who face death with a smile, a tyrant's fear of songs.
We have on this earth what makes life worth living: on this earth, the Lady of Earth, mother of all beginnings and ends. She was called Palestine. Her name later became Palestine.
On This Land Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life. I find Darwish's poetry the most compelling. His poems bespeak immeasurable longing for home and peace. I wonder how moving it would be to read him in original hebrew and how moving it would be for an Arab like him.
I am delighted, and deeply moved, On This Land, by the inclusion of Mahmud Darwish's poem. His is an On This Land example of the work of contemporary Arabs, and it is unfortunate that we in the US have so little contact with that rich outpouring of emotion. What a tragedy he and his people face and do endure! I hope that subsequent Arab poets will have happier themes for their lyrical outpourings. A very sad person who bleeds with his poetry. My favourite poet writing in Arabic. So sad he left quite early but as they say poets live on forever.
You won't be forgotten Mahmoud Darwish contrary to what you're saying in this incredibly beautiful poem: Forgotten As If You Never Were Forgotten, as if you never were.
There are those whose footsteps preceded mine those On This Land vision dictated mine. There are those who scattered speech on their accord to enter the story or to illuminate to others who will follow them a lyrical trace Vocabulary governs me and I govern it. I am its shape and it is the free transfiguration.
A passing tomorrow precedes me. I am the king of echo. My only throne is the margin. And the road is the way. Perhaps the forefathers forgot to describe something, I might nudge in it a memory and a sense Forgotten, as if you never were news, or a trace There are those whose footsteps walk upon mine, those who will follow me to my vision. Inspirational poetry, fabulous. Can you please publish Bitaqat Huwiyya here. I only have access to the second stanza online: Write down I am an Arab And I work with comrades in a stone quarry And my children are eight in number.
For them I hack out a loaf of bread clothing a school exercise-book from the rocks rather than begging for alms at your door rather than making myself small at your doorsteps. Does this bother you? 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 To learn more and take action On This Land thislanddoc.
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