War, violence, identity, Mahmoud Darwish, Yehuda Amichai (MEAS 330)

Mahmoud Darwish

Under Siege

Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time Close to the gardens of broken shadows, We do what prisoners do, And what the jobless do: We cultivate hope.

A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent For we closely watch the hour of victory: No night in our night lit up by the shelling Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us In the darkness of cellars.

Here there is no "I". Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.

On the verge of death, he says: I have no trace left to lose: Free I am so close to my liberty. My future lies in my own hand. Soon I shall penetrate my life, I shall be born free and parentless, And as my name I shall choose azure letters...

You who stand in the doorway, come in, Drink Arabic coffee with us And you will sense that you are men like us You who stand in the doorways of houses Come out of our morningtimes, We shall feel reassured to be Men like you!

When the planes disappear, the white, white doves Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white doves Fly off. Ah, if only the sky Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].

Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting The sky from collapse. Behind the hedge of steel Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank— And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass...

[To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim’s face And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way to find one’s identity again.

The siege is a waiting period Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.

Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.

We have brothers behind this expanse. Excellent brothers. They love us. They watch us and weep. Then, in secret, they tell each other: "Ah! if this siege had been declared..." They do not finish their sentence: "Don’t abandon us, don’t leave us."

Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day. And ten wounded. And twenty homes. And fifty olive trees... Added to this the structural flaw that Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.

A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved For my clothing is drenched with his blood.

If you are not rain, my love Be tree Sated with fertility, be tree If you are not tree, my love Be stone Saturated with humidity, be stone If you are not stone, my love Be moon In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon [So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral]

Oh watchmen! Are you not weary Of lying in wait for the light in our salt And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound Are you not weary, oh watchmen?

A little of this absolute and blue infinity Would be enough To lighten the burden of these times And to cleanse the mire of this place.

It is up to the soul to come down from its mount And on its silken feet walk By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime Friends who share the ancient bread And the antique glass of wine May we walk this road together And then our days will take different directions: I, beyond nature, which in turn Will choose to squat on a high-up rock.

On my rubble the shadow grows green, And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat He dreams as I do, as the angel does That life is here...not over there.

In the state of siege, time becomes space Transfixed in its eternity In the state of siege, space becomes time That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow.

The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day And questions me: Where were you? Take every word You have given me back to the dictionaries And relieve the sleepers from the echo’s buzz.

The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse I did not look For the virgins of immortality for I love life On earth, amid fig trees and pines, But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure.

The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me. I first, I the first one!

The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I have changed. I put a gazelle on my bed, And a crescent of moon on my finger To appease my sorrow.

The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement that does no harm, in fullest liberty!

Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health, The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease: The disease of hope.

And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me.

Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the Blackness of this tunnel!

Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces: Greetings to my apparition.

My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me, A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees A marble epitaph of time And always I anticipate them at the funeral: Who then has died...who?

Writing is a puppy biting nothingness Writing wounds without a trace of blood.

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.

Translated by Marjolijn De Jager

Mahmoud Darwish

I Come From There

I come from there and I have memories Born as mortals are, I have a mother And a house with many windows, I have brothers, friends, And a prison cell with a cold window. Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls, I have my own view, And an extra blade of grass. Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words, And the bounty of birds, And the immortal olive tree. I walked this land before the swords Turned its living body into a laden table.

I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother When the sky weeps for her mother. And I weep to make myself known To a returning cloud. I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood So that I could break the rule. I learnt all the words and broke them up To make a single word: Homeland.....

Mahmoud Darwish

Passport

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 Don’t 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 soil I nourished with my own hands? Today Job cried out Filling the sky: Don’t make and 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 sward 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!

Mahmoud Darwish

Psalm 9

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 form 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 therefor I do not like to face the sky not do I die level with the ground but I am a stranger, always a stranger

Mahmoud Darwish

Psalm Three

On the day when my words were earth... I was a friend to stalks of wheat.

On the day when my words were wrath I was a friend to chains.

On the day when my words were stones I was a friend to streams.

On the day when my words were a rebellion I was a friend to earthquakes.

On the day when my words were bitter apples I was a friend to the optimist.

But when my words became honey... flies covered my lips!...

Translated by Ben Bennani

Mahmoud Darwish

Yehuda Amichai

A Jewish Cemetery In Germany

On a little hill amid fertile fields lies a small cemetery, a Jewish cemetery behind a rusty gate, hidden by shrubs, abandoned and forgotten. Neither the sound of prayer nor the voice of lamentation is heard there for the dead praise not the Lord. Only the voices of our children ring out, seeking graves and cheering each time they find one--like mushrooms in the forest, like wild strawberries. Here's another grave! There's the name of my mother's mothers, and a name from the last century. And here's a name, and there! And as I was about to brush the moss from the name-- Look! an open hand engraved on the tombstone, the grave of a kohen, his fingers splayed in a spasm of holiness and blessing, and here's a grave concealed by a thicket of berries that has to be brushed aside like a shock of hair from the face of a beautiful beloved woman.

Translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld

An Arab Shepherd Is Searching For His Goat On Mount Zion

An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy. An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father Both in their temporary failure. Our two voices met above The Sultan's Pool in the valley between us. Neither of us wants the boy or the goat To get caught in the wheels Of the "Had Gadya" machine.

Afterward we found them among the bushes, And our voices came back inside us Laughing and crying.

Searching for a goat or for a child has always been The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.

Yehuda Amichai

God Has Pity On Kindergarten Children

God has pity on kindergarten children, He pities school children -- less. But adults he pities not at all.

He abandons them, And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours In the scorching sand To reach the dressing station, Streaming with blood.

But perhaps He will have pity on those who love truly And take care of them And shade them Like a tree over the sleeper on the public bench.

Perhaps even we will spend on them Our last pennies of kindness Inherited from mother,

So that their own happiness will protect us Now and on other days.

Yehuda Amichai

Half The People In The World

Half the people in the world love the other half, half the people hate the other half. Must I because of this half and that half go wandering and changing ceaselessly like rain in its cycle, must I sleep among rocks, and grow rugged like the trunks of olive trees, and hear the moon barking at me, and camouflage my love with worries, and sprout like frightened grass between the railroad tracks, and live underground like a mole, and remain with roots and not with branches, and not feel my cheek against the cheek of angels, and love in the first cave, and marry my wife beneath a canopy of beams that support the earth, and act out my death, always till the last breath and the last words and without ever understanding, and put flagpoles on top of my house and a bomb shelter underneath. And go out on raids made only for returning and go through all the appalling stations—cat,stick,fire,water,butcher, between the kid and the angel of death? Half the people love, half the people hate. And where is my place between such well-matched halves, and through what crack will I see the white housing projects of my dreams and the bare foot runners on the sands or, at least, the waving of a girl's kerchief, beside the mound?

Translated by Chana Bloch And Stephen Mitchell

Yehuda Amichai

I Want To Die In My Own Bed

All night the army came up from Gilgal To get to the killing field, and that's all. In the ground, warf and woof, lay the dead. I want to die in My own bed. Like slits in a tank, their eyes were uncanny, I'm always the few and they are the many. I must answer. They can interrogate My head. But I want to die in My own bed.

The sun stood still in Gibeon. Forever so, it's willing to illuminate those waging battle and killing. I may not see My wife when her blood is shed, But I want to die in My own bed.

Samson, his strength in his long black hair, My hair they sheared when they made me a hero Perforce, and taught me to charge ahead. I want to die in My own bed.

I saw you could live and furnish with grace Even a lion's den, if you've no other place. I don't even mind to die alone, to be dead, But I want to die in My own bed.

Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav

Yehuda Amichai

If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem

If I forget thee, Jerusalem, Then let my right be forgotten. Let my right be forgotten, and my left remember. Let my left remember, and your right close And your mouth open near the gate.

I shall remember Jerusalem And forget the forest -- my love will remember, Will open her hair, will close my window, will forget my right, Will forget my left.

If the west wind does not come I'll never forgive the walls, Or the sea, or myself. Should my right forget My left shall forgive, I shall forget all water, I shall forget my mother.

If I forget thee, Jerusalem, Let my blood be forgotten. I shall touch your forehead, Forget my own, My voice change For the second and last time To the most terrible of voices -- Or silence.

Yehuda Amichai

Memorial Day For The War Dead

Memorial day for the war dead. Add now the grief of all your losses to their grief, even of a woman that has left you. Mix sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history, which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning on one day for easy, convenient memory.

Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread, in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God. "Behind all this some great happiness is hiding." No use to weep inside and to scream outside. Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.

Memorial day. Bitter salt is dressed up as a little girl with flowers. The streets are cordoned off with ropes, for the marching together of the living and the dead. Children with a grief not their own march slowly, like stepping over broken glass.

The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days. A dead soldier swims above little heads with the swimming movements of the dead, with the ancient error the dead have about the place of the living water.

A flag loses contact with reality and flies off. A shopwindow is decorated with dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white. And everything in three languages: Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.

A great and royal animal is dying all through the night under the jasmine tree with a constant stare at the world.

A man whose son died in the war walks in the street like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb. "Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."

Yehuda Amichai

Jerusalem

On a roof in the Old City Laundry hanging in the late afternoon sunlight: The white sheet of a woman who is my enemy, The towel of a man who is my enemy, To wipe off the sweat of his brow.

In the sky of the Old City A kite. At the other end of the string, A child I can't see Because of the wall.

We have put up many flags, They have put up many flags. To make us think that they're happy. To make them think that we're happy.

Translated by Irena Gordon

Yehuda Amichai