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I Didn’t Apologize to the Well … Palestinian Peace Poet, Mahmoud Darwish

Palestian Poet, Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)
Palestinian Poet, Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)

With the largest number of migrants the world has ever seen – 244 million in 2015 – people who are displaced by exile, violence, poverty and environmental issues resulting from climate change, it’s hard not to think of poets like Darwish who lived or live large portions of their lives in exile from their homelands.

“. . . he says I am from there, I am from here, but I am neither there nor here. I have two names which meet and part… I have two languages, but I have long forgotten— which is the language of my dreams” Mahmoud Darwish’s farewell to Edward Said (1935-2003), professor of literature at Columbia University, a public intellectual and founder of the field of postcolonial studies. Said was educated in the Western Cannon. He was a Palestinian-American born in Mandatory Palestine and a citizen of the United States through his father, Wadie Saïd, a WW 1 U.S. Army Veteran

Born in Mandated Palestine, Mahmoud Darwish has been called a poet of peace in times of war. He was a regarded as the Palestinian national poet. Darwish used Palestine as a metaphor for the loss of Eden, birth and resurrection and he wrote of 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.”

You can hear the lovely lilt of Arabic even in the English translations of this internationally know and recognized award winning poet. His awards included the Ibn Sina Prize, the Lotus prize from the Union of Afro-Asian Writers, France’s Knight of Arts and Belles Lettres medal, and the Prize for Cultural Freedom from the Lannan Foundation.

I didn’t apologize to the well as I passed by it.
I borrowed a cloud from an ancient pine and squeezed it
like an orange. I waited for a mythical white deer.
I instructed my heart in patience: Be neutral, as though
you were not a part of me. Here, good shepherds
stood on air and invented the flute and enticed
mountain partridges into their traps. Here, I saddled
a horse for flight to my personal planets, and flew.
And here, a fortuneteller told me: Beware of asphalt roads
and automobiles, ride on your sigh. Here, I loosened
my shadow and waited. I selected the smallest stone
and stood wakefully by it. I broke apart a myth
and got broken myself. I circled the well until
I flew out of myself to what I’m not. And a voice
from deep in the well spoke to me: This grave
is not yours. And so I apologized. I read verses
from the wise Qur’an and said to the anonymous presence
in the well: Peace be with you and the day
you were killed in the land of peace and with the day
you’ll rise from the well’s darkness
and live…

– Mahmoud Darwish

Darwish has many published collections, which are available through his Amazon page.

Photo credit: Mahmoud Darwish at University of Bethlehem in 2006 by Amer Shomali under CC BY-SA licence.


51hlj5jhdkl-_sx329_bo1204203200_The recommended read for this week is Robert Pinsky’s Singing School, Learning to Write (and Read) Poetry. No rules or recipes here just learning by studying the pros. Charming. Fun.

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Blown Across Timelessness, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

photo-37-1I watched it all over my friend’s dear shoulder,
that time of living while dying and celebrating ~
like a garden snake ~ the shedding of the skin,
the detritus of material man with its hungers and
wild, woody creative soul, sketching ruby-jeweled
memories in sand to be blown like a Tibetan mandala
across Timelessness . . .

while he,

lone monk,

gripped

by systems on systems of hospital wiring, billing,
approvals, and laws around funerals and burials,
estates, plans, and proposals for headstones and
the where, when, and how of a memorial service,
the left-overs of his life to be sorted, sold or stashed
or sent to the right people in the right places.

Done!

… as though there had been nothing. No one.

WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT

There were a number of things on my mind when I wrote this, but one was the dramatic (or so it seemed to me) juxtaposition of the sacred (first stanza) and the material (second stanza).  That juxtaposition seems particularly clear in birth and death but it is also apparent at other points of change and transition – leaving home for the first time, marriage, dealing with catastrophic illness, career or job change and so forth. When in your life was this juxtaposition most profound for you?  Tell us in poem or story; i.e., in  creative nonfiction or in a fictionalized account.  If you feel comfortable, leave the link to your piece in the comments below so I and other readers may read you work.

© 2017, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved


51qqbcpwhul-_sx332_bo1204203200_The WordPlay Shop offers a selection of books and tools especially selected for poets and writers … and in some cases, activists. Sales from the shop go to support the maintenance of this site.  Suggested reading this week – a read for these times – is the Rev. Dr. William J. Barber’s The Third Reconstruction: How a Moral Movement is Overcoming the Politics of Division and Fear

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MIXTURE, a poem and art by Sonja Benskin Mesher

2013-02-26-11-31-55good mix, bit of this,
bit of that, healthy
living.

bit of quiet, new friends,
old friends, young in years.

i tried that. it mostly works.

i usually stop, let others,
move around. risk no life.

it is a better road now.

© Sonja Benskin Mesher

SONJA BENSKIN MESHER, RCA UA submitted this poem and associated artwork in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt, Tears Into Light.

sonjabenskinmesher2011Sonja is a British artist and writer.  She says about her visual art that  “The work is my statement.  I have worked full time as a visual artist since 1999, and have spent those years exploring ways to communicate thoughts and concerns with my paintings and drawings. Its not all you see on the surface, it goes deeper than that. The work goes back touched and collected. My present surroundings, here in Wales, and that of Cornwall where I spend much of my time, inform the work, and inspire the subject matter. Then with the work I remember, and try to make sense of it all.”

Sonja also designed the covers for two poetry collections that were featured in Reuben Woolley Is Not A Silent Poet.

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Your may read more of Sonjia’s poetry and view her artwork – I love her dancing mouse – at this sites:

© 2017 poem, artwork and photograph, Sonja Benskin Mesher, All rights reserved


Also in response to last week’s prompt, Clare attached the link to her poem. She said, “It doesn’t exactly fit your prompt, Jamie, but I just wrote this wee poem this morning, and then read your post, and it kind of fits…”  It’s a lovely poem and her site, Nest of Mist,  is charming and thoughtful. Bravo, Clare!


51qqbcpwhul-_sx332_bo1204203200_The WordPlay shop offers a selection of books and tools especially selected for poets and writers.  Sales from the shop go to support the maintenance of this site.  Suggested reading this week – a read for these times – is the Rev. Dr. William J. Barber’s The Third Reconstruction: How a Moral Movement is Overcoming the Politics of Division and Fear

THE WORDPLAY SHOP: books, tools and supplies for poets, writers and readers

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Don’t hide the madness …

img_0274

“Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don’t care who’s listening.” Allen Ginsberg

Follow your inner moonlight! I like this from Ginsberg. Sharing it because Campbell’s “follow your bliss” is getting a bit tired and madness and moonlight have a certain perverse appeal  … meanwhile …

You’ll note in the photo above that it’s raining here (storming actually), too heavy in some parts (flooding) and yet not enough in others. Having said that, it looks like we will actually get some relief from our years of drought. Maybe this summer won’t  as hot and dry as the last few.

FullSizeRender-3

DROUGHT-FULL

it’s “drought-full” she says,
my japanese friend –
as though it were “dreadful”
which it is, dreadful
the five-year drought
i hunger for rain

drought-full, she says again
pensive, as we stroll B Street
in search of a café, a mojito
sugar, mint, caffeine, ice!

a black gentleman passes
with a nod at her he says
. . . . .Nǐ Hǎo
shizuko keeps walking,
. . . . .says nothing
the man looks puzzled, a bit hurt
he’d meant a courtesy,
greeting her in chinese,
i stop, rest my hand on his arm
“she’s japanese,” i say
by way of explanation,
he smiles then, and
on we walk, shizuko and me
on this hot drought-full day
seeking relief in a mojito

© 2015, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

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