1.

how about when they lay hands upon the gloomy profile, so that the glandular fear swells tumescent yellow, fatty tissue was reminiscent of a flexible, steel-framed friend, who was “modular spectacular” and “groomed arroyo”—cottage rooftops which casually descend to the level of the fences, mired in normative formulations interwoven with glad membranes (liver and aspirin) some explosions, popping noises, smoke or fumes (follicles rubbed off) once revealed as if by a receding tide, jagged crowns of rocks splashed and swirling with bubbles, dripping greasily down the paper they had pasted on the wall to cover it, the steel-framed friend (or eyeglasses, some would have it) “humidity of the poles” headed to the right “20th century straw teeth mastered by filigrees of rosy bronze as if into a sheen of air” (blistery white gum), (tooth and porcelain door knob) hand and arm reaching across the table of the landscape, unfurling disagreement and emboldening fingertips almost tapping like little balls of yarn in a fringe hanging from the curtain, so that “broken dogs” casting green “Chinese shadows” along the saline front where spots of excrement and peaches recount toilet paper rolls in alignment accordingly the hanged men of the calendar, those rubbishy fermented alcoholic notes, toward the tall immensely abbreviated folder of the steel-framed friend, not pine-scented about…

photograph by LIndsey Bolling

photograph by LIndsey Bolling

postcard to lisa

“In Chamacuaro in 1923 lightning struck the door of ther temple and many women were thrown to the floor. Eufrosina Nieto, who was one of the fallen, invoked the miraculous Saint Nicholas and nobody died.”

She got up at 7 AM and probably ran five miles on the arroyo seco, which drains into the L.A. River, when storms run out of Hahamongna watershed, a Pasadena City-owned watershed where they siphon water for their town from the San Gabriel Mountains.

Yesterday evening we hiked down into the arroyo from Devil’s Gate Dam, which holds back a reservoir full of dry white gravel.  We carried a blue-throated skink and a red-eared box turtle.

They had been carried off athletic fields, which get regular soakings from sprinklers, by maintenance men and kids who delivered them to her to dispose of. We walked down the rocky eroded trail into the canyon of the arroyo in toyon, alder, eucalyptus, yucca, creosote, buckeye, buckwheat and brush, looking for water holes and found none.

Drought. Even as we drove north through Pasadena, past barriers and cops directing traffic away from some mass spectacle at the Rose Bowl, where ten of thousands of teenage girls and their moms were amassing for who knows what weird ceremonies and rituals (and traffic was royally fucked up, cops everywhere, parked at intersections, light bars flashing), brown smoke of fires rose from the south (from Chino Hills?) and from the west, smearing the sunset with rusty color.

devil's gate postcard

Although she was hungry and protested against it, we parked in the falling dark and took a flashlight and walked in the dark up the creek behind the lights shining in the new parking structure at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory campus, with its parking lot emptying out, last workers on satellites and space projects, mars probes and secrets of outer space, project managers (one of whom we know is a belly dancer in her spare time) and rocket scientists heading home to the freeway home, an owl in the tree looking down on us as we looked down on JPL.

We crossed the first bridge over the creek and found flowing water under it. The skink was let loose in the sand by the boulders and the turtle was placed on the edge of a pool in the rocks, under white alder. It waited awhile, emerging from its shell, to stalk into the pool.

Night mountain bike riders with lights mounted on their helmets passed us heading up into the dry rocky mountains. The owl was gone. We drove to our favorite Thai restaurant.

And the Chinese kid who drowned, he is alive, though with visible brain damage—he is back in school, fighting to regain the life he lost and grabbed back. His hands shake, he has weakness and short term memory loss from the stroke, but day by day he is fighting his way back.

devil's gate postcard1

hammer image

it’s okay that the artists are all white, even the nonwhite artists (2?) are kind of white

it’s okay that the curators are all white, it’s

okay that the l.a. reflected in this show is like the l.a. in robert altman’s “shortcuts” which is a strange all-white l.a.

(in charlton heston’s “omega man,” (1971) i think the head vampire or whatever they were who was menacing the ‘real’ last human beings on earth, that is the humans who were not vampires or whatever (all white, except maybe the black woman hipster with her militant afro) was black)

let’s not go into “planet of the apes” at this juncture, but in the apartheid imagination of the future white people are in peril, isolated with jutting jaw of manifest destiny determination like charlton heston with his guns and his alzheimer’s

it’s okay that the curators at the ucla hammer museum think that ‘minorities’ are best represented by white queer artists (that shows diversity like on “star trek” the aliens are white people who wear prosthetic make-up or paint their skin blue or green—that’s a kind of diversity)

it’s okay that the white artists who are queer artists don’t have anything to do with POC (people of color)

it’s okay in the little museum labels where the curators note the background, issues and ideas in the artist’s work, that none of it referenced POC even when it mentioned “highest rates of incarceration in the world in spite of having only 5% of the worlds population” (it’s okay not to mention that blacks and latinos make up 60% of the incarcerated even though they are 30% of the american people)

it’s okay

it’s all right, like when i sat in one day in marilyn robinson’s mfa writing class at the university of iowa and she shared her course reading list which was all white except for one book by the only black writer and only POC in creative writing at U of I, and she asked did anyone have any remarks or suggestions, and i said, apart from the one, the reading list isn’t very diverse, it’s all white

robinson didn’t answer, she just smiled and white students (maybe i was the only nonwhite in the room) said, “it’s a very diverse list, already” and “yes, for example, look at all the women writers” and “and kafka,” one added

and robinson just smiled

and i left

that’s all right

it’s okay

that was in 1994, 20 years ago

it’s okay 20 years later to walk through the ucla hammer museum through an all white show

when i was a kid i thought maybe american apartheid would slowly change

and now we have a black president who does everything white presidents do

he does everything just like them, all his policies are the same—he’s like colin powell

and in the 1990s i felt like things could change, maybe

but now i see white thinking’s not changing and this exhibit and the exhibits at every other museum in the city show this, but

it’s all right because the ucla hammer museum curated and hosted “now dig this! art and black los angeles 1960 – 1980” which exhibited from october 2011 to january 2012

so it’s okay, because “black los angeles” had its day

it had the one exhibit

it has black history month every year

it had wanda coleman (in those days)

so it’s okay that all the official museums in l.a. show white art all the time

it’s okay because you can go to the “california african american museum” if you want to see art by POC or you can drive to long beach to the museum of latin american art, or the l.a. county museum of art probably has one or two frida kahlos or diego riveras and some great precolombian ceramics

so it’s okay

if the all the other museums like lacma and moca and etc. show white art at all times

asco had it’s one lacma show “asco: the elite of the obscure, a retrospective 1972 – 1987” on exhibition from sept. 2011 to december 2011, so it’s okay

they had that one

one is good, now we can go back to our regularly scheduled programming

like after a public service announcement

it’s okay that the apartheid imagination remains in place and is not disrupted

thank you

that reassurance is like walking on a broken toe

 

gas-board-echolot

sesshu foster

alhambra, ca

Probably you were making love a couple times, you were getting busy.

Laying sod, planting trees, paving a walkway. Perhaps you called your mother.

Perhaps your child. Driving from L.A. to the Mexican border can take what.

The estimate for the bathroom, 15 to 20K. What’s the weather going to be like, when you arrive?

Something about Gaza. The woman’s car in the intersection…

You parked and by the time you got there, two other guys showed up to help push.

Rutsu 18, or Tokoro in S. Pasadena? Bombed out buildings like from World War II, gray concrete dust.

Gray concrete dust on survivors. The Israelis.

News on in another room; saturated arena colors of a flat screen in a sports bar, Washington DC?

Dim sports bar? A toddler cradled in a hunched father’s arms, missing the top of the head.

How much had you? How much more to drink? Two or three maybe.

Phrase, tit for tat, something like that. It canceled out. How much money was it to you?

New appliances, developments in robotics, software versus hardware. Debt.

How’s traffic? How’s it look? If you peeked and saw Gaza you saw it.

You saw the end of your world, your own death in a way, the limit of sighs.

A breath, your own, and someone talking, saying something you didn’t quite catch.

Hedges, fences and trees as you drive on. Houses, neighborhoods of night streets. Little universes.

 

story-of-airship-dining-promenade


“On 3 of January 1886, Macsimino Lopez from Hacienda de Guadalupe was falsely accused by some enemies of being a highwayman and reported to the authorities of Guanajuato, who decided to use the current fugitive law {execution by firing squad} in his prosecution, but this never happened due to the grace of the Holy Virgin after offering her this retablo.”

 

 

Hey Dave, 90s here must be frying like a skillet in Chico

but it must rain in a decade or 2

I had a student a couple years ago with mental illness

a great kid, funny and super-intelligent (like they can be)

he used to come talk to me in off-hours about his ups and downs

obsessing about one girl who loathes him and the attention his attention brings

he draws Japanese manga comic books about everything and she features in many

both are Chicanos but in his comic books she looks like a Japanese anime cartoon, big eyes, round face

but the last time I saw him, hunched over in the library at a table alone, lost in his obsessions

trapped in his isolation and weird (comic book interpolated) single-track schizophrenic ideas

they later told me he was having delusions that the whole school was conspiring about him

because of that girl) though it had been years since he was told that she did not want him to speak to her

he continued to ask counselors to put him in the same classes with her—but of course they refused

so it must be because of on-going conspiracy of everyone who knows him

anyway the poor crazed kid hunched in his hoodie, on his meds but still isolated and lost in delusions

like endless Japanese manga reminds me of America, USA could be doing great positive things in the world

(this kid could have had a great life, with his brilliance) saving lives and saving itself

but no, it’s lost in crazed obsessions of money and power (all slipping the faster from its grasp)

obsessed with paranoia, fear and terrorism, and we must be trapped with it in wars, waste and negativity—

 

los-ang-miramar037web

Lâm Thị Mỹ Dạ

They say that you, a road builder
Had such love for our country
You rushed out and waved your torch
To call the bombs down on yourself
And save the road for the troops

As my unit passed on that worn road
The bomb crater reminded us of your story
Your grave is radiant with bright-colored stones
Piled high with love for you, a young girl

As I looked in the bomb crater where you died
The rain water became a patch of sky
Our country is kind
Water from the sky washes pain away

Now you lie down deep in the earth
As the sky lay down in that earthen crater
At night your soul sheds light
Like the dazzling stars
Did your soft white skin
Become a bank of white clouds?

By day I pass under a sun-flooded sky
And it is your sky
And that anxious, wakeful disc
Is it the sun, or is it your heart
Lighting my way
As I walk down the long road?

The name of the road is your name
Your death is a young girl’s patch of blue sky
My soul is lit by your life

And my friends, who never saw you
Each has a different image of your face

From Green Rice by Lam Thi My Da. Translated by Martha Collins and Thuy Dinh. Used with permission of Curbstone Press.

Lâm Thị Mỹ Dạ

Lam Thi My Da is one of Vietnam’s best known writers. She comes from Quang Binh Province, in the central part of Vietnam, an area that saw a great deal of fighting during the war. A graduate of the Writer’s College in Vietnam, she has worked as a reporter and a literary editor. She has written five books of poetry and her work, Dedicated to a Dream, received the highest honors from the National United Board of Vietnamese Literature and the Arts. Translations of her poems have been featured in Six Vietnamese Poets, published in the United States by Curbstone. She has also published three collections of stories for children.

see also http://www.thebluemoon.com/poetry/ltmda.shtml
and http://www.rattle.com/poetry/the-night-blooming-cereus-and-i-by-lam-thi-my-da/
her book of selected poems, Green Rice, translated by Martha Collins and Thuy Dinh, is available here: http://www.alibris.com/Green-Rice-Poems-by-Lam-Thi-My-Da-Thi-Mmy-Da-Lam/book/8644404

reviewed by Maxine Hong Kingston here http://www.waterbridgereview.org/092006/rvw_green_rice.php

published by Curbstone Press, 2005, Willimantic, CT

published by Curbstone Press, 2005, Willimantic, CT

Poem for the Year of the Buffalo

I was born in the year of the buffalo
A year that brings many troubles
A buffalo toils all year round
Works hard but never grumbles

When i was very small I walked
With my buffalo to the village fields
Green grass, high flying kites
Buffalo and I would daydream

There was so much wind
In the wide open fields
There was so much sun
Buffalo’s eyes would brim

Don’t play music near a buffalos ear-
Please don’t tell me that
If a buffalo looks, a buffalo knows
It doesn’t need to hear

I left home a long time ago
But when spring comes I go back
There I meet the black buffalo
Still attentive, innocent

The buffalo eats grass all day
Spring offers up grass again
Thanks to heaven for watching over
The buffalo’s youth, that never ends.

-Lam Thi My Da

translated by Thuy Dinh and Martha Collins

why-has-america-luxury

The 60 was Closed 10 car accident milk tanker truck hit the divider and tipped over onto cars. Some burned a 5 year old girl died some critical injured some minor injuried traffic closed in both directions the truck partly went over center divider into oncoming traffic. Milk spilled… helicopters circling two tow trucks just drove past hauling 3 wrecked cars one totally burned out no glass or rubber left on it. …Bright summer day smog haze on san gabriel valley. The helicopters have left and the freeway must have opened westbound by now as traffic is no longer backed up at a standstill its moving. Heavy trucks rolling by. People will be heading to the hospital fighting for their lives.

Voyager, wanderer of the heart,

Off to

          a million midnights, black, black

Voyager, wanderer of star worlds,

Off to

          a million tomorrows, black, black,

Seek and find Hiroshima’s children,

Send them back, send them back,.

Tear open concrete sealed cathedrals, spiritually locked

Fill vacant theaters with their musty diversions,

Almost forgotten laughter.

Give us back the twisted sons

Poisoned by mildewed fathers.

Find again the used up whores,

Dying in some forgotten corner,

Find sunlight, and barking dogs,

For the lost, decayed in sorry jails.

Find pity, find Hell for wax bitches,

Hidden in the bowels of male Cadillacs.

Find tomorrow and next time for Negro millionaires

Hopelessly trapped in their luxurious complexions.

Find love, and an everlasting fix for hopeless junkies,

Stealing into lost nights, long time.

Voyager now,

                          Off to a million midnights, black, black

Seek and find Hiroshima’s children,

                           Send them back, send them back.

Bob Kaufman (1925 - 1986)

Bob Kaufman (1925 – 1986)

Bob Kaufman

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ip4__wnWhvQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aP8-MpCC_8

see also

Solitudes_Crowded_With_Loneliness_300_449

Solitudes Crowded with Loneliness:

http://www.powells.com/biblio/61-9780811208017-0

The_Ancient_Rain__300_454

The Ancient Rain:

http://www.powells.com/biblio/61-9780811208017-0

480e9358fb603a211760cd808e321980

Cranial Guitar: Selected Poems

http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9781566890380-4

sorry to the spider i washed down the drain first thing in the morning

i didn’t see you in the shower without my glasses on

by the time i bent down to look at you the hot water curled you up

then you were gone, gone down the drain

in the steaming shower—did you enter the shower

on my hair? i can’t see well, bleary from text and screen and work.

i move about the world by habit, without seeing sometimes.

i apologize to all the spiders i crushed, stomped on, smeared

as they scuttled and ran for cover, as they tried to get away.

none was attacking me and i killed them for no real reason.

your fear of looming death seemed to frighten me tremendously.

sorry to the spider i crushed with a cup, the lip of a cup

you were so fast, so big with your long shiny legs

and so fast your movement was somewhat frightening—lightning—

when i slammed the cup on the bookshelf

you were already halfway escaped of it, it crushed your cephalothorax.

instantly you curled up like a dead hand that would never move no more

and i thought that maybe you were a mother, strong and feminine—

maybe the mother of these tiny baby spiders that sometimes i mistake

for ants, sometimes i have washed them down the sink before i recognize

what i am seeing, and i killed you, crushed like a broken umbrella

upsidedown, but i have been finding your babies in the sinks

and lifting them outside when i can if they will crawl along my finger

or on a corner of a piece of paper.

sorry, spiders, for killing you without even noticing

like the one i found once, when i opened a book

and the spider’s juice stuck exoskeletal parts on the page

like a phrase. i know we share this same house;

i never see the little bugs, flies and larvae that you eat

—thanks for eating them, i don’t want them in my books,

i don’t want them in my cupboards and food containers,

if i see you crawling across the floor of the summer

i will open the door for you, for both of us so we can get out.

 

lali cookie

unnamed-1

“Under Siege” by Mahmoud Darwish

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.

 

…………………Ramallah, January 2002

Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008): Under Siege, from A State of Siege, 2002, translated by Marjolijn De Jager 

from http://tomclarkblog.blogspot.com/2014/07/mahmoud-darwish-under-siege.html

unnamed-2

“Silence for Gaza” by Mahmoud Darwish

Gaza is far from its relatives and close to its enemies, because whenever Gaza explodes, it becomes an island and it never stops exploding. It scratched the enemy’s face, broke his dreams and stopped his satisfaction with time.

Because in Gaza time is something different.

Because in Gaza time is not a neutral element.

It does not compel people to cool contemplation, but rather to explosion and a collision with reality.

Time there does not take children from childhood to old age, but rather makes them men in their first confrontation with the enemy.

Time in Gaza is not relaxation, but storming the burning noon. Because in Gaza values are different, different, different.

The only value for the occupied is the extent of his resistance to occupation. That is the only competition there. Gaza has been addicted to knowing this cruel, noble value. It did not learn it from books, hasty school seminars, loud propaganda megaphones, or songs. It learned it through experience alone and through work that is not done for advertisement and image.

Gaza has no throat. Its pores are the ones that speak in sweat, blood, and fires. Hence the enemy hates it to death and fears it to criminality, and tries to sink it into the sea, the desert, or blood. And hence its relatives and friends love it with a coyness that amounts to jealousy and fear at times, because Gaza is the brutal lesson and the shining example for enemies and friends alike.

Gaza is not the most beautiful city.

Its shore is not bluer than the shores of Arab cities.

Its oranges are not the most beautiful in the Mediterranean basin.

Gaza is not the richest city.

It is not the most elegant or the biggest, but it equals the history of an entire homeland, because it is more ugly, impoverished, miserable, and vicious in the eyes of enemies. Because it is the most capable, among us, of disturbing the enemy’s mood and his comfort. Because it is his nightmare. Because it is mined oranges, children without a childhood, old men without old age and women without desires. Because of all this it is the most beautiful, the purest and richest among us and the one most worthy of love.

We do injustice to Gaza when we look for its poems, so let us not disfigure Gaza’s beauty. What is most beautiful in it is that it is devoid of poetry at a time when we tried to triumph over the enemy with poems, so we believed ourselves and were overjoyed to see the enemy letting us sing. We let him triumph, then when we dried our lips of poems we saw that the enemy had finished building cities, forts and streets. We do injustice to Gaza when we turn it into a myth, because we will hate it when we discover that it is no more than a small poor city that resists.

We do injustice when we wonder: What made it into a myth? If we had dignity, we would break all our mirrors and cry or curse it if we refuse to revolt against ourselves. We do injustice to Gaza if we glorify it, because being enchanted by it will take us to the edge of waiting and Gaza doesn’t come to us. Gaza does not liberate us. Gaza has no horses, airplanes, magic wands, or offices in capital cities. Gaza liberates itself from our attributes and liberates our language from its Gazas at the same time. When we meet it – in a dream – perhaps it won’t recognize us, because Gaza was born out of fire, while we were born out of waiting and crying over abandoned homes.

It is true that Gaza has its special circumstances and its own revolutionary traditions. But its secret is not a mystery: Its resistance is popular and firmly joined together and knows what it wants (it wants to expel the enemy out of its clothes). The relationship of resistance to the people is that of skin to bones and not a teacher to students. Resistance in Gaza did not turn into a profession or an institution.

It did not accept anyone’s tutelage and did not leave its fate hinging on anyone’s signature or stamp.

It does not care that much if we know its name, picture, or eloquence. It did not believe that it was material for media. It did not prepare for cameras and did not put smiling paste on its face.

Neither does it want that, nor we.

Hence, Gaza is bad business for merchants and hence it is an incomparable moral treasure for Arabs.

What is beautiful about Gaza is that our voices do not reach it. Nothing distracts it; nothing takes its fist away from the enemy’s face. Not the forms of the Palestinian state we will establish whether on the eastern side of the moon, or the western side of Mars when it is explored. Gaza is devoted to rejection… hunger and rejection, thirst and rejection, displacement and rejection, torture and rejection, siege and rejection, death and rejection.

Enemies might triumph over Gaza (the storming sea might triumph over an island… they might chop down all its trees).

They might break its bones.

They might implant tanks on the insides of its children and women. They might throw it into the sea, sand, or blood.

But it will not repeat lies and say “Yes” to invaders.

It will continue to explode.

It is neither death, nor suicide. It is Gaza’s way of declaring that it deserves to live.It will continue to explode.

It is neither death, nor suicide. It is Gaza’s way of declaring that it deserves to live.

[Translated by Sinan Antoon From Hayrat al-`A’id (The Returnee’s Perplexity), Riyad al-Rayyis, 2007]

from http://mondoweiss.net/2012/11/mahmoud-darwish-silence-for-gaza.html

unnamed

“Ahmad Al-Za’tar” by Mahmoud Darwish

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 their mantles and concealed me

From the oozing old wound to the contours of the land I descend, and

The year marked the separation of the sea from the cities of ash, and

I was alone

Again alone

O alone? And Ahmad

Between two bullets was the exile of the sea

A camp grows and gives birth to fighters and to thyme

And an arm becomes strong in forgetfulness

Memory comes from trains that have left and

Platforms that are empty of welcome and of jasmine

In cars, in the landscape of the sea, in the intimate nights of prison cells

In quick liaisons and in the search for truth was

The discovery of self

In every thing, Ahmad found his opposite

For twenty years he was asking

For twenty years he was wandering

For twenty years, and for moments only, his mother gave him birth

In a vessel of banana leaves

And departed

He seeks an identity and is struck by the volcano

The clouds are gone and have left me homeless, and

The mountains have flung their mantles and concealed me

I am Ahmad the Arab, he said

I am the bullets, the oranges and the memory

 Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008): Ahmad Al-Za’tar, 1998, translated by Tania Nasir, 1998

 

A relative of two-year old Lamar Radiya holds her body at the morgue of the Kamal Adwan hospital in Beit Lahia: photo by Marco Longari / AFP,, 24 July 2014

A relative of two-year old Lamar Radiya holds her body at the morgue of the Kamal Adwan hospital in Beit Lahia: photo by Marco Longari / AFP,, 24 July 2014

Fady Joudah’s translation of “State of Seige” can be found in his translation of Darwish’s The Butterfly’s Burden:

https://www.powells.com/biblio/9781556592416

 

The body of Ali al-Shibari, a 10-year-old Palestinian child who was killed after a UN school in the northern Beit Hanun district of the Gaza Strip was hit by an Israeli shell, lies wrapped in shrouds at the morgue of the Kamal Adwan hospital in Beit Lahiya on July 24, 2014: photo by Mahmud Hams / AFP, 24 July 201

The body of Ali al-Shibari, a 10-year-old Palestinian child who was killed after a UN school in the northern Beit Hanun district of the Gaza Strip was hit by an Israeli shell, lies wrapped in shrouds at the morgue of the Kamal Adwan hospital in Beit Lahiya on July 24, 2014: photo by Mahmud Hams / AFP, 24 July 201

 

See also Unfortunately It Was Paradise: Selected Poems by Mahmoud Darwish,

  http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780520237544-6

September 2014
M T W T F S S
« Aug    
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
2930  
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 51 other followers