By Mahmoud Darwish
“There are maps of Palestine that the politicians won't ever have the capacity to forfeit: the only stored within the stories of Palestinian refugees, and that that's drawn through Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry.”—Anton Shammas
This outstanding selection of Mahmoud Darwish’s poems and prose meditations is either lyrical and philosophical, wondering and clever, jam-packed with irony and protest and play. “Every appealing poem is an act of resistance.” As continuously, Darwish’s musings on unrest and loss stay on love and humanity; fable and dream are inseparable from fact. “Truth is obvious as day.” in the course of the booklet, Darwish returns often to his ongoing and sometimes lighthearted dialog with death.
Mahmoud Darwish (1941–2008) used to be presented the Lannan Prize for Cultural Freedom in 2001. He was once considered as the voice of the Palestinian humans and one of many maximum poets of our time.
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Solitude is a filter, not a mirror. You throw what is in your left hand into your right, and nothing changes in this gesture of transition from non-thought to non-meaning. But this harmless nonsense isn't getting us anywhere: and what if I were alond Solitude is the choice of someone with an abundance of possibilities - the choice of the free. When you are bored and fed up, you say: If I were someone else I would abandon this blank sheet of paper and set out to imitate a Japanese novel whose writer climbs to the top of a mountain to see what the birds of prey have done to his dead ancestors.
I reached out my hand to pick it up and could neither feel nor see it. I stared up at the clouds and saw tufts of cotton wool driven northwards by the wind, away from the water tanks crouched on the roofs of the buildings. Where is the apple that fell on me? I wondered. Maybe my imagination, which is independent from me, picked it up and ran off with it. ' There on the table I found a sheet of paper on which was written, in green ink, one line: �apple fell on me from the clouds; and I knew my imagination was a faithful hunting dog.
In the evening, when the auditorium was full and the curtain went up, he stood there confident in the silence. He looked at the front row and remembered himself sitting there and grew confused. He forgot the written text, and the improvised text evaporated into thin air. ' He repeated 'One, two, three' until he fainted and the theatre resounded with applause. Empty boxes If peace is a pause between two wars, then the dead have a right to vote: we will choose the general. If war is an accident on the motorway, then the living have a duty to vote: we will choose the donkey.
A River Dies of Thirst: Journals by Mahmoud Darwish