Such a wonderful poem, and a graceful image. Great post, Diane!

Mahmoud Darwish's works are a true miracle. His words can fly, his descriptions with great depth of spiritual insight, the elegance of his inspired language are stunning. Thanks a lot, my dear.

Poetry is perhaps what teaches us to nurture the charming illusion : how to be re-born out of ourselves over and over again, and use words to construct a better world, a fictitious world that enables us to sign a pact for a permanent and comprehensive peace with life. / Mahmoud Darwish

i love darwish! and what a beautiful poem... these images, like extinguishing planets in her galaxy, or the gardenias or the waves in silk, and just the way that he runs through the possibilities, each marked by the feelings of desperation that couple with love and waiting, so amazing...
fabulous post, diane, thank you!

I simply forget there is such a thing like Time or Space with this beauty
Thank you so much Diane and Natalia

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

Therefore I do not like to face the sky

Nor do I die level with the ground

But I am a stranger, always a stranger.
(Mahmoud Darwish)

Thanks my friend. Beautiful post. Darwish, he was a great man and a great poet. His poetry also contained irony and a universal humanity.

He wanted to surprise death rather than wait for the “time bomb” that was his artery to explode unannounced… he went prepared, as he always is, leaving us behind to “nurture hope”.

Two Stranger Birds in Our Feathers


My sky is ashen. Scratch my back. And undo

slowly, you stranger, my braids. And tell me

what's on your mind. Tell me what crossed

Youssef's mind. Tell me some simple

talk . . . talk a woman always desires

to be told. I don't want the phrase

complete. Gesture is enough to scatter me in the rise

of butterflies between springheads and the sun. Tell me

I am necessary for you like sleep, and not like nature

filling up with water around you and me. And spread

over me an endless blue wing . . .

My sky is ashen,

as a blackboard is ashen, before

writing on it. So write with my blood's ink anything

that changes it: an utterance . . . two, without

excessive aim at metaphor. And say we are

two stranger birds in Egypt

and in Syria. Say we are two stranger birds

in our feathers. And write my name and yours

beneath the phrase. What time is it now? What color

is my face and yours in new mirrors?

I own nothing for anything to resemble me.

Did the water mistress love you more? Did she seduce you

by the sea rock? Confess now

that you have extended your wilderness twenty years

to stay prisoner in her hands. And tell me

what you think of when the sky is ashen . . .

My sky is ashen.

I resemble what no longer resembles me.

Do you want to return to your exile night

in a mermaid's hair? Or do you want to return

to your home figs? For no honey wounds a stranger

here or there? So what time is it now?

What's the name of this place we're in? And

what's the difference between my sky and your land. Tell me

what Adam said in secret to himself. Was he emancipated

when he remembered. Tell me anything that changes the sky's

ashen color. Tell me some simple

talk, talk a woman desires

to be told every now and then. Say

that two people, like you and me,

can carry all this resemblance between fog

and mirage, then safely return. My sky

is ashen, so what do you think of when the sky

is ashen?

- Mahmoud Darwish


Thank you all for feeling this poet, your comments mean a lot!

I've become an unconditional admirer of this exquisite poet. Thank you, dear Dianne, for illustrating his perfect words with such perfect pictures.

I think people like you Diane is closer to God kiss

Very beautiful !...Thank you Powgrl !