Psalm 3 |
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. The day my words were of earth I was a friend to ears of wheat. The day my words were Of anger I was a friend to chains. The day my words were of revolt I was a friend to the earthquakes. The day my words were of colocynth I was the friend of the optimist. When my words became honey Files covered My lips. |
Jan 10, 2010
Psalm 3
Psalm 2 *
Psalm 2 * |
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. Nowadays I find myself dry As a tree growing out of books, And the wind is a passing matter. To fight or not to fight? That is not the question. The important thing is for my throat to be strong. To work or not to work? That is not the question. The important thing is for me to rest eight days a week According to Palestinian Mean Time. O homeland repeated in songs and massacres, Show me the way to the source of death: Is it the dagger or the lie? In order to remember I had a roof that's lost I should sit out in the open. In order not to forget my country's pure air I should breathe in consumption. In order to remember the gazelle swimming in whiteness I must be interned with memories. In order not to forget my mountains are high I should comb the storm from my brow. In order to retain ownership over my distant sky I must not own even my very skin. O homeland repeated in massacres and songs, Why do I smuggle you from airport to airport Like opium, White ink And a transmitter? I want to draw your form, You who are scattered through files and surprises. I want to draw your form, You who are strewn over shrapnel and birds' wings. I want to draw your form, But the sky snatches at my hand. I want to draw your form, You who are beleaguered between wind and dagger. I want to draw your form, In order to find my form in you, And so I am accused of being abstract, of forging documents and photos, You who are beleaguered between dagger and the wind. O homeland repeated in songs and massacres, How are you changed into a dream and steal wonderment So that you leave me like a stone? Perhaps you are more beautiful in the process of becoming a dream, Perhaps you are more beautiful. In the history of the Arabs there remains No name for me to borrow With which to slip through your secret windows. All the cover names have been booked In the air-conditioned recruiting offices, So will you accept my name – My only cover name – Mahmoud Darwish? As for my original name, It has been torn from my flesh By police whips and the pines of O homeland repeated in massacres and songs, Show me the way to the source of death: Is it the dagger? Or the lie? *'Psalm 2': The greater part of the volume I Love You, I Love Not is taken up with seventeen psalms of which I have chosen eight for translation. They are of course psalms to |
Psalm 16
Psalm 16 |
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. I toy with time As an emir caresses a horse. I play with the days As children play with coloured marbles. Today I celebrate The passing of a day on the previous one And tomorrow I shall celebrate The passing of two days on yesterday. I drink the toast of yesterday In remembrance of the coming day And thus I carry on my life. When I fell from my mettlesome horse And broke my arm, My finger, wounded a thousand year ago, Give me pain. When I commemorated the passing of forty days* on the city of I burst out weeping for And when the hangman's noose encircled my neck, I felt such hatred for my enemies For having stolen my tie *'. . . Commemorated the passing of forty days': In the Arab world a ceremony is held forty days after someone's death. |
Psalm 11
Psalm 11 |
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. Nothing remains for me But to be a vagrant in your shadow that is my shadow Nothing remains for me But to inhabit your voice that is my voice. I rolled down off the cross spread out like a cloudless sky In an endless horizon, To the smallest mountain reached by vision And I did not come upon my wound . . . and my freedom. Because I do not know your whereabouts I do not find my pace And because my back is not supported against you with nails I have become exceedingly bowed Like your sky that keeps company with windows of aeroplanes. Give me back the features of my name That I may make appeal to the fibres of trees. Give me back the letters of my face That I may make an arbiter of the coming storms. Give me back the reasons for my joy That I may make an arbiter of withdrawal that has no reason. Because my voice is dry as a flagpole, My hand empty as the national anthem And because my shadow is vast as a festival And the lineaments of my face go for a ride in an ambulance Because I am like that, Being a citizen in an unborn kingdom. |
Psalm 10
Psalm 10 |
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. The lengthy state of dying Has taken me back to a street in the suburbs of childhood, Has brought me into houses, Into hearts, Into ears of wheat, Has given me an identity. It has made me into a cause, The lengthy state of dying. It used to seem to them That I was dead, and crime was mortgaged in songs, So they passed by and did not utter my name. They buried my cropse in files and coups d'état, And went away. (And the country I used to dream of will remain the country I was dreaming of.) It was a short life And a long death And I awakened for a while And wrote the name of my land on my corpse And on a gun I said: This is my path And this my guide To the coastal cities. And I departed But they killed me. They buried my corpse in files and coups d'état and went away. (And the country I used to dream of will remain the country I was dreaming of I, in the lengthy state of dying, Am the master of sadness And the tear of every Arab girl in love. The singers and orators have grouped themselves around me And on my cropse sprout poetry and leaders And all the brokers of patriotic language. Clap Clap Clap And long live The lengthy state of dying. The lengthy state of dying His taken me back to a street in the suburbs of childhood, Has brought me into houses, into hearts, into ears of wheat, Has made me into a cause, Has given me an identity And a legacy of chains. |
Psalm 15
Psalm 15 |
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 Mahmoud Darwish Translated by: Denys Johnson-Davies/The Music of Human Flesh. A fugitive from the frontiers that preyed upon my friends And the frontiers race behind me. The frontiers come nearer and nearer And touch my throat. It is difficult for you to know Where the legend ends And where my face begins Because the frontiers are so near. These furrows carved into my forehead Are not the fingerprints of years. These blue lines under my eyes Are not evidence of nights with women – They are the frontiers that ramify throughout my body. I am condemned to defeat And my enemy is condemned to victory. I am steadfast in defeat And my enemy is steadfast in victory. O darkness coming upon the city, Pour down, pour down, For tonight I am resolved to depart from my frontier-ridden face Into the direction of my heart, The only city that has not fallen into captivity. |
Promises from the storm
Promises from the storm |
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 Mohmud Darwish So let it be. I have to refuse death, To burn the tears of the bleeding songs, To denude the olive trees Of all fake branches. If I am singing to joy Beyond the eyelids of frightened eyes That is because the Storm Promised me wine, New toasts And rainbows; And because the storm Swept away the song of stupid birds And artificial branches From the trunks of standing trees. So let it be. I have to be broud Of you wound of the sity, O tableau of lightning In our sad nights. The street frowns at my face But you protect me from the shadow and grudging looks. I shall sing to joy Beyond the eyelids of frightened eyes, Since the storm has blown in my homeland And promised me wine and rainbows. (Akhir al-layl Nahar,Damascus 1968.) |
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