Paradise In the Poetry of Mahmoud Darwish

"Poem by Mahmoud Darwish, born in 1942 in Berweh, a village east of Acre in Palestine- 1998, Natural ink + water color on paper, diwâni jali style. Darwish, probably the best known contemporary Arab poet, is known for his activist poetry regarding Palestinian rights. Much of his work has been set to music by Marcel Khalife."


I found an exquisite book of poetry today, "Unfortunately, It Was Paradise," by Mahmoud Darwish. A great poet speaks beyond their own culture to embrace that of humanity and Darwish illustrates this poetic capacity in his work. In this book, "Palestine is a metaphor for the loss of Eden, for the sorrows of dispossession and exile...." -for the sorrows that belong to existence.

The Stranger Finds Himself in the Stranger

We are two become one.
We have no name, strange woman,
when the stranger finds himself in the stranger.
What remains of the garden behind us is the power of the shadow.
Show what you will of your night's earth, and hide what you will.
We come hurriedly from the twilight of two places at once.
Together we searched for our addresses.
Follow your shadow, east of the Song of Songs,
herding sand grouse.
you will find a star residing it its own death.
Climb a deserted mountain,
you will find my yesterday coming full circle to my tomorrow.
You will find where we were and where, together we will be.

We are two become one, strange man.
go to the sea west of your book, and dive as lightly
as if you were riding two waves at birth,
you will find of thicket of seaweed and a green sky of water.
Dive as lightly as if you were nothing in nothing.
And you will find us together.....

Spotlight on Moon River: Moonlight Garden Project

My response to the exquisite post by Moon River on the Moonlight Garden Project in India, is this poem by Tagore.


Yet one solitary tear
Would hang on the cheek of time
In the form
Of this white and gleaming Taj Mahal

Rabindranath Tagore

This poet dreams of walking in a midnight garden, where poems are pearls draped upon bushes and hanging from exotic trees. -Where dreams are Faeries' Fire and pears belong to the fruit of all possibility.

Princess Haiku visits Clemence Isarue

Princess Haiku had a lovely and ghostly visit with Clemence Isaure last night. After all, said Princess Haiku, we both love the arts so much.

"Clemence is well known in Toulouse as the poets' muse and benefactress. Legend has it that her father refused to give her hand to a young knight she was infatuated with. The young man died at war and the desperate young woman promised to remain faithful to her pure love and devote her life to poetry. After her death, she bequeathed her estate to the city of Toulouse provided that the “Capitouls”, the city magistrates, would pay for the expenses of the "Compagnie des Jeux Floraux"; an association dedicated to preserving the poetry and the regional dialect “Occitane". Poets were invited every May for a festival of sorts and to share their work. A violet made in fine gold was given as a symbolic award. Soon after her death, the Capitouls denied the existence of the inheritance and in effect the very life of the generous Clemence. Today the "Compagnie des Jeux Floraux" still exists thanks to the tenacity of poets eager to maintain the Occitane language. The association is located in the Mansion d'Assezat, a beautiful palace from the Renaissance era."

Princess Haiku Looks Within

This painting by Leonardo Da Vinci reflects my pensive mood. Yesterday, in the process of leaping from one dying laptop to a new one I lost a file containing two years + accumulation of various creative writing projects. Back it up we all say, but sometimes we don't and I didn't. Thanks to the help of some online friends and one closer to home I am in the process of retrieving what can be salvaged. This mishap has given me new insight as to what matters to me in my life. Another person suggested that if the work is permanently lost that somehow, these "thoughts, feelings or intuitions" that I needed to communicate will reemerge in another form. I may have to live with that. If anyone reading this has been through a similar process I would be interested in hearing how they coped with it on a spiritual, philosophical level. There are times in our life where we have to move forward, no matter how difficult it feels.

Text Message to Jacques Derrida from Ovid

Tonight, I was musing on the fate of the Nymph, Echo who lost her own voice and was forced to repeat the words of others. I think that to some degree this is the fate of all of us. I mean think about it, what person or thing did you echo today?

Derrida suggests in this intriguing little video I found on uTube, that "Echo is able to appropriate Narcissus in such a way that he becomes her, in a sense." When we are in love with someone and blindly reflect back their persona to them, aren't we in effect doing the same thing?

In Ovid, Metamorphoses III we are told, "her name is Echo; she always answer back."

Does She? Do We?
What will enable us to find our own voice/identity?
Derrida interprets the myth as the juxtaposition of two blind people loving each other. How can they? How can we, who cannot see, make our way in the journey of self that we call love?

IN THE ZONE FOR A GOOD READ

Princess Haiku is looking for a good novel to read and enjoy literary fiction. I read a book, "Lullabies for Little Criminals," last week that was a very good first novel. Any suggestions?

Musing on Yves Bonnefoy

Yves Bonnefoy is a French poet much acclaimed in Europe although little known in the United States. I don't remember how I discovered his poetry really; perhaps it discovered me. I am attracted by the transparent boundaries of textual and emotional space in his poetics.

There are academics who can articulate his poetics if you are interested. I must admit to being drawn to poetry on an intuitive level and sometimes find criticism distracting. However, this fine essay by Judith Bishop has opened me to a deeper appreciation of Bonnefoy.

(hint: follow the link beneath the word academic)



The Earth


I cry, Look,
The light
Was living there, so near us! Here, its store
Of water, still transfigured. Here the wood
In the shed. Here, the few fruits
Left to dry in the vibrations of the dawn sky.

Nothing has changed,
These are the same places and the same things,
Almost the same words,
But, look, in you, in me,
The undivided, the invisible are gathering.

And she! Is it not
She who is smiling there ("I the light,
Yes, I consent") in the certainty of the threshold,
Bending down, guiding the steps.
Of what seems a child-sun over dark waters.


Yves Bonnefoy
(from New and Selected Poems),