Mahmoud Darwish Memorial--NewYork City

On Wednesday evening, September 24, 2008, I was privileged to say a few words at the Alwan Center for the Arts on Beaver Street in Manhattan, at a memorial tribute to the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who died the previous August. I explained that before hearing of his death I was only slightly aware of the man and his poetry, but have come to know both of them much better since. I read two poems, one by Darwish and one by me, composed for the occasion, which I reproduce for you below. 

Steve 

  By Mahmoud Darwish:

                                            I COME FROM THERE
 
                                I come from there and I have memories.  
                                  Born as mortals are, I have a mother
                                      and a house with many windows.
                                            I have brothers, friends, 
                                    and a prison cell with a cold window.
                                Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls. 
                                               I have my own view,
                                          and an extra blade of grass. 
                             Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words, 
                                             and the bounty of birds, 
                                           and the immortal olive tree. 
                                   I walked this land long before swords 
                                               turned man into prey

                                                   *   *   *   *   *

                           I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother 
                                       when the sky weeps for her mother. 
                                       And I weep to make myself known 
                                                  to a returning cloud. 
                              To break the rules, I have learned all the words 
                                             needed for a trial by blood.
                                  I learned all the words and broke them up 
                                      to make a single word: Homeland..... 

  by Steve Bloom: 

                               I DID NOT KNOW MAHMOUND DARWISH
                                                 BEFORE HE DIED

                                  Consider all the poems I will never know,
                                                sunrises I cannot see,
                                     songs no one has ever sung to me, 
                                              all those who walk past 
                                                    on the sidewalk
                                           without a name-tag pinned 
                                                 close to their hearts.

                                            Yet each has a story to tell 
                                       if only we would learn how to listen.

                                                      *   *   *   *   *

                                     One obituary described him as a poet 
                                     who was “known for political works, 
                                      but proudest of his personal verses.”

                                          It is hard for me to determine
                            whether the verse I recite for you now is political
                                                      or personal.
                                    As a fellow poet I’m inclined to believe
                                                that Mahmoud might 
                                          have shared this conundrum.

                                                      *   *   *   *   *

                                    I did not know Mahmoud Darwish
                                                    before he died.

                                    Still, he helps me learn how to listen:
                                     to the waves snatched by seagulls,
                                    or to random beings who sometimes    
                              find themselves with an extra blade of grass—
                                      sharing words that will sing to us  
                                                         forever,

                                      because his was a personal story.
                                         And his was a political story.
                                          And his story can be called 
                                           by the names: “Palestine,” 
                                                 and “Homeland”—
                                           which will always remain 
                                               close to our hearts.

                                                   *   *   *   *   * 

                                  I did not know Mahmoud Darwish
                                                  before he died.

                                            And yet I have a chance, 
                                             to know him now, after
                                                 the sunset, decide 
                                           to weep for each individual 
                                           who remains unrecognized 
                                            by a returning cloud and,
                                                      in this way, 
                                          tell Mahmoud “hello” today,
                                              rather than “Goodbye.”