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A review by lizetteratura
Unfortunately, It Was Paradise: Selected Poems by Mahmoud Darwish
challenging
emotional
inspiring
reflective
sad
slow-paced
5.0
poetry is resistance!
the mural is my favourite poem among all of the selected ones but many still left me with many thoughts and feelings. i wish i was more with mahmoud darwish and his work (arabic poetry as well) as it has many references that are harder to understand. here are some of my favourite parts:
We are captives, even if our wheat grows over the fences,
and swallows rise from our broken chains.
We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are.
But those who travel to nowhere have no chance of return,
to become lost again in loss.
Perhaps we will fly one day...
People are birds unable to fly.
Ignorance makes the earth larger.
The earth grows smaller when we realize our ignorance,
but we are the descendants of this clay.
You have tortured us, O love.
In vain you drive us from journey to journey.
You have tossed us away from our kin,
from our water and air, and you have ruined us.
You have emptied the sunset of sunset.
You've robbed us of our first words
and looted the peach tree of our days.
You have stripped us of our days.
O love, you have tortured us and sacked our lives.
You have tossed us away from everything
and then taken cover behind Autumn's leaves.
You sacked our lives, O love!
You've left not a thing to guide us to you,
or whose shadow we can kiss.
Leave in the wheat fields of our souls one grain of your love.
Do not break the cosmic glass prison of our supplication.
Do not worry. Do not raise a hue and cry.
Calm down, so that we may witness
the cosmic wedding of the elements, an offering to you.
O love, how bitterly you tortured us and estranged us from our very self!
You have stripped us even of our names, O love!
Longing is the place of exile. Our love is a place of exile.
Our wine is a place of exile
and a place of exile is the history of this heart.
How many times have we told the fragrance of the place
to be still so we can rest and sleep?
How many times have we told the trees
of the place to wipe off the invader's mask
so we might find a place? Nowhere is the place
that distances its soul from its history.
A place of exile is the soul
that distances us from our land and takes us to our love.
A place of exile is the soul
that distances us from our soul and takes us to the stranger.
Is there a sword that hasn't yet been sheathed in our flesh?
Poetry is a place of exile.
We dream and forget where we were when we wake.
We'll return, when we return, to see her!
I dream of white tulips, streets of song, a house of light.
I need a kind heart, not a bullet.
I need a bright day, not a mad fascist moment of triumph.
I need a child to cherish a day of laughter, not a weapon of war.
I came to live for rising suns, not to witness their setting.
An express train to cross the lakes. In every pocket, keys to a house and a family photograph. All the
passengers return to their families, but we do not return to any home.
the mural is my favourite poem among all of the selected ones but many still left me with many thoughts and feelings. i wish i was more with mahmoud darwish and his work (arabic poetry as well) as it has many references that are harder to understand. here are some of my favourite parts:
We are captives, even if our wheat grows over the fences,
and swallows rise from our broken chains.
We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are.
But those who travel to nowhere have no chance of return,
to become lost again in loss.
Perhaps we will fly one day...
People are birds unable to fly.
Ignorance makes the earth larger.
The earth grows smaller when we realize our ignorance,
but we are the descendants of this clay.
You have tortured us, O love.
In vain you drive us from journey to journey.
You have tossed us away from our kin,
from our water and air, and you have ruined us.
You have emptied the sunset of sunset.
You've robbed us of our first words
and looted the peach tree of our days.
You have stripped us of our days.
O love, you have tortured us and sacked our lives.
You have tossed us away from everything
and then taken cover behind Autumn's leaves.
You sacked our lives, O love!
You've left not a thing to guide us to you,
or whose shadow we can kiss.
Leave in the wheat fields of our souls one grain of your love.
Do not break the cosmic glass prison of our supplication.
Do not worry. Do not raise a hue and cry.
Calm down, so that we may witness
the cosmic wedding of the elements, an offering to you.
O love, how bitterly you tortured us and estranged us from our very self!
You have stripped us even of our names, O love!
Longing is the place of exile. Our love is a place of exile.
Our wine is a place of exile
and a place of exile is the history of this heart.
How many times have we told the fragrance of the place
to be still so we can rest and sleep?
How many times have we told the trees
of the place to wipe off the invader's mask
so we might find a place? Nowhere is the place
that distances its soul from its history.
A place of exile is the soul
that distances us from our land and takes us to our love.
A place of exile is the soul
that distances us from our soul and takes us to the stranger.
Is there a sword that hasn't yet been sheathed in our flesh?
Poetry is a place of exile.
We dream and forget where we were when we wake.
We'll return, when we return, to see her!
I dream of white tulips, streets of song, a house of light.
I need a kind heart, not a bullet.
I need a bright day, not a mad fascist moment of triumph.
I need a child to cherish a day of laughter, not a weapon of war.
I came to live for rising suns, not to witness their setting.
An express train to cross the lakes. In every pocket, keys to a house and a family photograph. All the
passengers return to their families, but we do not return to any home.