From a well of feelings your mother bore you, a stream
that flooded the white pages pledged to history
and held it back . . . for you to overwhelm,
you whose poems written for me are
a dialysis of nobility from patriot to patriot.
Your steps recede as if racing
to where the flight from flight is courage.
With your poetry we accustomed our immunity
to persist. We became a balm to the wound
till through the pinprick the bleeding could not be seen.
My greatest fortune is the cells
you implanted in my spine. Master of sublime sensibility,
give me more!
The DNA in my poems is inherited;
it seeks its origins
and a reason to surge ever faster.
A passionate idea more powerful than the occupier satisfies me
or a child I father and who thanks me
and builds the only refuge as a home for me
and in his advent this child generates energy, you
founder of the dynasty, so wait
and see your champion whose victory panics tragedy
out of its stubbornness, and who confronts his fear in such confidence
that the battle is too ashamed to face him.
Tedium paralyses poetry
but does that matter to us
when you architect words before they come out
and the poems sigh with longing for our emotions?
We have a mythic stamina to shout
that only increases to rebuke silence if the spectre of tedium
should come unheeded.
My anchor, my friend, despite the years between us
on no account worry!
Darwish died but Haifa did not die.
She kept calling her people about the foot of Mount Carmel.
Eternal Mount Carmel makes up for what was burned
since the plants which break through grow
to reassure life that there is salvation from the oppressors.
My inspiration, never fear when they talk of the final departure.
Whether we be or depart
there’s no escaping hope.
My hoarseness is proof that sadness is temporary
and joy is my reward when you’re with me. The best
most certain proof is that I love you like a journey where mistakes
out-step the prophet’s anger.
But your inclinations are justified and not to be blamed.
What you have given has already satisfied me
and what I will say has already been said.
Fill me with optimism despite the naksa of our fathers. The daily coming
of dawn relieves me
and the darkness confirms that morning awaits
a Palestinian sun which has just risen
in the East and whose setting killed itself.
A bird may sometimes rest, but the heights are tempting
for the hatchling to dawn forth.
It says sorry to the nest when it bids farewell to the tree with its wing
and tells the distant earth: “I will return for certain
to your pure branches once again. So don’t cry
on account of my leaving, lonely one. For only in distance
does instinct draw closer to my longing,
and in going.”
Sameh al-Qasim!
My country brings our life back to life and you remain you.
Even if you tire, you will never be exhausted.
From your poetic flood is born a poet
who praises you and ends up a wheel turning as if
he were you, and by contagion I am one of them.
I turn and revolt but never grow dizzy or compromise.
Sameh al-Qasim!
Follow the advice you gave openly
and you’ll find that truth might win or maybe
from your artistic works we can manufacture steadfastness
on a flying carpet.
The wind is not strong enough to blow us off the face of the earth
and the past not distant enough that the future makes us forget what’s gone.
Our past has become the future as if it pursued us
while we – the present to come ¬– wander
as if the truth has gone into hiding.
We plot against disaster and whatever our emotions feel
we feel them.
Sheikh of the poem, I beg you, gird yourself with us.
We mount the stallion that transforms our stumbling
into a desire that returns the hilltops of our Galilee
whose feet shake hands with the clouds rising to mock
the depths of the other in the halting plain.
Silence will shortly be refuge for our disappointment
yet there is no escaping wars.
We walk on the water of battles without drowning
and through caution
the weak will triumph over the base and if
speech breaks its promises I will be content with a heart
whose pulse speaks eloquently.
I will threaten oblivion with oblivion
when I take the wounded body down from the cross, so don’t be afraid.
The cross was burned and its bloody victim died like us
but the nails in my hands are a living relic
without rust. Samih, let our enemy fear
my revenge, our enemy who
has not repented since enraging the resurrection of our intifada
in the steps of the messiah. Answer
these words so I might imitate, my friend,
the role of the listener to what you say and find rest.
that flooded the white pages pledged to history
and held it back . . . for you to overwhelm,
you whose poems written for me are
a dialysis of nobility from patriot to patriot.
Your steps recede as if racing
to where the flight from flight is courage.
With your poetry we accustomed our immunity
to persist. We became a balm to the wound
till through the pinprick the bleeding could not be seen.
My greatest fortune is the cells
you implanted in my spine. Master of sublime sensibility,
give me more!
The DNA in my poems is inherited;
it seeks its origins
and a reason to surge ever faster.
A passionate idea more powerful than the occupier satisfies me
or a child I father and who thanks me
and builds the only refuge as a home for me
and in his advent this child generates energy, you
founder of the dynasty, so wait
and see your champion whose victory panics tragedy
out of its stubbornness, and who confronts his fear in such confidence
that the battle is too ashamed to face him.
Tedium paralyses poetry
but does that matter to us
when you architect words before they come out
and the poems sigh with longing for our emotions?
We have a mythic stamina to shout
that only increases to rebuke silence if the spectre of tedium
should come unheeded.
My anchor, my friend, despite the years between us
on no account worry!
Darwish died but Haifa did not die.
She kept calling her people about the foot of Mount Carmel.
Eternal Mount Carmel makes up for what was burned
since the plants which break through grow
to reassure life that there is salvation from the oppressors.
My inspiration, never fear when they talk of the final departure.
Whether we be or depart
there’s no escaping hope.
My hoarseness is proof that sadness is temporary
and joy is my reward when you’re with me. The best
most certain proof is that I love you like a journey where mistakes
out-step the prophet’s anger.
But your inclinations are justified and not to be blamed.
What you have given has already satisfied me
and what I will say has already been said.
Fill me with optimism despite the naksa of our fathers. The daily coming
of dawn relieves me
and the darkness confirms that morning awaits
a Palestinian sun which has just risen
in the East and whose setting killed itself.
A bird may sometimes rest, but the heights are tempting
for the hatchling to dawn forth.
It says sorry to the nest when it bids farewell to the tree with its wing
and tells the distant earth: “I will return for certain
to your pure branches once again. So don’t cry
on account of my leaving, lonely one. For only in distance
does instinct draw closer to my longing,
and in going.”
Sameh al-Qasim!
My country brings our life back to life and you remain you.
Even if you tire, you will never be exhausted.
From your poetic flood is born a poet
who praises you and ends up a wheel turning as if
he were you, and by contagion I am one of them.
I turn and revolt but never grow dizzy or compromise.
Sameh al-Qasim!
Follow the advice you gave openly
and you’ll find that truth might win or maybe
from your artistic works we can manufacture steadfastness
on a flying carpet.
The wind is not strong enough to blow us off the face of the earth
and the past not distant enough that the future makes us forget what’s gone.
Our past has become the future as if it pursued us
while we – the present to come ¬– wander
as if the truth has gone into hiding.
We plot against disaster and whatever our emotions feel
we feel them.
Sheikh of the poem, I beg you, gird yourself with us.
We mount the stallion that transforms our stumbling
into a desire that returns the hilltops of our Galilee
whose feet shake hands with the clouds rising to mock
the depths of the other in the halting plain.
Silence will shortly be refuge for our disappointment
yet there is no escaping wars.
We walk on the water of battles without drowning
and through caution
the weak will triumph over the base and if
speech breaks its promises I will be content with a heart
whose pulse speaks eloquently.
I will threaten oblivion with oblivion
when I take the wounded body down from the cross, so don’t be afraid.
The cross was burned and its bloody victim died like us
but the nails in my hands are a living relic
without rust. Samih, let our enemy fear
my revenge, our enemy who
has not repented since enraging the resurrection of our intifada
in the steps of the messiah. Answer
these words so I might imitate, my friend,
the role of the listener to what you say and find rest.