Mahmoud Darwish (Arabic: محمود درويش) (13 March 1941 – 9 August 2008) was a Palestinian poet and author who won numerous awards for his literary output and was regarded as the Palestinian national poet. In his work, Palestine became a metaphor for the loss of Eden, birth and resurrection, and the anguish of dispossession and exile. He has been described as incarnating and reflecting "the tradition of the political poet in Islam, the man of action whose action is poetry".
Mahmoud Darwish was born in the village of al-Birwa in the Western Galilee. He was the second child of Salim and Houreyyah Darwish. His family were landowners. His mother was illiterate, ... more »
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Mahmoud Darwish Poems
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.
O rose beyond the reach of time and of the senses O kiss enveloped in the scarves of all the winds surprise me with one dream that my madness will recoil from you
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time Close to the gardens of broken shadows, We do what prisoners do, And what the jobless do:
They did not recognize me in the shadows That suck away my color in this Passport And to them my wound was an exhibit For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
On the day when my words were earth... I was a friend to stalks of wheat. On the day when my words were wrath
Write down ! I am an Arab And my identity card number is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth will come after a summer Will you be angry?
A Lover From Palestine
Your eyes are a thorn in my heart Inflicting pain, yet I cherish that thorn And shield it from the wind. I sheathe it in my flesh, I sheathe it, protecting it from night and agony,
The Dice Player
Who am I to say to you what I say to you? I was not a stone polished by water and became a face nor was I a cane punctured by the wind and became a flute... I am a dice player,
The Prison Cell
It is possible… It is possible at least sometimes… It is possible especially now To ride a horse Inside a prison cell And run away…
Silence For Gaza
With dynamite she raps her waist… She explodes…
A Soldier Dreams Of White Lilies
He dreams of white lilies, an olive branch, her breasts in evening blossom. He dreams of a bird, he tells me,
To My Mother
I long for my mother's bread My mother's coffee Her touch Childhood memories grow up in me Day after day
Rita And The Rifle
Between Rita and my eyes There is a rifle And whoever knows Rita Kneels and plays To the divinity in those honey-colored eyes. And I kissed Rita
A dull evening in a rundown village Eyes half asleep
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 before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep ...