Salman Masalha
“Rest” exemplifies this. It deals with a common issue in Hebrew poetry: a conflict between a “here” and a “there”, which goes back at least as far as the rivers of Babylon in Psalm 137.
Vivian Eden ||
The truth about immigration
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Nakba not yet lost
The Nakba is alive for both Jews and Arabs:
Salman Masalha ||
Nakba not yet lost
Let's set aside for a moment the discourse about human rights and the debate about natural rights, because no salvation will come from them. Moreover, they will never lead to a solution of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. On the contrary, they pour oil on the flames and encourage people to continue wallowing in the mud. In the never-ending fire, the growing occupation with the issue of the Nakba ("catastrophe," the Palestinians' term for what happened to them when Israel was founded in 1948 ) proves more than anything that it is a living event, among both the Arabs and the Jews. This country's emotion-laden past is a dangerous swamp. Those who choose to go back to the past to remain there find themselves up to the neck in the mud of bygone years.
It must be stated openly: All the disasters connected with this country are shared by the Jews and the Arabs. They are shared because they make all of us lose sleep over them and have an influence on the way of life of all the people, regardless of religion, race or sex.
It is worthwhile to understand the root of the Israeli-Palestinian tragedy. Because the disaster of this land, or, to be more exact, of those who inhabit it, Jews as well as Arabs, stems from the wide abyss between the two opposing concepts of the charged term "homeland."
The Jewish Zionist conceives of the entire land as his homeland in which he can move from place to place, settle down and live. On the other hand, the Palestinian thinks of the specific village, the specific tree and well that no longer exist. In other words, the Jewish Zionist is not attached to a certain private plot of land while the Arab is too attached to a certain restricted piece of land.
To illustrate the difference between these two conceptions of homeland, let's look at Hebrew and Arabic poetry. The poet Aharon Shabtai, for example, expresses his familiarity with the homeland in every grain of sand from Dan to until Eilat: "In every grain, from Dan until Eilat, the homeland stretches/ and I cannot be found in any place except in the homeland/ If someone asks me: 'Where are you?' I shall reply: 'In the homeland'/ and let's assume he takes a sledgehammer and hits me on the head/ and some Tom, Dick or Harry comes and asks:/ 'Where is that stupid man you killed?'/ the response will necessarily be: 'Even now he is in his homeland'/ because Aharon, because Aharon, because Aharon is only in the homeland." (From "Artzenu [Our Land] - Poems, 1987-2002." ) Contrary to this broad concept, there exists the Palestinians' limited concept. The most outstanding expression of it is given by Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian national poet: "I am from there and I have memories/ I have a mother/ And a house with lots of windows/ I learned all the words and I pulled them apart to put together one word/ it is homeland." However Darwish's "homeland" is not a political homeland, it is not Gaza or Ramallah - as he said once, "Neither Dan nor Eilat," but a very small and limited place: "I love to go/ to a village that did not hang my last night on its cypresses." Darwish's homeland is merely a small village in Galilee: "I shall throw a great number of roses before I arrive at one rose in Galilee." This is how the national poet reveals the substance of the homeland in Palestinian consciousness.
When he returned to Ramallah in the wake of the Oslo Accords, Darwish declared in a May 1996 interview with The New York Times that he wants to ask for Israeli citizenship. And he added: "I shall accept any document that will give me the right to be there." That is how the Palestinian "national" poet sums up his yearning and the substance of the homeland. The two opposing concepts of the term "homeland" are the root of the tragedy. On the one hand, the Jewish Zionist concept, which is a broad approach that spreads over the face of the land, an explosion which is growing and is expansive. On the other hand, the Arab Palestinian way of thinking, which is restricted and introverted, and which collapses backward into a black hole.
*
Published:Opinions-Haaretz, May 31, 2012
Fata Morgana
Salman Masalha ||
Fata Morgana
Vanishes into mist
Roams like rain that pours
He’s holding in his fist
A book from years of yore
Appears, then is no more
Like dew in the day’s first blush
In stories shared aloud
His soul behind a door
Half his heart is melted cloud
The other half is crushed
Only vanishing exists
O, what kind of news is this!
Here a day, his hair turned gray
Though he’s bent, he still persists
Like a mirage he fades away
Into his fevered mind
For return he longs
In some other songs
In love
In youth
In dust
In stone
*
English: Vivian Eden
***
For Arabic, press here
----------
On Artistic Freedom in the Nationalist Era
Salman MasalhaOn Artistic Freedom
in the Nationalist Era
As I am not a state, I have
no secure borders nor an army
guarding its soldiers’ lives night and day and there is no
colored line drawn by a dusty general in the margins
of his victory. As I am not a legislative
council, a dubious
parliament wrongly called a house
of representatives, as I am not a son
of the chosen people, nor am I
an Arab mukhtar, no one will falsely accuse me of being
a fatherless anarchist who spits
into the well round which the people
feast on their holidays, rejoicing
at their patriarchs’ tombs. As I am not a fatalist or member
of an underground, building churches,
mosques and synagogues in the hearts of children
who will no doubt die for the sake of the
Holy Name in Heaven,
as I am not an excavation contractor
or earth merchant, nor a sculptor
of tombstones polishing memorials
for the greater glory of the dead,
as I have no government, with
or without a premier, and there is no
chairman sitting on my head, I can
under such extenuating circumstances
sometimes allow myself to be human,
to be a bit free.
*
Translated by Vivian Eden
Published: Books-Haaretz, July 2011
***
***
Most recently, this poem, from the volume “Ehad Mikan” (“In Place,” Am Oved ), was chosen by the rock band Batsir 76 as the single for their new album, “Folk Yisraeli” (Israeli Folk ), which they will launch on July 9, 2011 at Tmuna theater in Tel Aviv.
***
For Hebrew, press here
___________________
Vivian Eden | EGYPT ON TELEVISION
Vivian Eden
EGYPT ON TELEVISION
We watch Egypt on television
just one country away.
Off the screen, down the side streets
behind closed windows and doors
many people wait.
The television tells them truth and lies.
They watch the footage shot on high:
Tops of men’s heads all look the same,
like lentils for sorting on a plate.
Where is my husband, my father, my son?
Girls and women wait.
Amina opens her math book, but dreams.
She will write a novel about these days.
There will be a tall, blond newsman,
British, French, perhaps a Dane.
The heroine, Amina, will save his life.
She will, of course, become his wife.
Young girls dream and wait.
Ali is five. His father says: No,
You can’t go to the square with me.
Ali pouts: But I am big. I’ll take a stick.
Dad insists: Big boys stay home.
They must take care of Mom and Sis.
Ali thinks: When I am six
I’ll make the revolution too.
Big boys hate to wait.
In a kitchen Bushra makes the tea.
A son – whose is he? –
climbs a tank, smiles his thanks
to someone’s brother,
the soldier who lends him a hand.
Under whose command?
Where does he stand?
People keep pouring down the streets.
We watch and wait.
*
For Hebrew, press here
_______________
Tal Nitzan | Maimed Lullaby
Tal Nitzan
Maimed Lullaby
To Tal Ashraf Abu Khattab, born in Gaza on May 1, 2010
The baby who bears my name is a month and two days old.
Unaware she has been born into hell, she wrinkles her tiny nose
and balls her hands into fists like babies everywhere.
Her four kilos and the cake her grandpa didn’t bake
weigh on my heart.
If I send her a teddy bear, it will sink like a stone.
The sharp fin traces its circles. I climb up,
my foot on the deck, shame and alarm on my face.
My baby has been left behind.
Dreams
Salman Masalha
Dreams
............................ To Rumi
Beyond my door which faces west
Lives a woman who'll never rest.
She likes to tease my nomad soul
With words she keeps for gloomy fall.
But now she flies across the sky,
And tries to find a place too high
To paint it blue for me to look
And tie my heart like horse to hook.
I dive in blue or fly in beams.
Some say it's love. I say my dreams.
***
Dreams
............................ To Rumi
Beyond my door which faces west
Lives a woman who'll never rest.
She likes to tease my nomad soul
With words she keeps for gloomy fall.
But now she flies across the sky,
And tries to find a place too high
To paint it blue for me to look
And tie my heart like horse to hook.
I dive in blue or fly in beams.
Some say it's love. I say my dreams.
***
Martin Niemoller - First They Came
Martin Niemöller
First They Came
First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the Socialist
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me.
***
For Arabic translation, press here.
___CAT’S REVENGE
Salman Masalha
CAT’S REVENGE
When cats decide to sleep
nothing disturbs their night.
It's we who make the noise
going from fight to fight.
When cats decide to dream
nothing can change their minds.
It's we who spoil their night
with snores of many kinds.
One snores as if he speaks.
Sometimes it sounds like French,
but you who sleep so deep
on a bed made of a bench.
-- no way for me to try
to show you my cat's revenge.
***
CAT’S REVENGE
When cats decide to sleep
nothing disturbs their night.
It's we who make the noise
going from fight to fight.
When cats decide to dream
nothing can change their minds.
It's we who spoil their night
with snores of many kinds.
One snores as if he speaks.
Sometimes it sounds like French,
but you who sleep so deep
on a bed made of a bench.
-- no way for me to try
to show you my cat's revenge.
***
GM Sheikh: "Kahat Kabir"
"Kahat Kabir" - Says Kabir
Visual interpretations after Kabir's verses
by
Gulam Mohammed Sheikh
Visual interpretations after Kabir's verses
by
Gulam Mohammed Sheikh
1- (1997)
"Ya ghat bheetar soor chand hai
Ya ghat nau lakh taara"
"The sun and moon reside in this vessel
so do nine hundred thousand stars."
***
2- (2001)
"Ek achambha dekha re bhai
Thaada sinh charaave gai"
"Look brother, I saw a great wonder!
A lion was guarding a herd of cows!"
***
3- (2002)
(Kahat Kabir, Walled City)
"Kaajar keri kotadi kaajar ka hi kot.."
"The little hut of soot in a castle of soot.."
***
English by GMS
GM Sheikh: photo by Salman Masalha
For Arabic translation, press here.
ETERNITY, Kabir (d. 1518)
Kabir (d. 1518)
ETERNITY
The kings shall go, so will their pretty queens,
courtiers and all proud ones shall go.
Pundits chanting the Vedas shall go,
and go will those who listen to them.
Masochist yogis and bright intellectuals shall go,
go the moon and sun and water and wind.
Thus says Kabir only those can remain
whose minds are tied to the rocks.
Translated by Arvind Krishna Mebrotra
"Kahat Kabir", painting by Gulam Mohammed Sheikh
***
For Arabic translation, press here.
Scenes
Salman Masalha
Scenes
The street paved with illusions
like an unraveled dream,
the sleepers on the bedding of their humiliation
and the awake on a broken sidewalk.
The weepers over their bitter fate
and the seekers of success,
The hiders of their prayer in their hearts
and those who have gone with the wind.
The boat forgotten beside the river
in the morning light -
pictures from the exile that the night
flung in my path and then departed.
O night that has forgotten the dew on my heart,
take me to a land that has garbed itself in death.
My body is a lamentation.
Translated by Vivian Eden
The Little Girl from Gaza
Salman Masalha
The Little Girl from Gaza
The little girl from Gaza
builds nests
of sea feathers.
The man who stands by the wall
hides in his eyes a necklace
strung of memory leaves.
When the street runs
beneath untamed steps,
the nests cracks
open with legends.
Boys scamper
in the dusk colors.
They gather the muffled voice
from the desert sands.
At evening,
the necklace scatters the beads
from the eyes, and moisten
the seapath.
Night
dispatches the smile
into exile.
The poet's soul
is spent in words.
Translated by Vivian Eden
The Little Girl from Gaza
The little girl from Gaza
builds nests
of sea feathers.
The man who stands by the wall
hides in his eyes a necklace
strung of memory leaves.
When the street runs
beneath untamed steps,
the nests cracks
open with legends.
Boys scamper
in the dusk colors.
They gather the muffled voice
from the desert sands.
At evening,
the necklace scatters the beads
from the eyes, and moisten
the seapath.
Night
dispatches the smile
into exile.
The poet's soul
is spent in words.
Translated by Vivian Eden
***
From: Rish al-Bahr (Sea Feathers), Zaman Publications, Jerusalem 1999.
***
The Language Angels Speak
Salman Masalha
The Language Angels Speak
Presumably like all kids around the world, I was once asked an immortal question: What would you like to be when you grow up? Quite bizarre and abnormal in the circumstances and conditions I was born to, and unlike other children who have dreamed of becoming doctors, advocates, engineers etc., my answer always was: I want to be a poet. Those who might think in terms like self-achievement of a little child will soon find out that they were completely wrong. As it became clear to me later, being a poet is not a self-achievement in any way. After all it seems to me now a kind of punishment rather than a joyful experience. Nevertheless, the world of poetry is a kind of prison world in which residency is still worthy.
Poetry is a prison within the chaos of letters, signs, words, lines and all possibilities that language with its generosity provides for us. In this sense the role of a poet is comparable with the role of the First Creator who has set an order in the universe from within the wide and huge disorder. Poetry itself has no sense of time nor sense of place nor sense of nationality. In its very essence poetry holds all times, inhabits all places, experience all lives and talks to all nations at once. The language of poetry is the language of human experience despite color, sex and tongues. It is a meta-language that goes beyond the tongues scattered from Babel in the four directions of the wind. The language of poetry is the first sense of divine creation and the first spark of eternity. Furthermore, poetry is the tool with which poets compete with the work that was done by God. It competes with God for it tries to reshape His unfinished clumsy work. Optimists might say, He did not finish the job for reasons of unknown divine generosity, with the aim of leaving some space for the taste of living to the Earthly people. Pessimists, on the other hand, and surely they include poets and others who belong to different disciplines of the arts, will say: He didn’t do His work properly as it should be done.
In the beginning there were words in chaos, and darkness covered the cell of the primal prison. In a moment of will, the poet emerged from the darkness and collected all signs and letters and put them on paper. He picked up some of them and set them in the order: L. I. G. H. T. Then all off a sudden there was light. With this light he could see all words of all languages in their chaos. And that was the first day. That was the first poem.
With this light the real poet can see all meanings that potentially exist in languages. He can form the word of love and let others love their way. He can reshape the smell of existence and give some hope to the increasing miserable ones on Earth. He can speak out about death and beyond similes and metaphors aims to show the hidden meaning of life. With its few lines, poetry enables us to communicate with other peoples and reveal other cultures. It enables us to make wings of words and fly into other spheres and stop in other lands for language is the one and only promised homeland for a poet. Now, that time has passed and I am not a naive kid anymore, I have figured out another thing: Poetry is a supreme inner-net, a supreme maze that never lets you reach any end. Within this eternal maze the poet will exist until the Day of Judgment, when he is supposed to present his provocative alternative work in front of the first sole reader whom he competed with initially and all the way long. If the world was created and was put in focus by the light of poetry in on first day, no doubt this light will last until the end of days. Now, I have nothing but another wish: I wish I could live then in order to watch that last fight, that last light.
Finally, despite a Muslim tradition in which we are told that the inhabitants of the Garden of Eden speak the Arabic language, and despite the fact that it is the language angels speak, I can testify, from personal experience, that Arabic is the tongue in Hell as well.
***
The Song
Salman Masalha
THE SONG
The Arab’s Speech
Every time I say I’m hungry
a military genius hands me a fishing pole
and sends me to catch some fish in the desert,
but I hook only scales.
And as I don’t drink sand,
I can’t pass my water. Moreover
I suffer from constipation.
And as I am hungry, and truly love life,
I eat my toes, because I so regret
I agreed to go out fishing
in murky sands.
The Jew’s Speech
Every time I say I’m hungry
a political genius sends me to drink
the sea water. Then I pass,
with my water, a fish without scales.
I am unable to dish it up on my table.
It’s strictly banned by religious law.
And as I am hungry, and truly love life,
I throw it back into the sea, where it dies of thirst
for I drank up all its water first.
I laugh out of sorrow, as in my current state
I can’t even die
of laughter.
The Silent Majority’s Speech
Death to the hungry!
Death to the hungry!
The Fish’s Speech
Silence is boring!
Silence is boring!
If you don’t stop,
I won’t talk
and I won’t pass water
any more.
The Poet’s Speech
Enough! When
will this song end?
*
Translated from Arabic by Vivian Eden with the author
For the Arabic text, press here.
THE SONG
The Arab’s Speech
Every time I say I’m hungry
a military genius hands me a fishing pole
and sends me to catch some fish in the desert,
but I hook only scales.
And as I don’t drink sand,
I can’t pass my water. Moreover
I suffer from constipation.
And as I am hungry, and truly love life,
I eat my toes, because I so regret
I agreed to go out fishing
in murky sands.
The Jew’s Speech
Every time I say I’m hungry
a political genius sends me to drink
the sea water. Then I pass,
with my water, a fish without scales.
I am unable to dish it up on my table.
It’s strictly banned by religious law.
And as I am hungry, and truly love life,
I throw it back into the sea, where it dies of thirst
for I drank up all its water first.
I laugh out of sorrow, as in my current state
I can’t even die
of laughter.
The Silent Majority’s Speech
Death to the hungry!
Death to the hungry!
The Fish’s Speech
Silence is boring!
Silence is boring!
If you don’t stop,
I won’t talk
and I won’t pass water
any more.
The Poet’s Speech
Enough! When
will this song end?
*
Translated from Arabic by Vivian Eden with the author
***
Published in: Modern Poetry in Translation, third series, No. 14 (Polyphony), ed. David & Helen Constantine, Short Run Press, Exeter 2010***
For the Arabic text, press here.
In Haifa by the Sea
Salman Masalha
In Haifa by the Sea
(In memory of Emile Habiby)
In Haifa, by the sea, the smells of salt
rise from the earth. And the sun
hanging from a tree unravels wind.
In a row of trees bathed in stone
men, women and silence have been
planted. Tenants in an apartment
block called homeland.
Jews whose voices I haven't heard,
Arabs whose meaning I haven't understood.
And other such melodies I couldn't
identify in the moment that went silent.
There in Haifa, by the sea,
he had them all. Poet, exile
in the wind, seeking the past
in a question blessed with answers.
Pulling words out of the sea and
throwing them back to the waves
that, like Messiah, will return eternally.
A poet has returned to a poem he never wrote
in the night of captivity, and hasn't yet returned
to the place that he drew as a child in a cloud.
There in Haifa, by the sea, at the end
of the summer that broke on the treetop,
a moon unfurled. I return to the
silence I had split with my lips.
I return to the words asleep inside
the paper. Moist clods of earth
and a salty path have forever wrapped
the fisherman's pole. Little
words lay down to rest, and a poem
went silent there in Haifa, by
the sea.
Translated from the Hebrew by Vivian Eden
*
Published in: Haaretz Books, November 2008
_____
In Haifa by the Sea
(In memory of Emile Habiby)
In Haifa, by the sea, the smells of salt
rise from the earth. And the sun
hanging from a tree unravels wind.
In a row of trees bathed in stone
men, women and silence have been
planted. Tenants in an apartment
block called homeland.
Jews whose voices I haven't heard,
Arabs whose meaning I haven't understood.
And other such melodies I couldn't
identify in the moment that went silent.
There in Haifa, by the sea,
he had them all. Poet, exile
in the wind, seeking the past
in a question blessed with answers.
Pulling words out of the sea and
throwing them back to the waves
that, like Messiah, will return eternally.
A poet has returned to a poem he never wrote
in the night of captivity, and hasn't yet returned
to the place that he drew as a child in a cloud.
There in Haifa, by the sea, at the end
of the summer that broke on the treetop,
a moon unfurled. I return to the
silence I had split with my lips.
I return to the words asleep inside
the paper. Moist clods of earth
and a salty path have forever wrapped
the fisherman's pole. Little
words lay down to rest, and a poem
went silent there in Haifa, by
the sea.
Translated from the Hebrew by Vivian Eden
*
Published in: Haaretz Books, November 2008
***
This poem is from, "In Place" (Am Oved, 2004). It is performed by singer Micha Shitrit on his album “Shilhei Kayitz.”_____
For the Hebrew text, press here.
Patches of Color
Salman Masalha
PATCHES OF COLOR
On the wall that leans inward,
which I built of words that pecked
my path, I have drawn neither windows nor
door. And all this, for fear that undesirable
air will infiltrate my home. And I
am not as young as I was. But I hung
in their stead frames I had saved
from the days of my childhood. And I painted
in green the hands of a woman disguised
in mountain black. A white cloud,
with no storm in its wings, landed beside her
and played with the tail of a bird embroidered
on a floral scarf. The nurse who cares
for the old man feathers the nest in the faded
blue, and when the sun ignites flames
in my fragile dream plumes,
windows gape in the ceiling.
And a bird that was brooding
in my disputing heart flies
to the center of the sky
and lands at the opening
of the pit that is mined.
Translated by Vivian Eden
published in Haaretz, English Edition.
PATCHES OF COLOR
On the wall that leans inward,
which I built of words that pecked
my path, I have drawn neither windows nor
door. And all this, for fear that undesirable
air will infiltrate my home. And I
am not as young as I was. But I hung
in their stead frames I had saved
from the days of my childhood. And I painted
in green the hands of a woman disguised
in mountain black. A white cloud,
with no storm in its wings, landed beside her
and played with the tail of a bird embroidered
on a floral scarf. The nurse who cares
for the old man feathers the nest in the faded
blue, and when the sun ignites flames
in my fragile dream plumes,
windows gape in the ceiling.
And a bird that was brooding
in my disputing heart flies
to the center of the sky
and lands at the opening
of the pit that is mined.
Translated by Vivian Eden
***
published in Haaretz, English Edition.
In the Dark Room
Salman Masalha
In the Dark Room
In the dark room, you see things
you can't see in the lit room.
The alien light that comes from afar
slips into the yard like a shadow
fatigued by the darkness. A black
bird on the windowsill
suckles honey in the fog.
I bear a blessing from the Book
Of Secrets. I reveal the story
of the Vale of Tears. The man
who swam in shallow water
gathers goldfish from
the puddles and protects them
from the thieves for the child
who drowned wetly in a teardrop.
In the dark room you remember
things you had forgotten
in foreign lands. In the darkness
that rises from the longings
for the boy who is not, there is
a back room, filled with a grown
child's memories. Sealed like
a past that never knew a present.
Packed, like a life,
with a surfeit of death.
Translated by Vivian Eden
Published in: The Guardian, Books, May 17, 2008
In the Dark Room
In the dark room, you see things
you can't see in the lit room.
The alien light that comes from afar
slips into the yard like a shadow
fatigued by the darkness. A black
bird on the windowsill
suckles honey in the fog.
I bear a blessing from the Book
Of Secrets. I reveal the story
of the Vale of Tears. The man
who swam in shallow water
gathers goldfish from
the puddles and protects them
from the thieves for the child
who drowned wetly in a teardrop.
In the dark room you remember
things you had forgotten
in foreign lands. In the darkness
that rises from the longings
for the boy who is not, there is
a back room, filled with a grown
child's memories. Sealed like
a past that never knew a present.
Packed, like a life,
with a surfeit of death.
Translated by Vivian Eden
***
Published in: The Guardian, Books, May 17, 2008
Safar
Safar
I walk in the clouds.
My horizon tinted dew.
Mirages are the myths.
My life has passed in vain
Looking for the true.
If a friend would ask me back
To the land of the sane,
I'd never leave the sands,
I'd never leave the track.
Thoughts stretch taut at night.
Desire is a light
That sparkles in the eye.
I am a mad song.
Like an echo, I fly.
Translated by Vivian Eden
***
For the Arabic text, press here.
To listen to the poem in Arabic, composed by Kamilya Jubran,
press here.
