Tessera

poetry diary

@memorical.bsky.social

free palestine

2 Posts8 Follower 1 Folgt

poetry diary @memorical.bsky.social · 2y ago

rustling by mahmoud darwish from a river dies of thirst: journals #poetry #mahmouddarwish

Rustling by Mahmoud Darwish

Like one responding to a hidden inspiration, I listen attentively to
the sound of the leaves in the summer trees . . .
a shy, soothing sound
descending from the far
reaches of sleep . . .
a faint sound smelling of
wheat from an isolated spot in the countryside . . .
a fragmented sound
divided into improvised sections on the strings of a leisurely breeze, no
part too diffuse or longwinded. Leaves in summer
whisper modestly, call
out shyly, as if
to me alone, stealing me
away from the burden of
material
existence to a place of delicate radiance: there, behind the hills, and
beyond the imagination, where the visible equals the invisible, I float
outside myself in sunless light. After a short sleep like an awakening,
or an awakening like a short sleep, the rustling of the trees restores
me to myself, cleansed of misgivings and apprehensions. I do not ask
the meaning of this sound: if it is a leaf
whispering confidences to its
sister in the emptiness, or the breeze longing for a siesta. A voice without
words rocks me, kneads me and forms me into a vessel which exudes a
substance neither from it nor in it, like a feeling searching for someone
to feel it.

Litbowl @litbowl.bsky.social · 2y ago

From Ted Kooser's book, Cotton Candy: bookshop.org/a/862/978149... #poem #poetry #tedkooser #books #writing

Bild

poetry diary @memorical.bsky.social · 2y ago

tent #50 by rashid hussein, translated by naseer aruri & edmund ghareeb #poetry #rashidhussein

TENT #50 (SONG OF A REFUGEE)

Tent #50, on the left, is my new world,
Shared with me by my memories:
Memories as verdant as the eyes of spring,
Memories like the eyes of a woman weeping,
And memories the color of milk and love!

Two doors has my tent, two doors like two wounds
One leads to the other tents, wrinkle-browed
Like clouds no longer able to weep:
And the second - a rent in the ceiling, leading
To the skies,
Revealing the stars
Like refugees scattered,
And like them, naked.

Also the moon is trudging there
Downcast and weary as the UNRWA,
Yellow as though it were the UNRWA
Under a load of yellow cheese for the refugees.

Tent #50, on the left, that is my present,
But it is too cramped to contain a future!
And -"Forget!" they say, but how can I?
Teach the night to forget to bring

Dreams showing me my village
And teach the wind to forget to carry to me
The aroma of apricots in my fields!
And teach the sky, too, to forget to rain.

Only then, I may forget my country.