كزهر اللوز أو أبعد

By Mahmoud Darwish

5,640 ratings - 4.08* vote

في هذا الكتاب يبدو أن محمود درويش ما زال قادراً على الإدهاش ومنح الشعر العربي مزيداً من الأناقة والجاذبية المسيطرة في وقت يتراجع فيه ذلك الشعر ويسترسل في هذيانية بائسة وجهل مطبق. هنا يسأل درويش الشعر ويقيم حواجز للبلاغة وينقضّ على العبارة المعلبة في تمرد أسلوبي على المعنى

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Book details

, 202 pages
2005 by رياض الريس للكتب والنشر
Original Title
كزهر اللوز أو أبعد
ISBN
9953213011 (ISBN13: 9789953213019)
Edition Language
Arabic

Community Reviews

Florencia

...
You won’t find the impossible, as it was
the day I found you, the day my passion birthed you,
waiting for you,
as for me, I’ll know how to bring you back.
And go with the river from one fate
to another, the wind is ready to uproot you
from my moon, and the last words on my trees
are ready to fall on Trocadero square. And look
behind you to find the dream, go
to any east or west that exiles you more,
and keeps me one step farther from my bed
and from one of my sad skies. The end
is beginning’s sister, go and you’ll find what you left
here, waiting for you.

From "I Waited for No One", translated by Fady Joudah.


May 1, 18
* Reading this for an article

Pau

i read this while listening to a spotify playlist “poetry of mahmoud darwish” and the experience has filled my heart with so much love

“[Mahmoud Darwish] quickly became, by the mid-1960s, the Palestinian Resistance Poet par excellence, striving to create a “national poem,” while at the same time preserving the deep, human essence of poetry, which transcends context and is in tune with, as Wordsworth called it, “the still, sad music of humanity.” It was possibly this striving, which gave his poetry a special dynamic, that led him to experiment with a new type of love poem that goes beyond both the sort of love poem that Nizar Qabbani made popular and the old Arabic love poem. By identifying the lost land of Palestine with his beloved, Darwish freed the traditional love poem from its narrower associations with lover and beloved, and imbued it with universal human values, deriving from love of the land, the meaning of love as it should be, and from the anguish of exile, human exile in its existential significance. Thus Darwish will oscillate in a poem which at first appears to be merely political agitation, between the national and the human, being aware as he was, from very early on, that the meaning of poetry lies in the contemplation of what is eternal and universal: love, death, and the boundless mystery of existence.

Naomi

I lingered over the unfolding poems in this collection. These are not poems that offer an escape to pain; they do find hope and beauty alongside grief and hurt, and for this they are a tremendous gift. Mahmoud Darwish is one of those poets I turn to regularly, often when I have spent time in a world of chaotic hurt, because he knows that world intimately. I'd certainly recommend this for lovers of poetry, and also for those who live alongside or in the midst of trouble and are seeking to endure.

shensis

”for who, if i dont speak in poetry, will understand me?”my love for his poems = ♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️❣️♥️

Eadweard

" It is said: Love is as strong as Death.
I say: But lust for life, even with no satisfying proofs,
is stronger than Life and Death "



" Think of Others

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon's food).
As you wage your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you express yourself in metaphor, think of others (those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: If only! were a candle in the dark) "
----



Orange-Like

Orange-like, the sun enters the sea the orange is a water lamp on cold trees.

Orange-like, the sun gives birth to the divine child of sunset and the orange, one of her maidens, contemplates her unknown.

Orange-like, the sun pours its liquid into the mouth of the sea and the orange is fearful of a hungry mouth.

Orange-like, the sun enters eternity's cycles, and the orange wins the praise of her killer:
that fruit which is like a piece of sun
is peeled by hand and mouth, is hoarse of taste.
The chatterbox of perfume, drunk with her liquid ...
Her color is like nothing else, her color, like the sun in sleep.
Her color is her taste: sour, sweet,
rich in the health of light and vitamin C ...


There is no reason why poetry
should not falter in telling its story and beware of
an amazing flaw in the image.

Nehal Elekhtyar


يحاصرني واقع لا أجيد قراءته



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Khashayar Mohammadi

I usually don't enjoy reading poems longer than a page, but I thoroughly enjoyed Darwish's writing. One of my favorite aspects of his writing has got to be his Self-impersonation. His Rimbaud style "Je est un autre", this other-ness of the self without compromise, which (Don't crucify me for saying this!) he pulls off even better than Rimbaud himself.

On a separate note, I don't want to sound Freudian, but I feel he has a strong breast fixation...

Hind

"Senses discovering a footprint of intuition, he said.
Then he sighed, oh, for that narrow street
that carried me in the ample evening
to her house on the outskirts of solitude.
Do you still keep my heart in memory
and forget the smoke of the city?

*

My spirit will wake to a former pain,
which comes like a letter from a balcony of memory.
I'll cry out-I am still alive-because
I feel the arrow piercing my side.

*

I'll select from my intimate memories
a description of what is suitable:
the scent of crumpled sheets
after lovemaking,
the scent of grass after rain.
I'll see how the face of the rock grows green."

- With the Fog So Dense on the Bridge


The first thing I did the second my virgin being was in contact for the first time with Mahmoud's poetry was ask myself "where have you been all my life?" with a visage that had more question marks of surprise and amazement.

In all honesty, I was elated and gratified that I have chosen to read his work now, and at this time because it turned out to be the perfect time for me.
It was as if the encounter between him and I was meant to take place, and I have to say that reading his work did things I cannot possibly explain (I know I say this about everyone but what can I say? All those who I am reading for are just perfect!)

I have read his work in English but along side I knew I had to read every single poem in Arabic and I have to admit that the language of origin is utterly more sensual, beautiful, painful, breathtaking and everything else you can imagine when compared to any other language.
Also, I was saddened that don't often notice the beauty of Arabic because it is my first language and I speak it daily, but when I read this collection I realised that the structure, the flow, and the musicality of it is beautiful beyond words.

I couldn't help but constantly smile whilst devouring the beauty of his work in Arabic and the beautiful English translation of it.
I fairly think that I will never get over how I reacted to his work, how I felt so much and how I literally moaned and groaned just by seeing how his words coalesced and created the most wonderful and awe-inspiring images and I cannot say anything other than it is just divine, just divine.

I have spend a lot of time looking for a good translation and this one was as close as possible to perfect and encapsulate his work as it is and as a student also studying Arabic to English translation and vice versa, I was enthralled by the work that was put into his poetry and the life the translator have breathed in it and it was simply as touching and ravishing as the original work.


I loved every single poem I read and I just kept highlighting verses and I just wished I could share his work with the entire world and scream "l think I have found a god in his poetry, I found a god."

I finished this book very late (around 3 in the morning) few days ago and instantly felt the urge to write him a poem and I did write one in Arabic that I will put its translation here.
And although he is not here anymore I wish to tell him that his poetry touched me deeply, almost made love to me, and that I apologies for never touching his work sooner.


I read
and I prayed
to find in you
a remedy
for agony,
for my agony
dug its claws
and even its fangs
came to wound me.
And my dolour refused,
oh how it refused
to leave my being.

Mahmoud I've read you
and my passion beheld
the love you uttered
witnessed
the pain that enveloped you,
you poet of resistance,
of love
and agony.

Oh, you writer
from the exile
who left
and left almonds
and jasmines
weeping for you.
I hoped to seek
in you
a cure
but in your words I
found a yard to hang
my laundry
of pain,
my laundry
of sadness.

Farida El-gueretly

While the translation does lose a lot of the beauty of Arabic poetry, I am still taken away by Darwish. As I can read Arabic I was fortunate enough to read the translation alongside the English version. Beautiful and organic metaphors from a nostalgic man longing for images that he can only reach out to in his still lucid memory as well as trying to reconcile his personal memories of his homeland with what is now only perceived as a land of conflict and sorrow.

"A brilliant poet - certainly the most gifted of his generation in the Arab World." - the late (just as gifted) Edward Said.

Some of my favorites were Think of Others, A Cafe and You with the Newspaper, I Sit at Home, I Used to Love Winter, I Do Not Know the Stranger.

وأنتَ تُعِدُّ فطورك، فكِّر بغيركَ

لا تَنْسَ قوتَ الحمام

وأنتَ تخوضُ حروبكَ، فكِّر بغيركَ

لا تنس مَنْ يطلبون السلام

وأنتَ تسدد فاتورةَ الماء، فكِّر بغيركَ

مَنْ يرضَعُون الغمامٍ

وأنتَ تعودُ إلى البيت، بيتكَ، فكِّر بغيركَ

لا تنس شعب الخيامْ

وأنت تنام وتُحصي الكواكبَ، فكِّر بغيركَ

ثمّةَ مَنْ لم يجد حيّزاً للمنام

وأنت تحرّر نفسك بالاستعارات، فكِّر بغيركَ

مَنْ فقدوا حقَّهم في الكلام

وأنت تفكر بالآخرين البعيدين، فكِّر بنفسك

قُلْ: ليتني شمعةُ في الظلام

Leif

I have read this book backwards and forwards, sideways and with my eyes closed, moving my lips still to Darwish's lines.

I said, We visit what remains of life.
Life as it is, let us train ourselves to love the things
we had, to love things that are not our and ours.
If we look at them together from above,
like snow falling on the mountains,
the mountains may be as they were,
and the fields as they were,
and life, intuitive and communal.

Every poem, a breath. Some gust, others swirl. Some take the door to the heart and blow it wide open, rushing empty inside.

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