MUSE LOG: Judariya    
 Judariya8 comments
picture17 Mar 2004 @ 16:54, by Tom Bombadil

Tell me: What is now? What is tomorrow?
What's time, what's place, what's old, what's new?

Judariya (Mural), originaly the title of a book by Mahmoud Darwish , consisting of one poem about the author’s near death experience in 1997, is available in English (among other selected poems) in Unfortunately It Was Paradise, the following is an excerpt translated by Sargon Boulus from the author's collection 'Judariya' ['Mural'], Riad El-Rayyes Books, Beirut, 2000. Reprinted from Banipal No 15/16:

…and where am I? Here
in this no-here, in this no-time,
there's no being, nor nothingness.
As if I had died once before,
I know this epiphany, and know
I'm on my way towards what I don't know.
Perhaps I'm still alive somewhere else,
and know what I want.
One day I shall become what I want.
One day I shall become a thought,
taken to the wasteland
neither by the sword or the book
as if it were rain falling on a mountain
split by a burgeoning blade of grass,
where neither might will triumph,
nor justice the fugitive.
One day I shall become what I want.
One day I shall become a bird,
and wrest my being from my non-being.
The longer my wings will burn,
the closer I am to the truth, risen from the ashes.
I am the dialogue of dreamers; I've shunned my body and self
to finish my first journey towards meaning,
which burnt me, and disappeared.
I'm absence. I'm the heavenly renegade.
One day I shall become what I want.
One day I shall become a poet,
water obedient to my insight. My language a metaphor
for metaphor, so I will neither declaim nor point to a place;
place is my sin and subterfuge.
I'm from there. My here leaps
from my footsteps to my imagination . . .
I am he who I was or will be,
made and struck down
by the endless, expansive space.
One day I shall become what I want.
One day I shall become a vine;
let summer distil me even now,
and let the passers-by drink my wine,
illuminated by the chandeliers of this sugary place!
I am the message and the messenger,
I am the little addresses and the mail.
One day I shall become what I want.
This is your name --
a woman said,
and vanished in the corridor of her whiteness.
This is your name; memorise it well!
Do not argue about any of its letters,
ignore the tribal flags,
befriend your horizontal name,
experience it with the living
and the dead, and strive
to have it correctly spelt
in the company of strangers and carve it
into a rock inside a cave:
O my name, you will grow
as I grow, you will carry me
as I will carry you;
a stranger is brother to a stranger;
we shall take the female with a vowel
devoted to flutes.
O my name: where are we now?
Tell me: What is now? What is tomorrow?
What's time, what's place, what's old, what's new?
One day we shall become what we want.

The Lannan Cultural Freedom Prize was awarded to Mahmoud Darwish in 2001

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14 Mar 2005 @ 08:56 by Amy Coon @ : THANKS
thank you so much!these words bring me such hope and inspiration! i felt as if i were fading away, because i did not know who or what i want to become at this very moment in time.thanks for making me see that it will become clear in all do time.  

24 Feb 2006 @ 14:25 by rayon : Is Jeff here?
Is Adonis Jeff here, in oil painting style - me thinks so, what a lucky find - a real picture a care worn glance - a real person true but unhappiness I do not allow - for such appears to be as thou

The most touching thing to happen here
A Puja offered to someone near
Ancient languages contain a purety of meaning
untouched by any modern hand
just retranslated knowingly by the day
by seekers of a bit of treasure
in the hope of finding something more for humankind

So the well is always preserved for those
Pure and clean and sweet to savour
Newly for the sipping
so my puja here for the well
and all the passers by

Inspired by the well on the Aum Temple walk, Atmasantulana, Karla  

20 Mar 2006 @ 16:27 by nraye @ : Took awhile
to realise why
when writing the history
not just me
but the other too
asking for sign
then off to hills

Even before I did fib
in shock to learn
but turned around
for advantage all
to theorectical bias

this love was feinted
but formed a trap
for the future fall
upon an order from Kercornawall
when welcoming, the font
sprung of own accord
free from unknown

but falling further still
into even more unknown

Clear is now, waters calm
pain dispersed in aftermath

Muse has left  

10 Apr 2006 @ 04:20 by bombadil : Temporary Poem Of My Time
by {link:|Yehuda Amichai} - Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav,
[A Life of Poetry: 1948-1994, New York, HarperCollins, 1994]

Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.

Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?

Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.

Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.  

10 Apr 2006 @ 15:26 by rayon : Just looking out for a friend
- Yes, I understand, when my forebears moved to farm for a group of nuns who were returned their property 400 years later in 1850, as catholics, in this English speaking country, they were greeted by the locals with stone throwing, 1850 in rural idyll England.  

11 Apr 2006 @ 01:18 by Hanae @ : Poetry & beauty are always making peace

Thank you, Bombadil-san

Although, unavoidably, a lot is often lost in a translation, it is one of the bounties of the Information Age, and one horizon-widening blessing of the internet, that this age of information is also an age of translation.

It works, undoubtedly, to the benefit of a New---wider, more encompassing---Civilization that we can open ourselves in such a fashion to other voices---especially in some of the troubled parts of the world.

"Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful you find coexistence; it breaks walls down..."
---Mahmoud Darwish

MAHMOUD DARWISH is acclaimed as one of the most important voices in the Arab language. He is beloved as the poet laureate of Palestine and the voice of his people. His lyrics are sung by school-children and field workers. He has authored 20 books and he received the 2001 Prize for Cultural Freedom from the Lannan Foundation.

The late YEHUDA AMICHAI (1924 - 2000) remains one of Israel's leading poet and is widely acknowledged as one of the great poets of our time. His work has been translated into thirty-seven languages. His work incorporates the diction and meaning of revered Jewish texts and beliefs. He has received numerous awards, including the Israel Prize, his country's highest honor.

11 Apr 2006 @ 09:36 by rayon : Peace in Translation
What a beautiful example illustrated of something not realised before. The connotation is huge, suggesting all translations of long lost texts and ancient languages can again infuse the current now across barriers of peoples. It is truely lovely. Guess I worked only ever in one language at a given time, and internalised at that, saying the poetry is to externalise. The Heroes that Pindar extolled into immortality was a translation of deeds, coordination of Body/Mind demonstration with huge audience witnessing, converted into another medium, poetry, for onward transmission. Thanks indeed Bombardi-san.  

19 Apr 2006 @ 16:42 by rayon : Music too
changes the site,
makes to look with different eyes
and other ears, very beautiful music
thank you. Hard to move on!  

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