Homage to Edward Said

Homage to Edward Said

Counterpoint

By Mahmoud Darwish

NEW YORK. NOVEMBER. 5TH AVENUE.

Shards of light in a leaden sky.

In the shadows, I asked my foreign soul: is this city Babylon or
Sodom?

There, at the edge of an electric chasm sky high, I met Edward thirty
years ago.

The times were less impetuous.

Each said to the other:

If your past is your experience, make the future sense and vision!

Let us move forward, towards our future, confident in imagination’ s
sincerity and the miracle of the grass.

I no longer remember whether we went to the cinema that evening, but
I heard old Indian braves call out to me: trust neither the horse nor
modernity.

No. No victim asks his executioner: if I were you and my sword
greater than my rose . . . would I have acted as you have done?

That kind of question arouses the curiosity of the novelist who sits
behind the glass walls of his study overlooking the lily garden . . .
Here the hypothesis is lily-white, clear as the author’s conscience
if he closes his accounts with human nature . . . No future behind
us, so let us move forward!

Progress could be the bridge back to barbarity . . .

New York. Edward awakes while dawn slumbers on. He plays an air by
Mozart. Tennis on the university court. He reflects on thought’s
ability to transcend borders and barriers. Thumbs through the New
York Times. Writes his spirited column. Curses an orientalist who
guides a general to the weak spot in an eastern woman’s heart.
Showers. Drinks his white coffee. Picks out a suit with a dandy’s
elegance and calls on the dawn to stop dawdling!

He walks on the wind. And, in the wind, he knows himself. No four
walls hem in the wind. And the wind is a compass for the north in a
foreign land.

He says: I come from that place. I come from here, and I am neither
here nor there. I have two names that come together but pull apart. I
have two languages, but I have forgotten which is the language of my
dreams. I have the English language with its accommodating vocabulary
to write in. And another tongue drawn from celestial conversations
with Jerusalem. It has a silvery resonance, but rebels against my
imagination.

And your identity? Said I.

His response: Self-defence . . . Conferred on us at birth, in the end
it is we who fashion our identity, it is not hereditary. I am
manifold . . . Within me, my outer self renewed. But I belong to the
victim’s interrogation.

Were I not from that place, I would have trained my heart to raise
metonymy’s gazelle there . . .

So take your birthplace along wherever you go and be a narcissist if
need be.

Exile, the outside world. Exile, the hidden world. Who then are you
between them?

I do not introduce myself lest I lose myself. I am what I am.

I am my other in harmonious duality between word and geste.

Were I a poet, I should have written:

I am two in one, like the swallow’s wings.

And if spring is late coming, I am content to be its harbinger!

He loves countries and leaves them. (Is the impossible remote?) He
loves to migrate towards everything. Travelling freely between
cultures, there is room for all who seek the essence of man.

A margin moves forward and a centre retreats. The East is not
completely the East, nor the West, the West. Identity is multifaceted.

It is neither a citadel nor is it absolute.

The metaphor slumbered on one bank of the river. Had it not been for
the pollution,

It would have embraced the other.

Have you written your novel?

I have tried . . . sought to find my image reflected in distant
women. But they have retreated into their fortified night. And they
have said: our universe does not depend on words. No man will capture
in words the woman, an enigma and a dream. No woman will capture the
man, symbol and star. No love is like another; no night like another.
Let us list men’s virtues and laugh!

And what did you do?

I laughed at my own absurdity and threw my novel away.

The thinker restrains the novelist’s tale, while the philosopher
deconstructs the singer’s roses.

He loves countries and leaves them: I am who I shall be and become. I
shall construct myself and choose my exile. My exile is the
background of the epic landscape. I defend the need for poets of
glory and reminiscence; I defend trees that clothe the birds of home
and exile, a moon still fit for a love song, an idea shattered by its
proponents’ fragility and a country borne off by legends.

Is there anything you could return to?

What awaits me draws me on and urges me . . . I have no time to draw
lines in the sand. But I can revisit the past like strangers
listening to the pastoral poem in the gloom of the evening:

`At the fountain, a young girl fills her jar with clouds’ tears. And
she weeps and laughs at a bee that stung her heart when it was time
to leave.

Is love pain in the water or malady in the mist . . .’

(And so on, till the song draws to a close.)

So you could suffer from nostalgia?

Nostalgia for times to come. More distant, more elevated, more
distant still. My dream guides my steps and my vision cradles my
dream, curled like a cat, on my lap. It is reality imagined, born of
the will: we can change the chasm’s inevitability!

And nostalgia for the past?

That is only for the thinker who is anxious to understand the
fascination a foreigner feels for the medium of absence. My own
nostalgia is a struggle for a present that clings to the future.

Did you penetrate the past the day you visited the house, your
house, in Jerusalem’s Talibiya district?

Like a child afraid of his father, I was ready to hide in my
mother’s bed. I tried to relive my birth, to follow the trail of
childhood across the roof of my old home, to run my fingers over the
skin of absence, to smell the perfume of summer in the jasmine of the
garden. But truth’s hyena drove me from a nostalgia that lurked,
behind me, like a thief in the shadows.

Were you afraid, and of what?

I cannot meet loss head on. Like the beggar, I stayed at the door.
Am I going to ask strangers who sleep in my bed for permission to
spend five minutes in my own home? Will I bow respectfully to the
people that occupy my dream of childhood? Will they ask: who is this
stranger who lacks discretion? Will I be able just to speak of peace
and war among victims and the victims of victims, avoiding
superfluous words and asides? Will they tell me that two dreams
cannot share a bed?

Neither he nor I could have done that.

But he is a reader who reflects on what poetry has to tell us in
times of disaster.

Blood

and blood

and blood

in your homeland

In my name and in yours, in the almond blossom, in the banana skin,
in the baby’s milk, in the light and in the shade, in the grain of
wheat, in the salt jar. Consummate snipers reach their targets.

Blood

blood

blood

This land is smaller than the blood of its children, offerings placed
on resurrection’ s doorstep. Is this land blessed or baptised

In blood,

blood,

the blood

That neither prayers nor the sand can assuage? There is not enough
justice in the pages of the Holy Book to give the martyrs the joy of
walking freely across the clouds. Blood, by day. Blood, by night.
Blood in the words!

He says: the poem could embrace loss, a shaft of light glinting from
a guitar or a Christ mounted on a mare and blood- spattered with
elegant metaphors. What is beauty if not the presence of truth in the
form?

In a skyless world, the earth becomes a chasm. And the poem is one of
consolation’ s gifts, a quality of the winds, from both south and
north. Do not describe your wounds as the camera sees them.

Cry out to make yourself heard and to know that you are still alive
and living, that life on this earth is still possible. Invent hope
for words. Create a cardinal point or a mirage that prolongs hope and
sing, for beauty is freedom.

I say: life defined by its antithesis, death . . . is no life at all!

He replies: we shall live, even if life abandons us to our fate. Let
us be the wordsmiths whose words make their readers eternal, as your
extraordinary friend Ritsos might have said . . .

He says: If I die before you, I shall leave you the impossible task!

I ask: Is it a long way off?

He replies: A generation away.

I say: And if I die before you?

He replies: I shall console the mounts of Galilee and I shall write:
`Beauty is merely the attainment of adequacy.’ All right! But don’t
forget that if I die before you, I shall leave you the impossible
task!

When I visited the new Sodom in the year 2002, he was opposing the
war of Sodom against the people of Babylon and fighting cancer. The
last epic hero, he defended Troy’s right to its share in the story.

Eagle on high,

Soaring,

Taking leave of the mountain tops,

For residing above Olympus

And the summits,

Brings ennui,

Farewell

Farewell, poetry of pain!

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