Αποφάσεις για το χτες και το αύριο


“Κάθε φορά που έρχεται το χθες, του λέω: «∆εν είναι ώρα τώρα. Φύγε και πέρνα αύριο”.

Geoffrey Johnson a

“Αύριο θ’ αγαπήσουµε τη ζωή.

Όταν έρθει το αύριο, η ζωή θα είναι κάτι που μπορεί να το λατρέψουµε όπως ακριβώς είναι:

απλή ή περίπλοκη, μουντή ή πολύχρωμη… χωρίς θείες κρίσεις και κριτήρια…

Κι αν η χαρά είναι απολύτως αναγκαία, ας φωτίσει την καρδιά και τα λαγόνια.

Όποιος καεί µε τη χαρά φυσάει και τη ζωή.”

pen

Από τον ποιητή της Παλαιστίνης Mahmoud Darwish (Μαχμούντ Νταρουίς 1941-2008)

1. blu

Περισσότερα για τον ποιητή Μαχμούντ Νταρουίς : Για κείνον που είπε “Δεν υπάρχει αύριο”

quote-nothing-is-harder-on-the-soul-than-the-smell-of-dreams-while-they-re-evaporating-mahmoud-darwish-126-95-31

Δείτε  και το εξαίρετο video που φτειάχτηκε με βάση το υπέροχο ποίημα του ποιητή «The Dice Player». Οι στίχοι του ποιήματος στα αγγλικά είναι κάτω στα σχόλια. Γίνεται κατανοητό με βάση τα σκίτσα:

http://logoskaitexni.blogspot.gr/2013/11/mahmoud-darwish.html

https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Mahmoud_Darwish

 

3 σκέψεις σχετικά με το “Αποφάσεις για το χτες και το αύριο

    1. Γειά σου Κατερίνα! Χαίρομαι που σου άρεσε. Όντως, είναι θαυμάσιο. Πρέπει νάταν εκπληκτικός άνθρωπος ο Mahmoud Darwish. Όταν έγραφε αυτά ζούσε πράγματι σε κατάσταση πολιορκίας στην Ραμάλα της Παλαιστίνης, αγκαλιά με τον θάνατο, μη ξέροντας αν θα ζει την άλλη στιγμή.. Ετσι ζούσε την στιγμή χωρίς πίστη στο αύριο. Και πάλι..έρχονταν ώρες που κορόιδευε τον εαυτόν του..για να μπορεί να συνεχίσει..Κάπου έχω και ένα πεζό του, όπου η κατάσταση σε σχέση με τα λόγια του γίνεται πιο κατανοητή. Δες εδώ, αν θέλεις: https://beatrikn.wordpress.com/tag/%CF%80%CE%BF%CE%AF%CE%B7%CF%83%CE%B7-mahmud-darwish/

      Μου αρέσει!

  1. Οι στίχοι του θαυμάσιου ποιήματος Μαχμούντ Νταρουϊς «The Dice Player» στην βάση των οποίων και το υπέροχο video στην αγγλική γλώσσα :
    Who am I to say to you
    what I say to you?
    when I’m not a stone burnished by water
    to become a face
    or a reed punctured by wind
    to become a flute . . .

    I’m a dice player
    I win some and lose some
    just like you or a little less . . .
    born beside the water well
    and three lonely trees like nuns,
    without parade or midwife,
    I was given my name by chance
    belonged to a family by chance
    and inherited its traits, features, and illnesses:

    First, arterial disease and high blood pressure
    Second, shyness when addressing my parents
    and the tree/my grandmother
    Third, a hope in being cured of influenza
    with a cup of hot chamomile
    Fourth, a laziness when speaking about does and larks

    Fifth, a boredom in winter nights
    Sixth, a failure in singing

    I had no hand in being,
    it was coincidence that I turned out . . . male
    and coincidence that I saw a pale
    moon like a lemon tree encroaching on women in late nights.
    And I did not try hard to find a mole
    in my most private body parts

    It was possible that I not be,
    that my father not be
    my mother’s husband,
    and that I could have resembled
    my sister who screamed then died
    without noticing she was alive
    for only an hour
    and did not know her mother . . .
    Or I could have been a dove’s egg
    before the chick cracks the shell

    It was coincidence that I was
    the one alive in the bus accident
    because I didn’t board the bus:
    I’d forgotten about existence and its matters
    reading through the night before
    a love story in which I impersonated the author
    and the lover/the victim, then became love’s martyr
    but alive in the traffic accident

    I had no hand in playing with the sea
    though I was a reckless child who fancied
    sauntering around water’s gravity
    as it called: Come to me!
    I had no hand in surviving the sea,
    a human seagull saved me when he saw the waves
    catch and paralyze my arms

    And I could have not been afflicted
    with the jinn of the Mu’allaqat
    had the house’s gate faced north
    instead of overlooking the sea . . .
    and had the army patrol not seen the village smoke
    baking the night,
    had fifteen martyrs
    been able to rebuild the barricades,
    and had that agricultural place not broken
    I might have become an olive tree,
    a geography teacher, an expert
    in the ants’ kingdom
    or one of echo’s watchmen

    Who am I to say to you
    what I say to you at the church’s door
    when I’m only a dice throw
    between predator and prey . . .
    I gained in clarity
    not to enjoy my moonlit night
    but to witness the massacre

    By chance I survived:
    I was smaller than a military target
    and larger than a bee moving among the fence flowers,
    I feared for my brothers and father
    and for a time made of glass, for my cat and rabbit,
    for a magical moon over the high minaret,
    I feared for the grapevine
    that dangled like our dog’s teats . . .
    then fear walked me and I walked in it
    barefoot forgetting my little memories of what I want
    of tomorrow—no time for tomorrow—

    I’d walk/jog/run/ascend/descend/scream/
    bark/howl/call/wail/speed up/slow down/
    plummet/lighten/dry up/march/fly/see/
    not see/stumble/turn yellow/green/
    blue/crack/sob/thirst/tire/starve/get up/
    run/forget/see/not see/remember/hear/
    envision/mumble/hallucinate/whisper/scream/
    or not/moan/go mad/get lost/become less/
    become more/drop/soar/descend/bleed/
    fall unconscious/

    It was my good fortune that there were no wolves in those parts . . .
    a coincidence, or maybe they’d run away from the army

    The only hand I had in my life
    was when life taught me its recitations
    I asked it: Are there more?
    then I lit the lanterns
    and tried to edit the recitations . . .

    I might not have been a swallow
    had the wind chosen differently for me,
    and wind is the traveler’s luck . . .
    I headed north, east, and west
    but the south was harsh and obstinate
    because the south is my country . . .
    I became a swallow’s metaphor to hover over my relic
    in autumn and spring . . .
    I’d baptize my feathers in the lake
    then extend my salaam to the Nazarene
    who doesn’t die since within him is God’s breath
    and God is a prophet’s luck . . .

    and it is my good fortune that I am divinity’s neighbor . . .

    as it is my bad fortune that the cross
    is our tomorrow’s eternal ladder

    Who am I to say to you
    what I say to you
    who am I?

    Revelation might not have been
    my ally, and revelation
    is the luck of the lonesome:
    “the poem is a dice throw”
    on a patch of darkness
    that may or may not glow
    for speech to fall like a feather over the sand

    My only hand in a poem
    is to obey its rhythm,
    the senses’ movements, one sense amending another,
    an intuition revealing meaning,
    an unconsciousness in the echo of words,
    my self’s image as it relocates
    from my “I” to another’s,
    my self-reliance, and my longing
    for the water springs

    My only hand in a poem is when
    inspiration ceases
    and inspiration is the luck of a laboring talent

    It was possible that I not love the girl
    who asked me the time
    had I not been on my way to the movies . . .
    and she could have been a mulatto
    or another dark mysterious notion . . .

    That’s how words are born. I train my heart
    to love, to contain roses and thorns . . .
    My lexicon is Sufi. My desires are sensory
    and I am not who I am right this minute
    unless the two meet:
    I and the feminine I . . .
    O love! what are you? You are yourself
    and aren’t. O love, blow our way
    some thundering storms that take us to what you love
    for us of the heavenly
    incarnation into the bodily. Dissolve
    in a source that overflows on both sides,
    because you—concealed or apparent—
    are formless
    and we love you when we love by chance
    you are the luck of the wretched

    It’s my misfortune that I have escaped
    death by love several times
    and my fortune that I’m still fragile
    to reenter experience!

    Experienced love whispers to itself:
    Love is our truthful lie!
    When the beloved hears it
    she says: Love comes and goes
    like lightning and thunder

    And to life I say: Ease up, wait for me
    until the dregs in my glass dry . . .
    There are radiant roses in the garden and the air
    cannot rid itself of the rose, wait for me
    lest the nightingales flee me and I mess up the tune

    The singers tighten their strings in the plaza
    for farewell. O life, ease up and abridge me
    lest the song take too long and tone fractures
    between interludes . . .
    Song is a duality
    and by conclusion unitary:
    Viva life! O life
    ease up and embrace me lest the wind scatter me

    Even on the wind I can’t rid
    myself of the alphabet

    And had I not stood on a mountain

    I would have been content
    with the falcon’s solitude: there’s no higher light!
    But such glory crowned with endless golden blue resists
    visitation: the lonely there remains lonely
    and can’t come down on his feet,
    neither the falcon walks nor the human flies:
    O solitude of mountaintop
    you’re a summit that resembles a chasm

    I played no role in what I was or will become . . .
    it was luck and luck is nameless
    though we might call it
    our fate’s ironsmith, the sky’s postman,
    the carpenter of bier or crib,
    or the servant of gods in myths
    whose texts we wrote then hid
    behind Olympus . . .
    and they were believed
    by the hungry ceramic vendors,
    discredited by the sated lords of gold . . .
    it’s the author’s misfortune that imagination
    is realistic on the stage

    Behind the curtains it’s a different matter.
    The question isn’t: When?
    But: Why, how, and who?

    Who am I to say to you
    what I say to you?

    I could have not been,
    the caravan could have fallen
    in an ambush, and a boy would have gone
    missing from the family, this same
    boy who’s grown to write this poem
    on this couch, letter by letter, drop
    by drop, with black blood
    that is neither the raven’s ink
    nor its voice . . . but a night
    whole and squeezed
    by the hands of talent and luck

    It was possible for poetry to triumph more
    had he, and no other, not been a hoopoe
    over the chasm’s mouth.
    And he might have said: Had I been another
    I might still be my self the second time around

    That’s how I scheme: Narcissus wasn’t as beautiful
    as he thought, but his makers tangled him
    in his mirror, and he contemplated long and hard
    an air that drips water . . .
    had he been able to see other than himself
    he would have loved a girl who stares at him
    and forgets the stags that run
    between iris and chrysanthemum.
    Had he been smarter
    and destroyed his mirror
    he would have seen how much he is the others
    and had he been free
    he wouldn’t have become a myth . . .

    And mirage is the traveler’s book in the desert . . .
    without it, the traveler wouldn’t keep on marching
    for water. These are clouds, he says
    and carries his hope’s jug in one hand, while the other
    grabs his waist. He stomps his feet on the sand
    to gather clouds in a hole
    as mirage calls to him,
    seduces him, deceives him, lifts him and says: Read
    if you are able to read. And write
    if you are able to write. He reads:
    Water, water. And writes
    a line on the sand: If it weren’t for the mirage
    I wouldn’t be alive still

    It’s the traveler’s good fortune that hope
    is despair’s twin, or its improvised poem

    When the sky appears ashen
    and I see a rose that has suddenly burst
    out of a crack in a wall I don’t say:
    The sky is ashen!
    I extend my study of the rose
    and say to it: What a day!

    And at the entrance of night I say
    to two of my friends:
    If there must be a dream, let it be
    like us . . . and simple
    as in our having dinner together
    the three of us in a couple of days
    to celebrate the truthfulness of prophecy in our dreams
    and that the three of us
    did not go missing
    one in the last couple of days . . .
    we’d celebrate the “Moonlight” Sonata
    and death’s magnanimity when it saw us happy
    then looked away!

    I don’t say: Life over there is real
    and has imaginary places . . .
    I say: Life, here, is possible
    and only by chance
    did the land become holy:
    its lakes and hills and trees
    aren’t a replica of a higher paradise,
    but a prophet set foot there
    and when he prayed on a rock it wept
    and the mount fell prostrate in piety
    then unconscious

    And by chance the field’s slope in a land became
    a museum for the void . . .
    thousands of soldiers perished there,
    from either side, defending two leaders
    who say: Charge! Two leaders who wait inside two
    silken tents for the loot of either side . . .
    Soldiers repeatedly die but never know
    which side triumphed!

    And by chance, some narrators survived and said:
    If those had triumphed over these
    our human history would have different addresses

    O land “I love you green,” green. An apple
    waving in light and water. Green. Your night
    green. Your dawn, green. So plant me gently,
    with a mother’s kindness, in a fistful of air.
    I am one of your seeds, green

    and this poem has more than one poet
    and did not need to be lyrical

    Who am I to say to you
    what I say to you,
    I could have not been who I am
    I could have not been here

    The plane could have crashed
    with me on board that morning
    but it’s my good fortune that I sleep in

    I could have not seen Damascus or Cairo
    the Louvre or the magical towns

    And had I been a slow walker
    a rifle might have severed
    my shadow from the sleepless cedar

    And had I been a fast walker
    I might have become shrapnel
    and a passing whim

    And had I been an excessive dreamer
    I could have lost my memory

    It’s my good fortune that I sleep alone
    and that I listen to my body
    and believe my talent in discovering
    pain in time to call the doctor
    ten minutes before dying . . .
    ten minutes, enough for me to live by chance
    and disappoint the void

    Who am I to disappoint the void
    who am I, who am I?

    —Translated by Fady Joudah

    Μου αρέσει!

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