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Best Famous Mahmoud Darwish Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Mahmoud Darwish poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mahmoud Darwish poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mahmoud Darwish poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Mahmoud Darwish poems.

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by Mahmoud Darwish | |

Psalm Three

 On the day when my words
were earth.
.
.
I was a friend to stalks of wheat.
On the day when my words were wrath I was a friend to chains.
On the day when my words were stones I was a friend to streams.
On the day when my words were a rebellion I was a friend to earthquakes.
On the day when my words were bitter apples I was a friend to the optimist.
But when my words became honey.
.
.
flies covered my lips!.
.
.


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

I Come From There

 I come from there and I have memories 
Born as mortals are, I have a mother 
And a house with many windows, 
I have brothers, friends, 
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls, I have my own view, And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words, And the bounty of birds, And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there.
I render the sky unto her mother When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up To make a single word: Homeland.
.
.
.
.


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

Passport

 They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah .
.
.
Don’t leave The palm of my hand without the sun Because the trees recognize me Don’t leave me pale like the moon! All the birds that followed my palm To the door of the distant airport All the wheatfields All the prisons All the white tombstones All the barbed Boundaries All the waving handkerchiefs All the eyes were with me, But they dropped them from my passport Stripped of my name and identity? On soil I nourished with my own hands? Today Job cried out Filling the sky: Don’t make and example of me again! Oh, gentlemen, Prophets, Don’t ask the trees for their names Don’t ask the valleys who their mother is >From my forehead bursts the sward of light And from my hand springs the water of the river All the hearts of the people are my identity So take away my passport!


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

I Am There

 I come from there and remember,
I was born like everyone is born, I have a mother
and a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends and a prison.
I have a wave that sea-gulls snatched away.
I have a view of my own and an extra blade of grass.
I have a moon past the peak of words.
I have the godsent food of birds and an olive tree beyond the kent of time.
I have traversed the land before swords turned bodies into banquets.
I come from there, I return the sky to its mother when for its mother the sky cries, and I weep for a returning cloud to know me.
I have learned the words of blood-stained courts in order to break the rules.
I have learned and dismantled all the words to construct a single one: Home


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

A Lover From Palestine

 Her eyes are Palestinian
Her name is Palestinian
Her dress and sorrow Palestinian
Her kerchief, her feet and body Palestinian
Her words and silence Palestinian
Her voice Palestinian
Her birth and her death Palestinian


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

Rita And The Rifle

 Between Rita and my eyes
There is a rifle
And whoever knows Rita
Kneels and plays
To the divinity in those honey-colored eyes
And I kissed Rita
When she was young
And I remember how she approached
And how my arm covered the loveliest of braids
And I remember Rita
The way a sparrow remembers its stream 
Ah, Rita
Between us there are a million sparrows and images 
And many a rendezvous
Fired at by a rifle

Rita's name was a feast in my mouth
Rita's body was a wedding in my blood
And I was lost in Rita for two years
And for two years she slept on my arm
And we made promises
Over the most beautiful of cups
And we burned in the wine of our lips
And we were born again

Ah, Rita!
What before this rifle could have turned my eyes from yours
Except a nap or two or honey-colored clouds?
Once upon a time
Oh, the silence of dusk
In the morning my moon migrated to a far place
Towards those honey-colored eyes
And the city swept away all the singers
And Rita

Between Rita and my eyes—
A rifle


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

Psalm 9

 O rose beyond the reach of time and of the senses
O kiss enveloped in the scarves of all the winds
surprise me with one dream 
that my madness will recoil from you 
Recoiling from you
In order to approach you 
I discovered time
Approaching you
in order to recoil form you
I discovered my senses
Between approach and recoil
there is a stone the size of a dream
It does not approach
It does not recoil
You are my country
A stone is not what I am 
therefor I do not like to face the sky 
not do I die level with the ground
but I am a stranger, always a stranger