You may only read this site if you've purchased Our Kampf from Amazon or Powell's or me
• • •
"Mike and Jon, Jon and Mike—I've known them both for years, and, clearly, one of them is very funny. As for the other: truly one of the great hangers-on of our time."—Steve Bodow, head writer, The Daily Show

"Who can really judge what's funny? If humor is a subjective medium, then can there be something that is really and truly hilarious? Me. This book."—Daniel Handler, author, Adverbs, and personal representative of Lemony Snicket

"The good news: I thought Our Kampf was consistently hilarious. The bad news: I’m the guy who wrote Monkeybone."—Sam Hamm, screenwriter, Batman, Batman Returns, and Homecoming

August 09, 2008

Death of a Poet: Mahmoud Darwish

By: Bernard Chazelle

Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish has died after surgery at the age of 67, hospital and Palestinian officials say.

Oh man! This is heartbreaking. I think of my friends in Ramallah.


A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved
For my clothing is drenched with his blood.

If you are not rain, my love
Be tree
Sated with fertility, be tree
If you are not tree, my love
Be stone
Saturated with humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love
Be moon
In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon
[So spoke a woman
to her son at his funeral]


On a day like this, in a hidden corner
of a church, in full feminine magnificence,
in a leap year, when eternal green
meets navy blue in morning,
when form meets content and the sensuous
meets the mystic,
beneath a teeming arbor
where the shadow of a sparrow wearies
the image of meaning - in this emotional place
I'll encounter my end and my beginning
and say: To hell with you both. Have your way
if you must take me and move on,
leaving the heart of truth fresh
for the hungry daughters of the jackal.
I say: I am not a citizen
or a refugee.
And I want one thing, nothing more,
one thing: a simple, quiet death
on a day like this, in the hidden heart
of the lily,
maybe compensation for a lot or for little,
for a life measured in moments and departures.
I want a death in this garden.
No more no less.

Posted at August 9, 2008 07:53 PM

One of the saddest days in the sad journey of Palestininan people.
Though he did not live to see his land free of occupation, hope, his soul will RIP.

While Exile is still exile?

They knew their way to its end,
and they dreamt it.

They returned from their future to their present,
and they knew what would would happen to the
songs in their throats.

They dreamt of carnations on the fences of the houses
in their new place of exile.

They knew what would happen to hawks if they
settled in palaces.

They dreamt of the struggle of their narcissus with
if it becomes their place of exile.

They knew what would happen to the swallow
when the spring sets it on fire.

They dreamt of the fitful spring of their feelings
and they knew what would happen
when their dream rose up from a dream
it was only a dream.

They knew and dreamt and returned and dreamt.

They knew and returned and returned and dreamt.

They dreamt and returned.

Paris 1989

from: I see what I want to see
(Translated by Husain Haddawi)

Posted by: Rupa Shah at August 9, 2008 09:41 PM

Prof Chazelle: The poems you have posted are so BEAUTIFUL, in spite of the sadness, I have a choking sensation in my throat!

Posted by: Rupa Shah at August 9, 2008 10:55 PM