The death of a poet, no, two, in August

Everything doesn't please me, but some things do.

Granted, the station's lost its coordinates,

the road is a conceit of dirt, and yet -

it pleases me the old bus contains you.

You draw a single, quivery thread of pain

from my blood – weave a tree canopy

overhead; the pride of a flag flying free

from the direction of winds; a quatrain

that's also an anthem of olives, a dirge

for the lemon leaves, for fallen lintels,

ruined doorsteps. You shatter walls of cells

into a lilac leap where stars and hope merge.

Even though the old bus sputters and stops,

then dies. And the station's a long way off.

***

Last time I looked you were a tiny dot,

the bus-stop receding in the rear-view

and then vanishing, like things always do.

But I'd marked, and caressed the exact spot

in the dusty mirror where you had stood.

And it was more than enough to drive on.

But then a passenger screamed. A cell phone

squawked, and all canopies turned to deadwood.

The mirror's empty now, the bus is a wreck,

no station or stop, the horizon's bare -

breathe deep, breathe deep, but there's just no more air!

The flag's an ache because the shape of a speck

in glass will never again be seen, nor heard -

how will this longing ever be measured?

This is a response to "Nothing pleases me" by Mahmoud Darwish (13.03.1941 - 09.08.2008). The second death is Tagore's (07.05.1861-07.08.1941). Both are poets I deeply revere. Both became, in their lifetimes, the voice of their peoples' struggles against foreign powers/occupation. Both shaped identities, both, when they died, convulsed their nation/peoples, both transformed the prevailing literary landscapes, and both died in August. The aftermath of one death I have witnessed personally, and the other I have heard about from my family/community.

~~~

The diptych above was written as part of a MOOC I took last year and forgot about till now. My homage to both poets with it. 

*~*~*

I am finally back to blogging on a regular lappie instead of pebble-sized screens where 'nothing pleases me' in terms of the font size, if you know what I mean. Squint till cross eyed and then manage to decipher half a word, no, I think not, thanks very much.  Sticking to the bigger and less sleek devices. I have a pile of posts and emails to catch up on which will happen over the next week as I settle back into my old mouse potato mode...

Meanwhile, this month there's big news at Write...Edit...Publish... which is joining up with Insecure Writer's Support Group - excited to see where this partnership will lead!

Click on the links and read about the antho contest that'll run from Sept 5 to Nov 4, and the WEP Aug Challenge open right now - join us and sign up, because ooh, the fun is getting thicker!

D is for... Diab...Dimashq...and...Dice...

is for

Amr Diab – a multi award winning, globally recognised Egyptian musician, the best selling Arab musician of his times. I'm among his gazillions of fans. His Nour el Ain (Light of my eye) was rocking this island when I first landed up in the ME. His music has been part of the soundtrack of my time in Arablands :) playing all through the last 20 years as he has gone from strength to strength. Listen to him perform Nour el Ain for the award function in 1998, and find more of his music on his own site by clicking on his name above - 

Damascus! 

To Damascus, years are only moments, decades are only flitting trifles of time. She measures time not by days and months and years, but by the empires she has seen rise and prosper and crumble to ruin. She is a type of immortality.

~ Mark Twain

Known as Dimashq-ash-Sham in Arabic, shortened to Dimashq, one of the most ancient cities in the world. It has been continually settled for thousands of years, its origins lost in the mists of antiquity.   

Hazy origins, but by the 1^st millennium BCE, Damascus has risen to prominence.  It’s mentioned both in Ancient Egypt and in the Bible. Control for it has been fought over many times. Now you hear it’s conceded to Rameses II, then you hear Aramaic tribes have taken over, or the Assyrians. But hang on, now the tribes have revolted and wrested it back, will they keep it? nope, they’ve gone and lost it to the neo-Babylonians! 

Into the 4^th BCE now, and early on Alex the Grrreat has poked his head around – comes, sees, conquers, vanishes!  His generals are fighting for scraps after him. The balance of power teeters between the Ptolemaic and the Seleucid empires.  For a couple of centuries - then Romans have kicked the Greeks out altogether. 

The first centuries CE – the heyday of Rome: tad stability, support, and presto! Damascus has morphed to this strategic, happening metropolis where traders from Arabia, Palmyra, Petra and the long Silk Route rub shoulders. Rome falls, but Damascus goes on.

Damask Rose.  Crusaders brought this back from 

the East to Europe.

A new faith has risen meanwhile in the Hijaz in South East, and Damascus is conquered again, wrested from Byzantine control in the 7^th CE. They are dismayed – Damascus is prime property! - they mount a counter-offensive, but the Arabs gain a decisive victory. Syria and Palestine, both profoundly Christian lands, are plucked out of Byzantium.

Umayyad Mosque, Damascus.

Damascus goes onto become the capital of the Muslim world, the capital of the Umayyad Caliphate. It doesn’t last long, the power centre shifts lightning fast - the moment of glory is always brief, a mere spark.  But Damascus carries on, it always has.

Fast forward to 21st century, Damascus faces possibly the toughest times in its 12,000 years of history – will it be able to go on? 

The Dice Player 

A poem by world-renowned Arab poet Mahmoud Darwish, made into this animated calligraphic film, a prize winner at the Berlin Zebra Poetry Festival. 

Did you know the Arab Diaspora spans the entire world? Some prominent personalities are of Arab origins - Steve Jobs is one for instance, Ralph Nader and Paul Anka are two more.

Posted for the A-Z Challenge 2017