In the paper I'm taking on postcolonial literature, I've been struck by how weighty words are in the matters of nationalism and justice and power. I suppose I'm thinking particularly of the literature of Israel and Palestine - Israel's deep connection and use of the Tanakh for explain their connection with the land they now occupy, and Palestine's resistance literature and poetry which asserts their connection to and longing for the land and national identity and rights they are barred from.
I was looking this week at Mahmoud Darwish, who I think is the Palestinian T.S Eliot:
[Excerpt from Mural (1999)]
I will walk in my footsteps down the old path through the sea air
no woman will see me passing under her balcony
I have of memories only those necessary for the long journey
Days contain all they need of tomorrows
I was smaller than my eyelashes and my two dimples
So take my sleepiness
and hide me in the story of the tender evening
Hide me under one of the two date palms
and teach me poetry
So I can learn how to walk beside Homer
So I can add to the story a description of Akka
the oldest of the beautiful cities
the most beautiful of the old cities
A box of stone
where the living and dead move in the dry clay
like bees captive in a honeycomb of a hive
and each time the siege tightens
they go on a flower hunger strike
and ask the sea to indicate the emergency exit
Teach me poetry
in case a girl needs a song
for her distant beloved:
Take me to you even by force and prepare my
bed in your hands
And they walked interlaced towards the echo
as though I had married a runaway fawn to a gazelle
and opened the church door for the pigeons
Teach me poetry
She who spun the wool shirt
and waits by the door
is first to speak of the horizon and despair:
The fighter hasn’t returned and won’t return
and you are not the you I was waiting for
I saw myself like Christ on the lake….
But I came down from the cross because of my fear
of heights
and I don’t preach the apocalypse
all that I changed was my pace the better to hear the
voice of my heart…
Eagles are for bards
for me
the dove’s collar
a star abandoned on the roof
and a winding alley leading to the port
This sea is mine
This sea air is mine
This quayside with my footsteps and sperm upon it…is mine
And the old bus station is mine
And my ghost and its master are mine
And the copper utensils and the verse of the throne
and the key are mine
And the door and the guards and bells are mine
The horseshoe flung over the ramparts is mine
All that was mine is mine
Paper scraps torn from the gospels are mine
Salt from the tears on the wall of the house are mine…
And my name mispronounced with its five horizontal letters
my name… is mine:
[...]
This name is mine…
and also my friends’ wherever they may be
And my temporary body is mine
present or absent…
Two metres of this earth will be enough for now
a meter and 75 centimeters for me
and the rest for flowers in a riot of color
who will slowly drink me
And what was mine is mine: my yesterday
and what will be in the distant tomorrow in the return
of the fugitive soul
as if nothing has been
and as if nothing has been
A light wound on the arm of the absurd present
History taunting its victims
and its heroes…
throwing them a glance and passing on
This sea is mine
This sea air is mine
And my name—if I mispronounce it on my coffin—is mine
And as for me—full of all reasons for leaving—
I am not mine
I am not mine
I am not mine
I looked at his use of metaphors and metonymy in a recent essay, and was so amazed at how he used simple expressive differences to create a metaphorical relationship between the exiled self and the idea of nation:
I built my homeland, I even established a state, in my language. If there are no humanistic spaces in poetry that touch on the human, the text dies. […] Homeland is a broad concept, but when we go to the homeland we’re searching for a specific tree, a specific stone, a window. These components are very intimate, and are neither a flag nor an anthem.
Darwish (like many Palestinians) was living in exile from his birthplace. For the exile, lacking the national institutions or the political recognition of statehood, a flag or anthem is futile, so those common metonyms for homeland are rejected and personal, or ‘human’, recollection is preferred instead.Whilst the exile cannot claim a metonymical relationship with the homeland, since his contiguity (both in the figurative sense of sharing a close association with and the literal sense of sharing a border) with the homeland is denied him, he can still share a metaphorical relationship with their homeland. By recalling ‘a specific tree, a specific stone, a window’, he can claim a sort of belonging to the homeland, and those unrelated symbols become metaphors of home. Despite different figurative and literal domains, human recollections serve as source domains or vehicles for the target domain or tenor of homeland; this way, language becomes the way the exile ‘establish[es] a state’ even while stateless.
No comments:
Post a Comment