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We conclude our eco-poetics series in Palestine, whose desert landscapes and famed olive trees continue to persevere through decades of uncertain turmoil. Mahmoud Darwish, widely considered the national poet of Palestine, is a symbol of our shared struggle for peace and stability. “I See What I Want”, with its vivid depictions of natural beauty across this spacious earth, is an appropriate (if all-encompassing) poem to carry out beyond our month-long series: I See What I Want
I see what I want in the farm...right now I see braids of wheat combed by the wind, and I close my eyes This mirage leads to Nihawand, and this calm leads to lapis lazuli I see what I want in the sea ... right now I see a rush of swans at sunset, and I close my eyes This wandering leads to an Andalusia, and this sail is a dove's prayer over me I see what I want in the night ... right now I see the endings of this long life at one of the cities' gates I will toss the pages of my log into the cafes at the dock and find a seat for my absence aboard one of the ships I see what I want in the soul: the face of a stone scratched by lightning- green, oh land, green is the land of my soul- haven't I been a child playing at the edge of a well? I'm still playing ... this space is my playground and the stone is my wind I see what I want in peace ... right now I see a deer and grass and a stream of water ... and I close my eyes: this deer is asleep on my arm and the hunter asleep, too, near its sons, in a faraway place I see what I want in war ... right now I see the arms of our ancestors squeezing a wellspring into green stone And our fathers inherited the water, but did not bequeath it, and I close my eyes: The land in my hands is the work of my hands I see what I want in prison: days of a flowering that led from here to two strangers in me seated in a garden- I close my eyes: How spacious is the earth! How beautiful the earth from the eye of a needle I see what I want in lightning ... right now I see farms bursting from their chains with vegetation- bravo! The song of the walnut floats down, white above the villages' smoke like doves ... doves we feed alongside our children I see what I want in love ... right now I see horses making the plain dance, fifty guitars sighing and a swarm of bees sucking wild mulberry, and I close my eyes to see our shadow behind this homeless place I see what I want in death: I fall in love, and my chest opens and a white unicorn jumps out and gallops over the clouds soaring on endless gauze, swirling with eternal blue So please do not stop my death, do not return me to a star of soil I see what I want in blood: right now I see the murdered, his heart lit by the bullet, say to his murderer: from now on you remember no one but me. I killed you without meaning to but from now on you remember no one but me, nor can you endure spring flowers I see what I want in the theatre of the absurd: fiends in judges' robes, the emperor's hat, the masks of our time, the colour of old sky, women who dance for the palace, the chaos of armies Then I choose to forget everything, remember only the noise behind the curtain I see what I want in poetry: when poets died, we attended their funerals, buried them with flowers, returned safely to their poetry ... now in the age of magazines, movies, and droning, we laugh--sprinkle a handful of soil on their poems, come home to find them at our door I see at dawn what I want in the dawn ... right now I see nations looking for bread in other nations' bread Bread is what unravels us from the silk of drowsiness, from the cotton of our dreams Is it from a grain of wheat that the dawn of life shines ... and the dawn of war? I see what I want in people: their desire for yearning, their reluctance to go to work, their urgency to come home ... and their need for greetings in the morning
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 This week, our continued showcase of eco-poetics will take us around the world to Southeast Asia, with its delicate island ecosystem and diverse marine life. The Indonesian poet Toeti Heraty is a groundbreaking female voice in the region’s contemporary canon, and here we are proud to share “The Moon is High”: The moon is high
Not a crescent this time. On Gilimeno island, on the sandy beach, it glides beyond experience beyond the reach of my hand. The moon is high Pale and round, the drum Beats, speckled silver-bright. The casuarinas dance, the waves lash out; The passion of life, love, their meaning Pages that need To be sorted. The moon is high. Honey from Sumbawa in Mataram! Questions and answers are a bitterness - An angry honey moon Very late, a distant, intermittent hum After the TV has been switched off, and conversation Has died down; after the boats have foundered. This time you have mastered the skill Of throwing the safety rope From island to island. I have not yet drowned, I have not drifted Even though I have no anchor. A bewitching moon beckons Melbourne and Sidney-style property on the beach Verandas draped with bougainvillea Tall grasses and crotons will collapse in fear Battered by storms Before this manuscript, this life story Has reached its final age. The moon is high Clear as the tinkle of a bell The sound of foreign cash spreads The corals are desecrated, and the tourist's dream. Wanderer, honey moon, Lyrics of a song, fragments of a tune Searched for and nearly found.  From the lush greenery of W.S. Merwin’s vast Maui garden with its 900 palm varietals, we move now to the rich rain forests of Nicaragua and “Metamorphasis” by Gioconda Belli. Belli is a celebrated writer, activist, and 2019 recipient of the Oxfam Novib/PEN Award for Freedom of Expression. The award is given in recognition of a writer’s continued and courageous work in the face of persecution: Metamorphasis
The vines Are twisting From my ears. My eyes have become pistils in motion and purple flowers flow from my mouth. As I walk, the house fills with my leaves. My branches block the room, and I’m tangled up in everything. My nose has already turned green, too, and I no longer smell the same. I bump into the furniture, and my legs are breaking through bricks in search of land, tangling me up even more. Now that my hair pushes against the walls, I can barely move. My arms have shrunk away, leaving just my fingers, while my body’s become a trunk. With my fingers I touch my new self all over among the leaves and twigs and flowers that fill my mouth and stain my teeth. My fingers explore me With a touch fertile for my growing branches, and finally, after so much resistance, my hands give in and tiny thorns sprout from my nails. The purple flowers from my mouth cover my body, and in my metamorphosis I am a twisting mass of vines thorny, alone, one with nature. |
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