Poem (fragment) // Two years after your death I have finally built our extension, With six feet of balustraded decking, five steps above the garden. Our sons have converted it into an impromptu amphitheater.
Uit: // Rencontre avec Balthus // Un merle sautille sur la pelouse Jai tourné la tête au bon moment Pour entendre les quelques notes De la mélodie de son geste Mais pas toi
No Madonna and Child could touch that picture of a mother’s tenderness for a son she soon would have to forget. The air was heavy with odours
YOU bards of ages hence! when you refer to me, mind not so much my poems, Nor speak of me that I prophesied of The States, and led them the way of their glories; But come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior—I will tell you what to say of me:
You would have searched a long time for the sort of winding lane or tranquil meadow for which England later became celebrated.
Artist Son // My artist son, Busy with brush, absorbed in more than play, Untutored yet, striving alone to find What colour and form can say, Yours the deep human need,
As for poets The Earth Poets Who write small poems, Need help from no man. The Air Poets Play out the swiftest gales And sometimes loll in the eddies. Poem after poem, Curling back on the same thrust.
Follower // My father worked with a horse-plough, His shoulders globed like a full sail strung Between the shafts and the furrow. The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
Mahmoud Darwish (13 maart 1941 - 9 augustus 2008) - Portret door Avi Katz, z.j.
Rijm // De velden zijn vol rijm vanavond. Als ik nu verdwaal wil ik jou tegenkomen en je vragen naar de weg. Wat zou je klein en stil zijn, vol gebaren en onuitgesproken tekens. En je handen koud, nerveus en nauwelijks te bedwingen.