unresolved mourning as it relates to Eleven Stars over Andalusia

Write a 4 page paper on valmik volkan’s theories of unresolved mourning and transgenerational transmission as it relates to Eleven Stars over Andalusia

Eleven Stars Over Andalusia?Mahmoud Darwish
I On our last evening on this land
On our last evening on this land we chop our days ?from our young trees, count the ribs we’ll take with us ?and the ribs we’ll leave behind… On the last evening ?we bid nothing farewell, nor find the time to end… ?Everything remains as it is, it is the place that changes our dreams ?and its visitors. Suddenly we’re incapable of irony, ?this land will now host atoms of dust… Here, on our last evening, ?we look closely at the mountains besieging the clouds: a conquest…? and a counter-conquest, ?and an old time handing this new time the keys to our doors. ?So enter our houses, conquerors, and drink the wine ?of our mellifluous Mouwashah.* We are the night at midnight, ?and no horseman will bring dawn from the sanctuary of the last Call to ? Prayer…?Our tea is green and hot; drink it. Our pistachios are fresh; eat them. ?The beds are of green cedar, fall on them, ?following this long siege, lie down on the feathers of ?our dreams. The sheets are crisp, perfumes are ready by the door, and there are plenty of mirrors: ?enter them so we may exit completely. Soon we will search ?in the margins of your history, in distant countries, ?for what was once our history. And in the end we will ask ourselves: ?Was Andalusia here or there? On the land…or in the poem??___________________?* The characteristic form of Andalusian poetry, recited and sung. Still performed through-out the Arab world.
II How can I write above the clouds?
How can I write my people’s testament above the clouds when they ?abandon time as they do their coats at home, my people ?who raze each fortress they build and pitch on its ruins ?a tent, nostalgic for the beginning of palm trees? My people betray my people?in wars over salt. But Granada is made of gold, ?of silken words woven with almonds, of silver tears ?in the string of a lute. Granada is a law unto herself: ?it befits her to be whatever she wants to be: nostalgia for ?anything long past or which will pass. A swallow’s wing brushes ?a woman’s breast, and she screams: “Granada is my body.” ?In the meadow someone loses a gazelle, and he screams, “Granada is my country.” ?And I come from there… So sing until from my ribs the goldfinches can build ?a staircase to the nearer sky. Sing of the chivalry of those who ascend, ?moon by moon, to their death in the Beloved’s alley. Sing the birds of the garden, ?stone by stone. How I love you, who have broken me, ?string by string, on the road to her heated night. Sing how, ?after you, the smell of coffee has no morning. Sing of my departure, ?from the cooing of doves on your knees and from my soul nesting ?in the mellifluous letters of your name. Granada is for singing, so sing!
III There is a sky beyond the sky for me
There is a sky beyond the sky for my return, but ?I am still burnishing the metal of this place, living in ?an hour that foresees the unseen. I know that time ?cannot twice be on my side, and I know that I will leave—?I’ll emerge, with wings, from the banner I am, bird ?that never alights on trees in the garden—?I will shed my skin and my language. ?Some of my words of love will fall into ?Lorca’s poems; he’ll live in my bedroom ?and see what I have seen of the Bedouin moon. I’ll emerge ?from almond trees like cotton on sea foam. The stranger passed, ?carrying seven hundred years of horses. The stranger passed ?here to let the stranger pass there. In a while I’ll emerge a stranger ?from the wrinkles of my time, alien to Syria and to Andalusia. ?This land is not my sky, yet this evening is mine. ?The keys are mine, the minarets are mine, the lamps are mine, ?and I am also mine. I am Adam of the two Edens, I who lost paradise twice. ?So expel me slowly, ?and kill me slowly, ?under my olive tree,?along with Lorca…
IV I am one of the kings of the end
… And I am one of the kings of the end… I jump ?off my horse in the last winter. I am the last gasp of an Arab. ?I do not look for myrtle over the roofs of houses, nor do I ?look around: no one should know me, no one should recognize me, no one who knew me ?when I polished marble words to let my woman step ?barefoot over dappled light. I do not look into the night, I mustn’t ?see a moon that once lit up all the secrets of Granada, ?body by body. I do not look into the shadow, so as not to see ?somebody carrying my name and running after me: take your name away from me ?and give me the silver of the white poplar. I do not look behind me, so I won’t remember?I’ve passed over this land, there is no land in this land ?since time broke around me shard by shard. ?I was not a lover believing that water is a mirror, ?as I told my old friends, and no love can redeem me, ?for I’ve accepted the “peace accord” and there is no longer a present left ?to let me pass, tomorrow, close to yesterday. Castile will raise ?its crown above God’s minaret. I hear the rattling of keys?in the door of our golden history. Farewell to our history! Will I be?the one to close the last door of the sky, I, the last gasp of an Arab?
V One day I will sit on the pavement
One day I will sit on the pavement…the pavement of the estranged. ?I was no Narcissus; still I defend my image ?in the mirrors. Haven’t you been here once before, stranger? ?Five hundred years have passed, but our breakup wasn’t final, ?and the messages between us never stopped. The wars ?did not change the gardens of my Granada. One day I’ll pass its moons ?and brush my desire against a lemon tree… Embrace me and let me be reborn ?from the scents of sun and river on your shoulders, from your feet ?that scratch the evening until it weeps milk to accompany the poem’s night… ?I was not a passerby in the words of singers… I was the words ?of the singers, the reconciliation of Athens and Persia, an East embracing a West ?embarked on one essence. Embrace me that I may be born again ?from Damascene swords hanging in shops. Nothing remains of me?but my old shield and my horse’s gilded saddle. Nothing remains of me ?but manuscripts of Averroes, The Collar of the Dove,* and translations… ?On the pavement, in the Square of the Daisy, ?I was counting the doves: one, two, thirty…and the girls ?snatching the shadows of the young trees over the marble, leaving me?leaves yellow with age. Autumn passed me by, and I did not notice ?the entire season had passed. Our history passed me on the pavement… ?and I did not notice.?__________________?* A celebrated treatise on love by IbnHazm of Cordoba.
VI Truth has two faces and the snow is black
Truth has two faces and the snow falls black on our city. ?We can feel no despair beyond our despair, ?and the end—firm in its step—marches to the wall, ?marching on tiles that are wet with our tears. ?Who will bring down our flags: we or they? And who?will recite the “peace accord,” O king of dying? ?Everything’s prepared for us in advance; who will tear our names ?from our identity: you or they? And who will instill in us ?the speech of wanderings: “We were unable to break the siege; ?let us then hand the keys to our paradise to the Minister of Peace, and be saved…” ?Truth has two faces. To us the holy emblem was a sword ?hanging over us. So what did you do to our fortress before this day? ?You didn’t fight, afraid of martyrdom. Your throne is your coffin. ?Carry then the coffin to save the throne, O king of waiting, ?this exodus will leave us only a handful of dust… ?Who will bury our days after us: you…or they? And who ?will raise their banners over our walls: you…or ?a desperate knight? Who will hang their bells on our journey: ?you…or a miserable guard? Everything is fixed for us; ?why, then, this unending conclusion, O king of dying?
VII Who am I after the night of the estranged ?
Who am I after the night of the estranged? I wake from my dream, ?frightened of the obscure daylight on the marble of the house, of ?the sun’s darkness in the roses, of the water of my fountain; ?frightened of milk on the lip of the fig, of my language; ?frightened of wind that—frightened—combs a willow; frightened ?of the clarity of petrified time, of a present no longer ?a present; frightened, passing a world that is no longer ?my world. Despair, be merciful. Death, be ?a blessing on the stranger who sees the unseen more clearly than ?a reality that is no longer real. I’ll fall from a star ?in the sky into a tent on the road to…where? ?Where is the road to anything? I see the unseen more clearly than?a street that is no longer my street. Who am I after the night of the estranged? ?Through others I once walked toward myself, and here I am, ?losing that self, those others. My horse disappeared by the Atlantic, ?and by the Mediterranean I bleed, stabbed with a spear. ?Who am I after the night of the estranged? I cannot return to ?my brothers under the palm tree of my old house, and I cannot descend to ?the bottom of my abyss. You, the unseen! Love has no heart… ?no heart in which I can dwell after the night of the estranged…
VIII O water, be a string to my guitar
O water, be a string to my guitar. The conquerors arrived,?and the old conquerors left. It is difficult to remember my face ?in the mirrors. Water, be my memory, let me see what I have lost. ?Who am I after this exodus? I have a rock ?with my name on it, on a hill from which I see what’s long gone… ?Seven hundred years escort me beyond the city wall… ?In vain time turns to let me salvage my past from a moment ?that gives birth to my exile…and others’… ?To my guitar, O water, be a string. The conquerors arrived, ?and the old conquerors left, heading southward, repairing their days ?in the trashheap of change: I know who I was yesterday, but who will I be ?in a tomorrow under Columbus’s Atlantic banners? Be a string, ?be a string to my guitar, O water! There is no Misr* in Egypt, ?no Fez in Fez**, and Syria draws away. There is no falcon in ?my people’s banner, no river east of the palm groves besieged ?by the Mongols’ fast horses. In which Andalusia do I end? Here ?or there? I will know I’ve perished and that here I’ve left ?the best part of me: my past. Nothing remains but my guitar. ?Then be to my guitar a string, O water. The old conquerors left, ?the new conquerors arrived.?___________________?* Misr = “urban life,” but also “Egypt.”?** Fez (Arabic Fas) also means “ax”
IX In the exodus I love you more
In the exodus I love you more. In a while ?you will lock the city’s gates. There is no heart for me in your hands, and no ?road anywhere for my journey. In this demise I love you more. ?After your breast, there is no milk for the pomegranate at our window. ?Palm trees have become weightless, ?the hills have become weightless, and streets in the dusk have become weightless; ?the earth has become weightless as it bids farewell to its dust. Words have become weightless, ?and stories have become weightless on the staircase of night. My heart alone is heavy, ?so let it remain here, around your house, ?barking, howling for a golden time. ?It alone is my homeland. In the exodus I love you more, ?I empty my soul of words: I love you more. ?We depart. Butterflies lead our shadows. In exodus ?we remember the lost buttons of our shirts, we forget ?the crown of our days, we remember the apricot’s sweat, we forget ?the dance of horses on festival nights. In departure ?we become only the birds’ equals, merciful to our days, grateful for the least. ?I am content to have the golden dagger that makes my murdered heart dance—?kill me then, slowly, so I may say: I love you more than ?I had said before the exodus. I love you. Nothing hurts me, ?neither air nor water…neither basil in your morning nor ?iris in your evening, nothing hurts me after this departure.
X I want from love only the beginning
I want from love only the beginning. Doves patch, ?over the squares of my Granada, this day’s shirt. ?There is wine in our clay jars for the feast after us. ?In the songs there are windows: enough for blossoms to explode.
I leave jasmine in the vase; I leave my young heart ?in my mother’s cupboard; I leave my dream, laughing, in water;?I leave the dawn in the honey of the figs; I leave my day and my yesterday ?in the passage to the Square of the Orange where doves fly.
Did I really descend to your feet so speech could rise, ?a white moon in the milk of your nights…pound the air ?so I could see the Street of the Flute blue…pound the evening ?so I could see how this marble between us suffers?
The windows are empty of the orchards of your shawl. In another time ?I knew so much about you. I picked gardenias ?from your ten fingers. In another time there were pearls for me ?around your neck, and a name on a ring whose gem was darkness, shining.
I want from love only the beginning. Doves flew ?in the last sky, they flew and flew in that sky. ?There is still wine, after us, in the barrels and jars. ?A little land will suffice for us to meet, a little land will be enough for peace.
XI Violins
Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia?Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia
Violins weep for a time that does not return?Violins weep for a homeland that might return
Violins set fire to the woods of that deep deep darkness?Violins tear the horizon and smell my blood in the vein
Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia?Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia
Violins are horses on a phantom string of moaning water?Violins are the ebb and flow of a field of wild lilacs
Violins are monsters touched by the nail of a woman now distant?Violins are an army, building and filling a tomb made of marble and?Nahawund*
Violins are the anarchy of hearts driven mad by the wind in a dancer’s foot?Violins are flocks of birds fleeing a torn banner
Violins are complaints of silk creased in the lover’s night?Violins are the distant sound of wine falling on a previous desire
Violins follow me everywhere in vengeance?Violins seek me out to kill me wherever they find me
Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia?Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia?____________________?* One of the classical Arabic musical modes.
Translated by Mona Anis and Nigel Ryan, with Aga Shahid Ali and Ahmad Dallal

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