This week I met with two local poets, one a former student who is nearing 14, and the other a visiting musician from Argentina who is 26 (I think). We met at a local coffee shop to write poetry together. I brought a poem I received from the Poetry Foundation, To Our Land by Mahmoud Darwish.
To our land,
and it is the one near the word of god,
a ceiling of cloudsTo our land,
and it is the one far from the adjectives of nouns,
the map of absenceTo our land,
Mahmoud Darwish, read the rest of the poem here.
and it is the one tiny as a sesame seed,
a heavenly horizon … and a hidden chasm
We talked about what we noticed. The anaphora of To our Land became our prompt for writing “To Our _______”.
Our discussion was surprisingly sophisticated, so truly engaged in the words, the feelings, and how each of us responded differently. Fran said, “We must do this again next week.” A writing group was formed.
I said, “We need to have a name.”
Kaia looked up at the pecans surrounding us (we were in the Pie Bar of a pecan company.) “What about three pecans?”
To Our Poets
after Mahmoud DarwishTo our poets
speaking with their pens
pencils tearing the page.To our poets,
and he is the one grieving his land
a prize of war,
a jewel that glimmers for the far upon the far.To our poets,
and she praises the birds, the imagination
calling to us announcing our place
in a family of things.To our poets,
the ones who gives themselves permission
to be poets, folding pages of a notebook
that unfold their untold secrets.And for us
Margaret Simon, draft
who listen
and find fresh air to breathe.
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Reflections on the Teche 