Mahmoud Darwish Memorial New York City     On Wednesday evening, September 24, 2008, I was privileged to say a few words at the Alwan Center for the Arts on Beaver Street in Manhattan, at a memorial tribute to the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who died the previous August. I explained that before hearing of his death I was only slightly aware of the man and his poetry, but have come to know both of them much better since. I read two poems, one by Darwish and one by me, composed for the occasion.  I reproduce both of them for you below.       Eight years later I heard Zigi Lowenberg recite a poem dedicated to Darwish at a reading sponsored by the National Writers' Union in New York City and suggested that we add hers to this page as well.      Steve               By Mahmoud Darwish:         I COME FROM THERE       I come from there and I have memories.  Born as mortals are, I have a mother  and a house with many windows.  I have brothers, friends,  and a prison cell with a cold window.  Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls.  I have my own view,  and an extra blade of grass.  Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,  and the bounty of birds,  and the immortal olive tree.  I walked this land long before swords  turned man into prey        * * * * *          I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother  when the sky weeps for her mother.  And I weep to make myself known  to a returning cloud.  To break the rules, I have learned all the words  needed for a trial by blood.  I learned all the words and broke them up  to make a single word: Homeland.....                         by Steve Bloom:      I DID NOT KNOW MAHMOUD DARWISH  BEFORE HE DIED      Consider all the poems I will never know,  sunrises I cannot see,  songs no one has ever sung to me,  all those who walk past  on the sidewalk  without a name-tag pinned  close to their hearts.         Yet each has a story to tell  if only we would learn how to listen.     * * * * *  One obituary described him as a poet  who was "known for political works,  but proudest of his personal verses."     It is hard for me to determine  whether the verse I recite for you now is political  or personal.  As a fellow poet I'm inclined to believe  that Mahmoud might  have shared this conundrum.    * * * * *  I did not know Mahmoud Darwish  before he died.  Still, he helps me learn how to listen:  to the waves snatched by seagulls,  or to random beings who sometimes  find themselves with an extra blade of grass—  sharing words that will sing to us  forever,    because his was a personal story.  And his was a political story.  And his story can be called  by the names: "Palestine,"  and "Homeland"—  which will always remain  close to our hearts.     * * * * *       I did not know Mahmoud Darwish  before he died.  And yet I have a chance,  to know him now, after  the sunset, decide  to weep for each individual  who remains unrecognized  by a returning cloud and,  in this way,  tell Mahmoud "hello" today,  rather than "Goodbye."                 By Zigi Lowenberg:        BITTER TEARS for Mahmoud Darwish, September 2016 they kicked over my shiva stool forcing me to stand fifteen years and counting …           Freefalling from fiery towers,           Fellow workers holding hands— they hijacked my mourning, muffling my balladeer into unwelcome army sacs, they stuffed my bitter tears they snatched sheets off my mirrors, snuffing my lament they shaved and dressed me with recitations in uniform, “boots on the ground” I went They told me Mother Goose is gone— Memorizing anthems Their shrapnel stole my Innocence What’s left’s but a Phantom Hypnotized with video games Force-fed Reality Glossy blow-ups locked and loaded Seduction by TV— Broker Terror, highest bidder Sworn oaths to Deception Pledging my allegiance to this Empire of Exception … they bulldozed my homes, demolishing sacred trees of peace they privatized pristine waters, spilling sludge into my seas they scourged my rainforest, watched my mountaintops crumple they exiled gatherers of ancestral olives, and bombed my holy temple they kicked over my shiva stool forcing me to stand fifteen years and counting, counting with exhaustion           counting the worldly Dead—