Like many poetry lovers, I was touched when I learned that Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008) one of the best contemporary Arab poets, had died of complications following open-heart surgery. In the late 1980s and 1990s, I produced a program “Poetic Journey” for Radio Riyadh. The main purpose of this program was to highlight the beauty of Arabic poetry for people who could not read the language.

On a number of occasions, I introduced poems from Mahmoud Darwish’s various collections of poems. He published 22 collections, the last, “The Impression of Butterflies” was published in 2008. His unique style — a combination of repetition, strong words and powerful images — did not lose its poetic magic, even in translation.

Darwish was a born poet: Rhymes came naturally to him. Unlike classical poets, he never used a word because it fitted the rhyme. The Syrian critic Subhi Hadidi has described his poetry wonderfully as “a pictorial representation in words, and even more, as the words succeed in bursting into choral singing, possessing rhythmical dancing, reconfiguring language.”

Mahmoud Darwish was encouraged to write poetry by his elder brother. He wrote his first verse when he was still at school, but his fame was sealed on May 1, 1964 when, at the age of 23, he stepped onto the stage of a movie house in Nazareth. He then read “Identity Card” which became one of his most celebrated poems. It tells of an Arab’s confrontation with an Israeli officer and its renowned lines became a symbol for the Palestinian resistance:

Write it down

I am an Arab

And my identity card is fifty thousand

The audience’s reaction was tumultuous; it rekindled national pride and within days, the poem was known throughout the Arab world.

In 1971, Darwish left for Egypt, a decision which marked a new stage in his life and in his artistic development. From 1960 until his departure, he had been a prolific writer. He published five collections of poems which earned him the title of “the poet of the Palestinian resistance.” Another of his famous poems Ashiq min Filastin (A Lover from Palestine) recreates Palestine at a time when the name Palestine was very much considered politically taboo:

I swear to you

I shall weave a veil from my eyelashes embroidered

With verses for your eyes

And a name that, when watered with my heart, will

Melt to song

That makes the tree spread its branches again.

I shall write a sentence on the veil, more precious than kisses and the blood of martyrs:

Palestinian she is and will remain.

Deep down, Darwish always wished to be a poet and no more. He felt strongly about his mission as a poet. He refused to lose aesthetic control of his poetry and wanted to have power over his relationship with the public. His flagship poem, Identity Card, continued to fire people’s hearts but Darwish often refused to recite it. He preferred to read new poems. He was convinced that his voice must differ from that of the public. He felt compelled to innovate constantly in order to retain control of his poetry.

Najat Rahman edited with Hala Khamis Nassar “Mahmoud Darwish: Exile’s Poet,” a collection of critical essays. She includes in this book a 2005 interview in Ramallah with Mahmoud Darwish. When asked about his role as a poet, he noted that there was a rupture between poetry and society. While the poet lives a solitary life, society is busy with consumerism and speed and this has a negative effect on the standard of language. He deplored the illusion that literary language is no longer necessary and blamed the poets who are engaged in formal experimentation.

“Is poetry possible? The poet has to cultivate the illusion that poetry is necessary and is able to transform, even if its role is receding in the world. It is not possible for poetry to bring about change, but it is perhaps possible to change consciousness. Poetry might transform the reader’s relation to his surroundings,” says Darwish.

In an exchange of letters with his Palestinian compatriot, Samih Al-Qasim, he concludes that poetry is “an explosive device” and the poet must “put himself in the wind and madness, because the poet cannot but be a poet.”

After he left his homeland, Mahmoud Darwish’s interest shifted from Palestine to the human universe. His later works highlight his desire to create new poetic forms and express universal reflections on death, love, exile and poetry. However, whatever he wrote, and wherever he was, his life was never severed from that of his country. He is the poet of the Palestinians par excellence; he embodies the Palestinian spirit.

Salma Khadra Jayyusi considers him the finest contemporary Arab lyrical poet and admits that what she finds “stunning and utterly distinctive in his art is that, for all his concentration on a single broad theme, which is at base political, he is neither a propagandist nor a political zealot catering to national frenzy.”

Translated into 25 languages and the recipient of numerous literary awards, he is credited with the revival of Arabic lyrical poetry. Until his death, his poetry readings were hugely popular, attracting thousands of spectators. The highest tribute one can pay to Mahmoud Darwish is to read his poetry and remember him saying:

Every poem is a dream

I dreamed that I had a dream

It will carry me and I will carry it (dream is the road, poetry is the road)

until I write the last line

on the grave’s marble:

I slept to fly.