Mark invited me to post directly on this site to share with you my first song. I've been taking guitar lessons from a most excellent teacher and friend for the past couple of months. Even though I can't yet read or write music, Dennis encouraged me to try to write something; so, I did. I gave him the lyrics and sang the melody for him. He listened and transcribed the music. I tried to record the song in my voice, but when he played it back to me it sounded more like a train wreck; so, Dennis recorded it in his voice. Here it is!
http://www.denparrish.com/SusanAbulhawa.html
Friday, April 25, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Gift of Olive Oil
A token of love…
Something from the soil of things shared:
a heritage
a longing
a wound
a love
The sweet and bitter tastes of centuries gone.
The hard caress of weatherworn hands of pickers
The tales of backbreaking toil, scribbled on beautiful fellaheen faces.
The ballads of old, sung to trees and sleepless Palestinian children
The untamed agonies of loss and expired love,
the soot of memory,
the breath of hope,
the fury,
the tears of babes
and patriarchs,
mothers and whores,
gods and men.
This nectar of tragedy is ours to consume
Ours to love
Ours to bury and bring back to life
Take it from their tireless hands
Their boundless capacity to endure
And without bread or za’atar, dip your finger in this oil
Press it between your tongue and palate
Do it again
Until you hear the primal calls of an earth packed beneath boot steps and tank treads
...and it will haunt you with an unexpected song.
Something from the soil of things shared:
a heritage
a longing
a wound
a love
The sweet and bitter tastes of centuries gone.
The hard caress of weatherworn hands of pickers
The tales of backbreaking toil, scribbled on beautiful fellaheen faces.
The ballads of old, sung to trees and sleepless Palestinian children
The untamed agonies of loss and expired love,
the soot of memory,
the breath of hope,
the fury,
the tears of babes
and patriarchs,
mothers and whores,
gods and men.
This nectar of tragedy is ours to consume
Ours to love
Ours to bury and bring back to life
Take it from their tireless hands
Their boundless capacity to endure
And without bread or za’atar, dip your finger in this oil
Press it between your tongue and palate
Do it again
Until you hear the primal calls of an earth packed beneath boot steps and tank treads
...and it will haunt you with an unexpected song.
-by susan abulhawa
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