a poem on sunday, and other things

flying poem

like a woman

hanging her laundry on the clothesline,

i hang my words

on the lines of my page.

heavy, frightened words,

spread fear in my room.

they shrink

when exposed to the sun

of the reading eye.

my words

dry up.

the next day

my brother, tired of

gazing at those fainting letters,

throws the book

in the drawer.

the sun sets behind

the eyelid.

the words in the drawer

swelter and stew in their sweat.

my little niece smells them.

she opens the drawer.

the words fly out.

the poem is free.

it lands in nests of migratory birds.

they sing it to the passing clouds.

by mosab abu toha (born 1992)

----

breakfast at hector's . . (i just missed a photo of the man walking away outside . . he had been tying his ascot in the window reflection).

i had a spanish omelette, half of which is in the fridge here at home. i can no longer eat the huge portions that are served in restaurants. sometimes i wish they offered "half" plates. how does anyone have room for appetizer and/or dessert?

morgana's photo of the forsythia blooming at harley's mom's house . .

and mixed with holly and another branch (not sure of the name) in a vase in the sun room. (such a pretty home.) (hmmmm . . i think it's forsythia; it looks a little different from the plants here in the eastern states.)

and marisa sent a photo . . they had snow yesterday! (she's in vermont)

tea and a talk

i woke to a very chilly and rainy day and i almost didn't want to venture out to meet korrina in the afternoon . . (photo by korrina of the tree in her courtyard).

but it warmed up and the rain stopped and we met at madman bakery on university for foccacia and a sandwich, latte, tea, a chocolate chip cookie . . and a call from morgan too. it was a nice afternoon. korrina was off for the day and went home afterwards, while i met greg for a very special event . . 

a conversation and reading with poet mosab abu toha . . i have both his books and i've posted his poetry on several sunday mornings so you might remember his work.

he shared his personal experiences and read many poems from his earlier book and his latest publication, asking that we share his stories. i don't understand how our representatives and too many leaders allow the horror to continue amidst so many calls and protests for it to cease - amidst the violence that is played out on social media every day. (many think they can buy silence, but it cannot be silenced.)

these students were so sweet and had made a banner welcoming him. 

he was very appreciative and was also touched by their gift of a beautiful bouquet of flowers (in the brown wrapping).

there were copies of his new book to purchase and many formed a line to have him sign it. greg is the figure sitting in the back on the left, waiting for me. fortunately, since we had been in the second row, i was able to join the front of the line, which formed along the right and snaked out the door.

almost my turn . . and this is my last photo. i asked for him to sign a particular poem and he asked me why that poem? . . i'll post it for sunday and maybe you can guess the reason.

afterwards, we walked to our favorite ramen place and had a quiet dinner, bringing home a kale salad and chicken appetizer for chanda.

october 7

 sobbing without sound

i wish i could wake up and find the electricity on all day long,

i wish i could hear the birds sing again, no shooting and no buzzing drones.

i wish my desk would call me to hold my pen and write again,

or at least plow through a novel, revisit a poem, or read a play.

all around me are nothing

but silent walls

and people sobbing

without sound.

from things you may find hidden in my ear, page 25, by mosab abu toha (born 1992)

may day

i ran a few errands today, one of which was taking a tiara and black character skirt to chanda's old ballet teacher at joffrey. it was nice to see her and we enjoyed catching up on each other's children and her students who studied with chanda.

chanda is giving treats to the cats. for dinner tonight i defrosted a tuna steak i had in the freezer which we ate with leftover scallops, sautéed spinach with garlic, and potatoes from muddy farm. right now i hear sirens wailing in the distance. we continue calling and emailing and the students continue protesting. 

flying poem

like a woman

hanging her laundry on the clothesline,

i hang my words

on the lines of my page.

heavy, frightened words,

spread fear in my room.

they shrink

when exposed to the sun

of the reading eye.

my words

dry up.

the next day,

my brother, tired of

gazing at those fainting letters,

throws the book 

in the drawer.

the sun sets behind

the eyelid.

the words in the drawer

swelter and stew in their sweat.

my little niece smells them.

she opens the drawer.

the words fly out.

the poem is free.

it lands in nests of migratory birds.

they sing it to the passing clouds.

by mosab abu toha, pp. 23-24, things you may find hidden in my ear (2022)

sunday morning poem

on gaza seashore

i convince myself that a palm tree never bends

nor do its dates rot.

i imagine the sky only occupied by birds

and swollen clouds.

i walk alone along the beach and never fear getting drenched

by the cold, silent waves.

should you find me asleep, be sure i am either

dreaming of roses and doves or staring into the void

beneath me.

i will dress in my rosy suit and walk to the port,

even though i know no ship is arriving.

my hope is that you will come flying to me

on your tireless wings.

i will collect seashells and pebbles to build a house

for us on the beach until you come.

i don't know how many houses i will have built

before you come.

i'm afraid i will rebuild gaza by then.

by mosab abu toha, from things you may find hidden in my ear, city lights books, 2022

christmas cookies on valentine's day

the christmas cookies look so pretty in their glass jar. my mom bought this for me over forty years ago . . yesterday i was missing her so much . . yesterday i was missing seemingly everyone and everything . . so much.

yesterday when i was missing so many and so much i kept thinking of those who've lost everything . . 

what is home?

what is home:

it is the shade of trees on my way to school

before they were uprooted.

it is my grandparents' black-and-white wedding

photo before the walls crumbled.

it is my uncle's prayer rug, where dozens of ants

slept on wintry nights, before it was looted and 

put in a museum.

it is the oven my mother used to bake bread and

roast chicken before a bomb reduced our house

to ashes.

it is the cafe where i watched football matches

and played--

my child stops me: can a four letter word hold

all of these?

mosab abu toha (born 1992)

morning poem

if i must die

if i must die,

you must live

to tell my story

to sell my things

to buy a piece of cloth

and some strings,

(make it white with a long tail)

so that a child, somewhere in gaza

while looking heaven in the eye

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze--

and bid no one farewell

not even to his flesh

not even to himself--

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above

and thinks for a moment an angel is there

bringing back love

if i must die

let it bring hope

let it be a tale

by refaat alareer (1979-2023)

in memory of refaat alareer by layne mullett, director media relations, american friends service committee

morning poem

 

i grant you refuge

1.

i grant you refuge

in invocation and prayer.

i bless the neighborhood and the minaret

to guard them

from the rocket

from the moment

it is a general's command

until it becomes

a raid.

i grant you and the little ones refuge,

the little ones who

change the rocket's course

before it lands

with their smiles.

2.

i grant you and the little ones refuge,

the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest.

they don't walk in their sleep toward dreams.

they know death lurks outside the house.

their mothers' tears are now doves

following them, trailing behind

every coffin.

3.

i grant the father refuge,

the little ones' father who holds the house upright

when it tilts after the bombs.

he implores the moment of death:

"have mercy. spare me a little while.

for their sake, i've learned to love my life.

grant them a death

as beautiful as they are."

4.

i grant you refuge

from hurt and death,

refuge in the glory of our siege,

here in the belly of the whale.

our streets exalt god with every bomb.

they pray for the mosques and the houses.

and every time the bombing begins in the north,

our supplications arise in the south.

5.

i grant you refuge

from hurt and suffering.

with words of sacred scripture

i shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorus

and the shades of cloud from the smog.

i grant you refuge in knowing

that the dust will clear,

and they who fell in love and died together

will one day laugh.

by hiba abu nada (1991-2023)

translated by huda fakhreddine

hiba abu nada, novelist, poet, educator,

killed in her home in south gaza by an israeli raid on october 20th, 2023.

her last online post was written october 8th . . 

"gaza's night is dark apart from the glow of rockets, quiet apart from the sound of the bombs, terrifying apart from the comfort of prayer, black apart from the light of the martyrs. good night, gaza."

you can go to this page of the literary hub to hear her recite her work (scroll down to the middle of the page).