On the shores of the Med,
I saw humanity drenched in salt,
Face down,
Dead,
Eyes gouged,
Hands up to the sky, praying,
Or trembling in fear.
I could not tell.
The sea, harsher than the heart of an Arab,
Dances,
Soaked with blood.
Only the pebbles wept.
Only the pebbles.
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not”
grace the rot
this Ummah breeds.
Category Archives: My Poetry
Freshly Baked Souls
As fire balls and sparks descend,
And the little ones rejoice,
Look up, and cheer, unable to comprehend,
Sooner than they expect
They will be blown
(It’s none of their wishes
If only they had known!)
And more freshly grilled balls of flesh ascend.
And fall on full dishes
And fill the boxes.
And the hollow minds.
The full bellies.
They look down. Rejoice. Cheer.
“Freshly baked!”
“Freshly baked!”
“Who wants freshly baked flesh for breakfast?”
“Throw me a piece. “
“Throw me four.
I have just eaten but crave for more.”
***
The hearts are not hearts.
The eyes can’t see
There are no eyes there
The bellies craving for more
A house destroyed except for the door
The family, all of them, gone
Save a photo album
That has to be buried with them
No one was left to cherish the memories
No one.
Except freshly baked souls in bellies.
Except for a poem .
I am You
Two steps: one, two.
Look in the mirror:
The horror, the horror!
The butt of your M-16 on my cheekbone
The yellow patch it left
The bullet-shaped scar expanding
Like a swastika,
Snaking across my face,
The heartache flowing
Out of my eyes dripping
Out of my nostrils piercing
My ears flooding
The place.
Like it did to you
70 years ago
Or so.
***
I am just you.
I am your past haunting
Your present and your future.
I strive like you did.
I fight like you did.
I resist like you resisted
And for a moment,
I’d take your tenacity
As a model,
Were you not holding
The barrel of the gun
Between my bleeding
Eyes.
***
One. Two.
The very same gun
The very same bullet
That had killed your Mom
And killed your Dad
Is being used,
Against me,
By you.
***
Mark this bullet and mark in your gun.
If you sniff it, it has your and my blood.
It has my present and your past.
It has my present.
It has your future.
That’s why we are twins,
Same life track
Same weapon
Same suffering
Same facial expressions drawn
On the face of the killer,
Same everything
Except that in your case
The victim has evolved, backward,
Into a victimizer.
I tell you.
I am you.
Except that I am not the you of now.
***
I do not hate you.
I want to help you stop hating
And killing me.
I tell you:
The noise of your machine gun
Renders you deaf
The smell of the powder
Beats that of my blood.
The sparks disfigure
My facial expressions.
Would you stop shooting?
For a moment?
Would you?
***
All you have to do
Is close your eyes
(Seeing these days
Blinds our hearts.)
Close your eyes, tightly
So that you can see
In your mind’s eye.
Then look into the mirror.
One. Two.
I am you.
I am your past.
And killing me,
You kill you.
O’Live Tree
O, beat me more.
Hit me with your sticks;
Step on my leaves
Smother my twigs under your boots
Like how you always do.
The beating I bear;
The humiliation, I do not care
But take me not,
Steal me not.
Even if I burn,
Here I belong
And to them I shall return.
***
If you hear my talk,
You may feel my pain
But you belong not here:
You do not even know
How to touch me,
How to gently squeeze me,
How to hug me,
How to wipe off the dust,
When I am ripe,
And when I am not,
When I need water,
And when I do not,
And how to pick me
Like how they always do.
***
Your smell and heavy boots
And the metal on your backs
And your metal bars!
For God’s sakes who on earth olives picks
With metal bars for sticks?
***
But I ramble again.
Because you won’t understand
And if you understood me,
You would not, in the first place,
Be here.
***
You come and go.
I see you once or twice a year
With either flames or sticks
And I weep for the rest of the year.
But one day
My twigs shall grow,
The oil shall flow,
My people shall glow,
And you, you will go.
Mom
When I Stoop
A poem for Mahmoud al-Sarsak and Lina Khattab
The walls of my prison
Whisper to me;
They tell me stories of people who were here
Of people who lived here.
There was the weak
And there was the old.
There was the child.
There was the lady.
They were here,
But now they are there.
***
In my prison,
I talk to the walls
And they to me talk
That one day I will walk:
One day my jailer will stoop
At my feet
To unlock the chains.
It does not matter why
But he will stoop.
***
Inside my prison I draw my future
With minute details.
On the other side of the wall (Behind the bars)
Sits the jailer.
As he turns back
And looks me in the eye,
He pours mountains of boredom
And let’s loose of a sigh.
I look back and smile.
He clears his throat
Blinks once then twice
And moves his lips.
I walk away
And give him my back.
I smile again Winking at the wall.
‘See,’ it tells me
‘I know,’ I reply,
And bend down
And shake my chains.
The look in his face,
The fear in his eyes
Both make my day.
***
Inside my prison,
I also stoop,
But when I do,
I stoop to conquer.
And Gaza lives on…
And another war in Gaza
Another day in Palestine
A day in prison
And we live on
Despite Israel’s very much identified flying objects
That we see more than our family and friends
And despite Israel’s death sentences
Like lead
Cast upon the head
As we sleep
Like acid rain
Gnawing at our life
Clinging to it like a flea to a kitten
And stuffed in our throats
The moment we say ‘Amen’
To the prayers of old women and men
Despite Israel’s birds of death
Hovering only two meters from our breath
From our dreams and prayers
Blocking their ways to God.
Despite that.
We dream and pray,
Clinging to life even harder
Every time a dear one’s life
Is forcibly rooted up.
We live.
We live.
We do.
Over the Wall
‘There,’ points Grandma.
She had a tent that was a home.
She had a goat and a camel.
She had a rake and a fork and a trowel.
She had a machete and a watering can.
She had a grove and two hundred plants.
She had a child and another one and another one.
***
‘There,’ she insists.
I could not see
Because of the wall.
I could not hear
Because of the noise.
I could not smell
Because of the powder.
***
But I can always tell,
I am sure of Grandma
Who always was
And is still
And will always be.
She smells like soil.
And smiles like soil.
And blinks like soil
When touched by rain.
***
She has a house that is a tent
She has a key
And a memory.
She has a hope
And two hundred offspring.
***
Grandma is here
But lives there.
‘Over there!’
Land Day poem ‘O, Earth’
O, Earth
Hug me
And hold me tight
Or devour me
To suffer no more.
I love thee
So take me.
Make me rich.
Make me dirt.
Gone are the days of serenity.
Guns are the words of humanity.
I have no food but a thorn,
No sport but a sigh.
For a soldier needs to feel high.
O, Earth,
If in life I am to hurt
Let my dirt in you give birth.
O, Earth.
Mustafa’s Only Care
Mustafa’s only care
A chap
A stone
A kuffiya
A will and a fist.
*
The jeep
The soldier
His guns and powder
His mask
His elbows, knees and helmet.
*
A hamlet.
*
And People run
And pull and push
And come and go.
And people fall
And rise and fall.
*
“RUN!RUN! RUN!”
*
Yet, Mustafa does not care
And he does not scare
Because he cares!
*
“Shoot to kill!
Damn it!”
And then they fall
And fall and fall.
And Mustafa rises
And lights the way
*
And people run
And pull and push
And come and come.
They rise and rise
For Mustafa cares
***
This poem is inspired by Mustafa Tamimi whose untimely death at the hands of Israeli soldiers showed the light to many people to come. Rest in Peace, brother.