Nigel Holt, Four Poems - Gaza CPDS Poetry #4
The Center for Political and Development Studies (CPDS) organised a contest a year ago on Prisoners and Nakba and recieved these submissions. […] They are sent to Gaza.scoop.ps exclusively
Yousef
Aljamal,
CPDS.
Gaza
Poems:
Please
find below four poems as entries to the Creative Writing
Contest—Palestine.
The first three poems are for the Naqba category, and the last for the Prisoner category.
Reaching Nod has been previously published in Snakeskin Magazine, but the other three are all unpublished.
The Feda’i and The Prisoner are two poems from a collection of 22 unpublished poems called ‘A Gazan Tarot’. All 22 poems concern Gaza and its occupation. They are in the canzone form.
Poet’s Bio
Nigel Holt is a
British expatriate who has lived and worked in the UAE for
the past 15 years. He has been published in many
international magazines and journals. He is also a keen
supporter of Palestinian rights.
Dust to Dust
He comes in ’48, Al Naqba
dust
upon his heels, his brother in Oman,
and all the
kids and ‘Ayesha in Shatila.
Alarms had sounded in the
night—they ran
taking the house key, expecting to
return.
By ’68 the house in Najd is dust;
Dubai has
pearls, his brother’s in Oman
and all the kids and
‘Ayesha in Shatila.
Each month he sends them cash, his
plan,
the same—so simple—expecting to return.
By
’88 come settlements from dust;
his business and his
brother’s in Oman,
has taken the kids and ‘Ayesha
from Shatila.
No passport in Dubai, an exiled man
He
dies without expecting to return.
Reaching
Nod
The wind has cursed us while we’ve
mounted;
the sun has sucked the rains from every
leaf.
The sand has smothered everything we’ve
counted;
heat has wrung us out without relief.
We’ve
gathered up our memories, kin, belief
and ridden towards
the shimmering vague horizon
to catch our clouds that
God himself has scattered,
to where the killing eye now
rises on
the pilgrims to the green, begrimed and
battered,
kings of sweat and lands that never
mattered.
Cast out, adrift, we labour through the
sand.
The weaker of two powers, we ride. Cast
out:
zealous fire burns behind us in the
hand
catastrophe has stripped of any doubt.
To Nod we
ride in the panic of a rout.
We seek the dark oasis and
its mercy;
its trees to give us shelter, give us
fruit,
and arriving in the haze, our beasts all
curtsy,
weary of the way, parched and
mute,
unaccustomed to the traffic of Beirut.
Disaster
drove us from each farm and village
as once drought drove
us to the vagrant rain.
And then as now, no land to hold
for tillage:
we’re just the city’s memory of
pain;
the yellow of a smoker ‘s finger-stain.
The
clouds are always far enough and wander
through the vista
of the camp we call our homes;
occasionally it shakes
with claps of thunder
and mocks the weary traveller as he
roams
the quartier where you find the gastronomes.
The black and white that forms the early dawn
—A
keffiyah’s mix of in-between two states—
is when our
eyes arise; when a child is born
between the dark and
light, and re-creates
the hope that ties together all our
fates.
We watch the skies in case of new disaster,
when
sands can come to drive us further on.
For nature, like
the wolf’s a fickle master,
and guarded lambs are
quickly snatched and gone.
Safe journey through this
world’s an eidolon.
V
The
Feda’i
A home? No, no. I haven’t had a
home
since 1948. These days I roam
the streets, around
the camp—a home
that all my relatives now call
their home.
Four generations in one house. One
room
they keep for me. But this is not a real
home—
It’s just a prison that we call our home,
a
symbol that our people are alone
today as much as we were
once alone,
when Irgun came and drove us from our
home.
That day my home became my father’s tomb.
They
made the majlis become a bleeding tomb,
then burned
the house they turned into his tomb.
I wasn’t ever able
to go home;
the ‘dozers came and swept away his
tomb,
and now my fading memory’s his tomb
(wherever
it might be I choose to roam.)
Five years I wandered in
that darkest tomb
of anger and regret. I was a
tomb
myself, locked away inside the room
I shared with
other fedayeen. Our room
fermented bitterness, it was the
tomb
of men who’d given up—were left alone,
no
family, no brothers, sons, alone,
save vengeance and
despair. We stood alone.
Alone and far from home within a
tomb
that we could not escape from—not alone.
Old
Palestine was gone. The Jews alone
now held the land
we’d called our home
and taken hold of everything
alone.
We did not have a friend. We were
alone,
looking in on lands we knew. We roam
these
camps—the only land they let us roam.
We had no choice:
we had to fight alone
to take back what was ours. There
was no room
for pity on the Jews. There was no room
for
sympathy, grenades thrown in the room
did not take out
the fighting men alone.
Often there’d be women in the
room,
their children playing in the living room
that
in five seconds would become their tomb.
We never checked
back later in the room,
we knew the secrets of that
bloody room
too well. In Qibya, they had turned each
home
into a ruin, had made each farmer’s home
a
martyrdom. Through each bombed-out room
the living sought
the dead, the men would roam
the village for a child. All
night they’d roam,
a pointless, wasted exercise. They
roam
still every single night inside this room
within
a dream they share with men who roam
the self-same dreams
and nightmares. Each night they roam
the catacombs of
memory still alone.
All of us who dream that dream, we
roam
today as yesterday. Our children roam
as once we
did and make a brand new tomb
built from our
hopelessness. A modern tomb
for those who have no hope or
home. We roam
beneath the sight of men, no hope of
home,
for fate decrees they hold on to our home
—the
land we once were pleased to call our home.
For brothers,
sisters, mothers it’s a tomb
we can’t reconquer with
our will alone,
yet we must fight to make them give us
room.
Our land is on the road we’re forced to
roam.
XIII
The Prisoner
It’s
never just a question of your guilt,
that’s something
you soon learn to face.
‘Arrested on suspicion’
carries guilt,
‘loitering with intent’—that’s
also guilt,
the shaky house on Nasser Street you
built
without a council permit—also
guilt.
Keffiyahs round the neck? Oh yes! That’s
guilt!
And try your damnedest, if you fight the
case,
you quickly learn you can’t defend the case
as
simply there’s a reason for your guilt,
a subtle
something that you can’t erase:
you’re Palestinian.
You can’t erase
the fact you’re Arab; you can’t in
fact erase
the fact you came out of your mother,
guilt
upon you—a mark of Cain you can’t erase
no
matter how much time goes by. Erase
that nomad look of
hope from off your face
that wanders in then limps away,
erase
the thought from your bleak prison walls,
erase
it from the concrete facts the army built
around
your shadow-life until they’d built
the perfect case
against you. You can’t erase
the fact that they have
laws—and just in case
you thought it might not always
be the case
the Shin Bet has the details of the
case
recorded safely somewhere. You can’t erase
the
mails, the chats in cafes that form the case
they build
against you. Fight it? Fuck it! Hard case
that you might
be, your sin is wrapped in guilt,
its quite
original—you’re cursed by God. The case
cannot resist
the weight of law your case
attracts. There’s something
in your stoic face
that dreams of will and wants so hard
to face
the logic of this guilt that taints your
case,
the logic that your blood’s a squat that’s
built
illegally on promised land, that’s built
on
strips of fable. This is the case they’ve
built.
Whatever they decide, we know the case
is lost.
It could not ever win. In case
you still believe in
fairness—justice built
on democratic principles—erase
that thought, for this, our quiet prison’s built
on
silent grounds. This soundless prison’s built
on
inequality, on blood, on guilt
that stymies rights in
racist laws, a guilt
turned upside-down, till brick by
brick it’s built
into a youthful conscript’s loaded
face
that’s cocked and staring you right in the
face.
I know that look of old despair, we face
it
claiming back a field on which they’ve built
a
town—its hospital, no Arab face
will ever see inside.
We have to face
the truth, as hard as that may be. The
case
will be thrown out. Justice wears a face
that
looks like ours, but is another’s face.
Its darker
features masked, it can erase
a history, a nation, truth.
Erase
it—and they try! A trace remains, a face
wiped
clean of blood and shame still drips with guilt,
it
lingers in the afternoons, a guilt
that hangs in the air,
oppressive perfumed guilt
that no fresh bursts of
artifice erase.
It’s like we’re just not there—or
worse—the case
where prisons of this certain flesh are
built
to kill the past and future we all
face.
ENDS