Three Poems: Gaza CPDS Poetry #3

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

I Shall..

O! I was ten when I left thee
And thou know how love feared to be
"Clinging to thee," I tell my home
"Space matters not; I have thy key"

I won't be back, the wicked saith
So do I die?.. or wait my death?
That is no sense.. that is no me!
I'm not to hide.. I'm not to flee
The air was dust.. the wound was sore
Me and the wicked shall talk no more

I shall surmount.. day over day
held all high when things decay and
I shall go and.. seek thy relic
I shall fight and.. pen my epic
Be all mine, and I am all thine
And I shall live to see thee free

Sarah M. Ali.

Gaza- Palestine.

OCCUPATION
By Edward Mast

The war continues silent while we sleep.
It is called occupation, and is no news.
While we dream of floating and corridors
our automatic weapons are aimed at children
who if they grow up will grow up learning
obedience means surrender.
While we breathe the deep soft breath of sleep,
our soldiers prod the intimate places
of those we defeat each day, each day.
While our genitals moisten and thicken
at regular intervals through the night,
our victory hovers with whirling blades
and marching feet to press its barriers
inward until the defeated have
no victory left, no triumph, no private
place that does not acknowledge
our ownership over their freedom.

With occupation, we win in our sleep.
In our sleep the checkpoints make them wait
and by their waiting we win.
In our sleep the curfew makes them huddle
and by their huddle we win.
In our sleep the fathers are beaten and cowed
and by their beating we win.
We sleep, we win, they lose, they lose,
the weapons and tools we loose in our sleep
will grind them down, will grind them down,
they break, they kneel, but still our tools
will rasp and file and grate and scrape
until they are faceless, until they are blades.
And when their edges are sharp enough
they will turn on us; and finally then,
too late, we may wake.

WHITE PHOSPHORUS
By Edward Mast

Like napalm, it burns away falsehood.
The skin of the victim peels off to reveal
the heart and imagination of
the attacker, the perpetrator, the invader.
The hot white smoke which falls toward the ground
with its garlic smell does not obscure
the eye-piercing white of the truth.
The drowning of living organs in pain,
the scream-stretched throats and blackened eyes,
the crushed homes, the incinerated children
all were alive in the hearts of the attackers
before they were brought to being on earth.
The goal of the invaders’ hearts was to crush
the hearts of the people invaded, and their bodies
if they didn’t submit. The burning of bodies
was imagined, was planned, was calculated.
The invaders danced and sang when their plan
manifested itself on flesh.
The searing and penetrating of flesh
was no regret, no accident,
but a lure, a wish, a state of mind,
an imagination of power, a conviction,
a justification of itself, a need
which ignites when exposed to the air we breathe
and burns without stopping till the oxygen stops
or it burns itself away to nothing.
It burns beyond the victim to expose
the root and bone of the ones who use it
and shows the thoughts you thought were secret
and leaves your heart naked at last
so all can see what has always lived there
waiting to burn and be burned and burn
until all the truths of your heart come to be
and you alone of all the world
are safe, are safe, are safe,
surrounded by flame.

ENDS

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