Ephratha
There
you stand
between
the dream of two gazelles,
breathlessly
questioning
the poem
Poem
dressed
in olive branches and cracked happiness,
surrounded
by seasons of sleepless nights staring
at
the dusty walls of cities we have lost
Poem
that
loses its address or that the address
loses,
both, in either case awaiting
the
return of those returning not today not ever
Poem
that
wishes it could remember if the clouds split in half
the
day the soldiers marched in their villages, towns,
houses,
dreams and future, remember the crumbling of prayers
remember
the gap between hands which held all
that
the Poem was too weak to hold, remember when the horses'
secrets
surrendered, when we trespassed ourselves?
Poem
I
ask you-why-
does
the street have a name I can't pronounce
does
our vocabulary invent us, our accents
resent
us-must we come to a halt
and
try saying our name without feeling strange
try
praising our poets without feeling afraid
Darwish,
every
wish can be found in his name
Poem
is
exile
a
guest made of stones
a
thin line between our voice and heaven's throat?
Poem
are
our memories filled with pale notebooks, fading paint, falling walls
to
understand this place must we understand its howls, to understand
its
howls must we understand its verses, to understand its verses
must
we understand agony?
Poem
the
murmur of rivers in your curved chest, the dancing of leaves
in
your swaying arms, the sundering roof on your back
the
fields of wings in your feet, the dagger and the storm
everywhere
inside of you, lead me to my stillness
Poem
when
will your words made of earth, your dreams of clouds,
your
grotto of milk, your wheat fields, monasteries, synagogues,
crosses
and coffins stop stitching miles of bones, stop
broadcasting
itself on the radio
Poem
you
stand between the dream of two questions
awaiting
the day you will unfold yourself
like
prayers unfold themselves from our tongues
you
continue to stand, I weep and we celebrate
the
poem as if it were written
perfectly
[Ephratha
is Palestine's Canaanite name, meaning 'the fruitful.']
West
Bank
What
are we to do without the light of shadows
And
the devil in the shadows we've repainted in our history
What
are we to do without the screams of our streams
the
martyrs and their grandfathers' photographs telling us
what
we are to do-to stay and face the enemy before us,
inside
of us, behind us, face the holiness of our motions
and
the wholeness of our story
What
are we to do, continue to listen
to
the olive trees call our names
between
a stone and a bullet
caught
in the yawn of history
how
many times will we have to count
our
dead and our dead brothers
go
through the ridged fields
look
at each other in the eyes
but
instead pass by each other
if
not acknowledge that we cannot
hesitate
covering
the surface of the earth
refusing
to descend far inside our eyes, refusing to disappear
in
the graveyards of our minds
grows
larger everyday, and we hesitate
hesitate
to exist together
and
the voice of silence confronts
its
needs, and says it will prevent itself from
owning
riffles, seeing bloodstains
says
it will release itself
from
the dust on its eyes
but
the shooting begins, and it hesitates
to
stay without an weapon
the
quiet day closes as another child
closes
his life, death is everywhere
and
everywhere else here, death is dying slowly
like
a splitting laughter
touring
our nightmares, and we hesitate
hesitate
to believe in each other
and
we will be left with nothing
songs
of resistance, myths,
fallen
olive branches, jailed screams
so
many hearts about to be blown apart
before
they start to hesitate, again
Bethlehem
Secrets
live in the space between our footsteps.
The
words of my grandfather echoed in my dreams,
as
the years kept his beads and town.
I
saw Bethlehem, all in dust, an empty town
with
a torn piece of newspaper lost in its narrow streets.
Where
could everyone be? Graffiti and stones answered.
And
where was the real Bethlehem--the one my grandfather came from?
Handkerchiefs
dried the pain from my hands. Olive trees and tears continued to remember.
I
walked the town until I reached an old Arab man dressed in a white robe.
I
stopped him and asked, "Aren't you the man I saw in my grandfather's
stories?"
He
looked at me and left. I followed him--asked him why he left? He continued
walking.
I
stopped, turned around and realized he had left me the secrets in the space
between his footsteps.
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