In November I decided I would do my tiny bit towards the #ceasefirenow protest movement for Gaza by posting one poem by a Palestinian poet a day on my public Facebook wall. I’m introverted so I’m not a natural placard-waving protestor (although I admire those who do protest). Bearing daily witness, and inviting others to do so if they wished to, seemed like something I could do. Thank you to Paula Green for inviting me to choose five poems to repost here on NZ Poetry Shelf, meaning that the important things these poets have to say can reach a wider audience.

Kiri Piahana-Wong

The Poets

Khaled Juma

Khaled Juma is a Palestinian poet and writer of children’s books. He is a long-term resident of Gaza city and was born in Rafah.

Oh rascal children of Gaza. You who
constantly disturbed me with your
screams under my window. You who
filled every morning with rush and
chaos. You who broke my vase and
stole the lonely flower on my balcony.
Come back, and scream as you want
and break all the vases. Steal all the
flowers. Come back … just come back …

Mahmoud Darwish

Revered writer Mahmoud Darwish is regarded as Palestine’s national poet. He wrote of the anguish of dispossession and exile, and has been described as ‘an utterly necessary and unforgettable voice.’

From ‘Under Siege’ [extract]
Translated by Marjolijn De Jager

***

You who stand in the doorway, come in,
Drink Arabic coffee with us
And you will sense that you are men like us
You who stand in the doorways of houses
Come out of our morningtimes,
We shall feel reassured to be
Men like you!

***

A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved
For my clothing is drenched with his blood.

***

When the planes disappear, the white, white doves
Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven
With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession
Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white doves
Fly off. Ah, if only the sky
Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].

***

Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting
The sky from collapse. Behind the hedge of steel
Soldiers piss — under the watchful eye of a tank —
And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in
A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass…

***

If you are not rain, my love
Be tree
Sated with fertility, be tree
If you are not tree, my love
Be stone
Saturated with humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love
Be moon
In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon
[So spoke a woman
to her son at his funeral]

***

My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me,
A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees
A marble epitaph of time
And always I anticipate them at the funeral:
Who then has died…who?

***

Writing is a puppy biting nothingness
Writing wounds without a trace of blood.

***

Our cups of coffee. Birds green trees
In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall
To another like a gazelle
The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us
Of the sky. And other things of suspended memories
Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid,
And that we are the guests of eternity.

Hiba Abu Nada

Hiba Abu Nada was a poet and novelist. Her novel ‘Oxygen is not for the dead’ won second place in the Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity in 2017. Hiba died on October 20^th in an airstrike that hit her home in Khan Yunis in southern Gaza. She was 32 years old.

These are her last words posted online on 8th October:

Gaza’s night is dark
apart from the glow of
missiles, quiet apart
from the sound of explosions,
terrifying apart from the
comfort of prayer, black
apart from the light of
the martyrs. Good night,
Gaza.

Basma Al-Mashrawi

Basma Al-Mashrawi is a young poet and novelist.

Where to walk? All roads are
paved with glass. Where to cry?
all hearts are made of stone.
where to go? All of the land is a
ruin.

Sara Abou Rashed

Sara Abou Rashed is a Palestinian American poet and storyteller.

I’m Told I Have a Clear Sense of Purpose
(Translation by the author)

There is no room in my house
for uselessness. I have lost.
Years ago, in ceramics class,

my friends shaped mud
into asymmetrical statues,
called them pure art, abstract decor.

I made dishes, a toothbrush holder,
a jewellery box and its lid.
Don’t blame me, even the screws

in my walls carry more weight
than intended. On the internet,
I found videos of my house

turned museum for what isn’t there.
My old kitchen now a skeleton,
bones stripped naked

of cement and copper wires. Still,
I don’t curse the revolution, the war,
the thieves or the regime; I curse only

myself—all these cracked tiles
and the probable risk of death
by electrocution for a day’s
worth of bread.