Palestinian poetry

/ Tracy Abell

In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political
I must listen to the birds
and in order to hear the birds
the warplanes must be silent.
 – Marwan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

Image by Amy Spielmaker from Pixabay

(The following note and poem by Mosab Abu Toha were published in The Atlantic on November 9, 2023):

I wrote this poem last year, reflecting on my childhood under Israeli military occupation. I’m now staying in Jabalia, a United Nations refugee camp, with my wife and three kids. I’m reading this poem to myself and wondering if my children will be able to write poems about the bombs and explosions they are seeing. I was 8 the first time I witnessed a rocket. Now my youngest child, born in America in May 2021, is living through the third wave of Israeli bombing. Not only are he and his older brother and sister smelling death around them; but they have also lost their house in Beit Lahia 10 days ago. Luckily no one was at home. My son Yazzan, who is 8 years old, asks me, “Are our toys still alive?”

YOUNGER THAN WAR
Tanks roll through dust, through eggplant fields.
Beds unmade, lightening in the sky, brother
jumps to the window to watch warplanes
flying through clouds of smoke
after air strikes. Warplanes that look like eagles
searching for a tree branch to perch on,
catch breath, but these metal eagles
are catching souls in a blood/bone soup bowl.
No need for radio.
We are the news.
Ants’ ears hurt with each bullet
fired from wrathful machine guns.
Soldiers advance, burn books, some smoke
rolled sheets of yesterday’s newspaper, just like they did
when they were kids. Our kids
hide in the basement, backs against concrete pillars,
heads between knees, parents silent.
Humid down there, and heat of burning bombs
adds up to the slow death
of survival.
In September 2000, after I had bought bread for dinner,
I saw a helicopter firing a rocket
into a tower as far from me as my frightful cries
when I heard concrete and glass fall from high.
Loaves of bread went stale.
I was still 7 at the time.
I was decades younger than war,
a few years older than bombs.

Mosab Abu Toha is a Palestinian poet, short story writer, and essayist from Gaza. His collection Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and won a Derek Walcott Poetry Prize and an American Book Award.

From the Sky
by Sara Abou Rashed

After Lorca

When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.

Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love letters
under an orange tree
(from the sky I can read them).
Soldiers are cocking new rifles
at the checkpoint
(from the sky I can hear them).
Under fire, death and water
are brewing in the kitchen
(from the sky I can smell them!).
When I die, bury me in the sky,
I said, for now, it is quiet—
no one owns it and no one is claiming to.

9 thoughts on “Palestinian poetry”

  3. I am not a Palestinian poet. But I am a poet and feel the heartbeat of the world, and feel the heartache of the world, and here and now, on the inside of us, the need to do something for Palestinians is loud and clear, but what is that something? Here is an except of the poem “The Cost of This Poem” that gives answer and quite literally asks the right questions. A link to the whole poem follows:

    ven their children get stuck in prison.
    The kid threw a rock.
    Let’s do away with his life.
    Let’s beat ‘im up some.
    Oh my the boy got raped,
    and it wasn’t by a Palestinian.
    Can we press charges?
    I don’t have to do a goddamn thing.
    We own the Palestinians.
    Why do you look the other way?
    We have special permission to do this.
    We got it grafted in humanity we can.
    We are the special people.
    All our persecution says that.
    I’ll turn around and smile some.
    I don’t know how to behave myself
    where Palestinians are concerned.

    The Cost of This Poem

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much for stopping by and sharing your poem. I appreciate that you feel the heartbeat and heartache of the world, and know what a weight that can be. These are very hard days and it’s incumbent upon us to stay in the struggle, although our energy gets low. Take care of yourself, Donny Lee.

      Liked by 1 person

      • You call me Donny Lee, what I was called as a boy by my family, and I hear you. How do I say it though? You see this person’s eyes as you are on the electronic hub, as if there are no airways between us, as if I am right there in front of you, and that is what I thank you for because that takes so much will and foresight, giving the angry nature of our world wide web. I will take care all the more because of your concern.

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