For Mahmoud Darwish
And ululate, his passions alien to me, to my
Sort, sober, stolid, dull, allegedly without emotion.
Still, my sort had conquered his, passion
Masked, there nonetheless. He swung his
Sword. We fired rifles. His kin sit on stones
With nothing, their homes snatched away
From them. They wail. My kin sits somewhere
And plots, at ease in air conditioning.
The troops are fed and in their transports,
Set to sally forth again. The shelves are
Stocked with his kin's olives, oranges,
Their lamb and blood. Their passion's
All that's left to them, their hatred, hot as
August's sun. They wax ecstatic, ululate,
And ask their Allah to return to drive us
From their land.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 68 times
Written on 2018-04-01 at 13:40
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Palestine
He could wax ecstatic. Dervish, he would spinAnd ululate, his passions alien to me, to my
Sort, sober, stolid, dull, allegedly without emotion.
Still, my sort had conquered his, passion
Masked, there nonetheless. He swung his
Sword. We fired rifles. His kin sit on stones
With nothing, their homes snatched away
From them. They wail. My kin sits somewhere
And plots, at ease in air conditioning.
The troops are fed and in their transports,
Set to sally forth again. The shelves are
Stocked with his kin's olives, oranges,
Their lamb and blood. Their passion's
All that's left to them, their hatred, hot as
August's sun. They wax ecstatic, ululate,
And ask their Allah to return to drive us
From their land.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 68 times
Written on 2018-04-01 at 13:40
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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