Escalations ... a poem by Anne Selden Annab

 

        

 

 

 

 

            Escalations         

American Churches don't 

get obituaries.

They dwindle

and die decommissioned-

stones intact, doors

and windows

floors, walls and roofs

failing slowly.

Was it location

or belief?

Was it laziness

Was it aging populations

Was it an evolving lack of trust

in mainstream news and worship

as [online] the world watches

Palestinian children

& families

tormented

maimed, wounded and killed

by [American armed] Zionist violence.

 

poem copyright ©2024 Anne Selden Annab

Because of Us... poem by Emily Berry + Democracy Now "As the WHO warns Gaza’s hospitals are becoming cemeteries, it’s time to heed the poets and the doctors, stop the killing, end the occupation, and dress the open wounds of war."

 

The Undressed Wounds of Gaza

"... The late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish, as a child, survived the 1948 Nakba, Arabic for “catastrophe,” when 750,000 Palestinians were driven from their homes and 15,000 were killed during Israel’s founding. Darwish lived much of his life in exile and was a critic of Hamas. He wrote in his poem, “To A Young Poet,”

“A poem in a difficult time
is beautiful flowers in a cemetery.”

As the WHO warns Gaza’s hospitals are becoming cemeteries, it’s time to heed the poets and the doctors, stop the killing, end the occupation, and dress the open wounds of war."  https://www.democracynow.org/2023/11/16/the_undressed_wounds_of_gaza

Mosab Abu Toha poem On A Starless Night illustrated by artist Hannah Maguire

Mosab Abu Toha 

  ·

Artist Hannah Maguire does a new illustration of one of my poems.

 

“On a Starless Night”

 

So, so many similar and even worse starless nights

 

Prairie Schooner Fusion #12 Archives: Palestinian poets and poets from the back issues of the Schooner collaborate on a special portfolio of poetry exploring the theme of “Archive”...

 

https://prairieschooner.unl.edu/fusion-archives/fusion-12-archive/

“… I offer you this Palestinian archive of poems, a record of repeated exiles, of ongoing Nakba, a collection of poems that scrutinize the language rife with hierarchies aimed at undoing us.”    Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, from the Introduction

 

Four Illustrations   ^{Nidal El-Khairy}

_{Palestinian Suite}

Poetry

Inheritance

By leena aboutaleb

When the Arab Apocalypse Comes to America

By George Abraham

Before Gaza, a Fall

By Ahmad Al-Mallah

Immortal Sea, Your Sea

By Zeina Azzam

“It Was Not Yesterday But Today”

By Olivia Elias

THE FIGS ARE MOLDING

By Summer Farah

Dear […]

By Fady Joudah

POEM WITH GENOCIDE IN THE TITLE

By Emily Khilfeh

Untitled with a line from Etel Adnan

By A.D. Lauren-Abunassar

Let The Naïve Know How We Envy Them

By Sara Abou Rashed

Sun Theater Sonnets

By Deema K. Shehabi

Abjadarian* in Autumn

By Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

SEA LEGS

By Priscilla Wathington

A Certain Resilience

By Issam Zineh

 

 “Archives and archiving can offer poetic material and process for articulating presences and histories and trajectories tethered to truth.”   Siwar Masannat

© 2024 Prairie Schooner

 https://prairieschooner.unl.edu/fusion-archives/fusion-12-archive/

[AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine]

Release The Hostages Poem by Palestinian Poet Mosab Abu Toha

 https://www.instagram.com/mosab_abutoha/

[AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine]

May 15th poem-a-day from the Academy of American Poets:We Live We Live by Brandy Nālani McDougall- For Palestinian poet Refaat Alareer, with lines from his poems

poem-a-day  May 15, 2024

We Live We Live Brandy Nālani McDougall For Palestinian poet Reefat Alareer, with lines from his poems We live. We live. We do.                   ——Refaat Alareer You were killed today            December 7th                         my birthday     It was today    son of Shujaiya                           in an Israel airstrike                you were killed                       visiting            your brother’s home   in Gaza City   Today, the anniversary                       of when my grandfather             only 12 years old                    climbed onto the roof                           of his dormitory                      to watch the bombs             fall on the American naval base         built over Puʻuloa             Your brother               your sister                   and four of her              children were killed, too                     You were                                           just a few years                       younger than me               This morning              after Israel’s birds       of death            screeched down                      toward you                  my children woke up                          on their own    in Honolulu     though it was still dark                           their breath      like soil           their voices     like soil                        their kisses     like soil           blinking when touched by rain            And my youngest        rubbing her eyes                     asked if              it was my birthday—              And am I now 47?—                                           before singing             in our ancestors’ language                  we are learning                       to speak together         after    the wreckage   of English                   and Americans             And my oldest            who is learning                       to speak                           in speech therapy        giggled            in her grogginess                    then sang                     her own song  too                  And what did I do       to deserve                    such tenderness                                   this early morning?     Or to live                     this long                                               having heard bombs and guns            fired only             from a distance?                      Having stood   safely                            scared  as a child                     and angry        as an adult                  at the sound     of our lands and waters—         Kahoʻolawe                 Pōhakuloa                   Mākua                Wahiawa                     battered             bruised burned poisoned                         in live fire practice?                            By bombs that may have        fallen on you   or close                                      to you on those you loved full-hearted          recklessly                                                 those you learned to cling to even harder            bombs                                      that may have hurt or killed children like mine            who                           could still sing?                       And you                      what did you do                                      to deserve                    your shorter poet’s life                except                                                    tell the truth    and sow the seeds        of songs                                     in your students        except grow your        love for them                                    for your people           for your land               and country                                                     for the promise                        within the wreckage                                                   that is this English                  echoing                                      all the way here                       to Honolulu     where I resisted                           opening my TikTok feed        to savor my children’s sleepy                                      sweetness                    a little longer               before facing                                                    that birthdays are death days              too?                                                   That each day              bombs and schools                              hospitals and houses               fall                   each day children              are pulled from rubble          children          are pulled away                         crying           from rubble             that buried              their mothers                                that they feel                  alone                         that their hurt seeps                          down               into the dirt                    as they look heaven in the eye                                       somewhere in Gaza?              That they         have written                            their names     and their parents’ names         on their limbs                                       so their bodies             or maybe just these parts                                            if that is all                         that’s left                     can be known                                                   to anyone                    who finds them?               That                 if they          if you                must die                       so easily uprooted       from the earth             so harshly unsung       let it be a tale                and why not    write poems   to birth              the strongest words                    of love             like rocks?                           like seeds?                   like songs?      like names?              And why not               hold those rocks          in your hands?                        Your arms?            Pull them              to your chest       like children              lighting         the darkest            of birthday mornings?                           Why not feel               their full weight                      and cling                          even harder         to live            to live                dear poet                            of Shujaiya                  of Gaza           of Palestine                                         just before                  they                  just before         you                                                                                                                             take flight?  Copyright © 2024 by Brandy Nālani McDougall. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 15, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.  https://poets.org/poem-a-day?mc_cid=72282341f5&mc_eid=544ee8b5c2  [AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine] About Poem-a-Day Poem-a-Day is the original and only daily digital poetry series featuring over 250 new, previously unpublished poems by today’s talented poets each year.

From UC Berkeley’s encampment: Mosab Abu Toha's poem on what a Gazan should do during an Israeli Air Strike

Universal Echo poem by Anne Selden Annab from 2008 "Every time you unlock any door any where any one you are Al-Awda. Any time you fit a key into any ignition of any vehicle you are Al-Awda. Any time you write a poem (or a grocery list)..."

...Universal Echo

Every time
you unlock any door
any where
any one
you are Al-Awda

Any time
you fit a key
into any ignition
of any vehicle

you are Al-Awda

Any time
you write a poem
(or a grocery list)
you are Al-Awda
as the ink shapes
in every language
spell out
what was
is and always will be
Al-Awda

When you read a book
When you fall in love
When you buy a ring
When you leave home
When you return
all Al-Awda

Every time
you flick a switch
turn on a light
Al-Awda

Every time
you close your eyes
and dream
Al-Awda

Every pillow you fluff
every penny you drop
every street you stroll
every garden
every step
even every stumble
All Al-Awda

And now knowing Al-Awda
know that all roads now
lead home
....to Palestine

poem & photo copyright ©2008 Anne Selden Annab

Enlightenment ripples out online thanks to little things such as a forwarded photo of the Educate & Protest for Palestine College Campus Campaigns: The University of Pennsylvania encampment has set up a Refaat Alareer memorial library

The University of Pennsylvania encampment has set up a Refaat Alareer memorial library

 

Mosab Abu Toha

 

Refaat and I were supposed to attend the Pal Writes literary festival at UPenn in September 2023.

 

Refaat very much wanted to travel and take part but he couldn’t attend a visa interview at the US embassy because of the siege and occupation.

 

I went, however, and I attended the event which Refaat was supposed to participate in.

 

These days, the University of Pennsylvania encampment has set up a Refaat Alareer memorial library.

 

I can see the photo I took of Refaat posing for a picture with the strawberries we picked together.

 

I can see on a shelf my own poetry book.

 

I can see love and humanity in this picture.

Mosab Abu Toha: "If you want to learn about the truth about our lives, at least for the past 30 years, not only for the past 200 days as many want others to understand, read these poems..."

Palestinian Poet Mosab Abu Toha's book Things You May Find Hidden In My Ear

Mosab Abu Toha 

If you want to learn about the truth about our lives, at least for the past 30 years, not only for the past 200 days as many want others to understand, read these poems. They were published in April 2022.

This is the only book that survived the mass killing and destruction with me.

Palestine Is Poetry by Sabrin Hasbun ..... "Grief and loss and violence and pain have been forced on us constantly, for over 75 years."

           THE RECIPE

I found a recipe

to make

apple biscuits.

I had all

the ingredients:

the flour,

the eggs,

the apples,

the sugar.

I had all

the good intentions…

Arriving at home in time,

taking a warm shower,

preparing the biscuits in pajamas.

But I opened the news.

Just a quick

look,

a quick look.

It has been

two hours.

The dust

not that of flour

the shelling

not that of eggs

the cutting

not that of apples.

The sweetness

is all

gone.

The biscuits, the pajamas, the shower,

my home

smell of our blood.

---

A few days after I posted this poem on social media, someone close to me accused me of sensationalism. That it was not poetry. Poetry should not speak about those things.

Since then, I have heard the same or similar refrain again and again, every time we Palestinians tried to talk about Palestine.

In short, it sounds something like: Art should not be political. Education should not be political. Music should not be political. Family gatherings should not be political. Music should not be political. Journalism should not be political. TV should not be political. Sport should not be political. Politics should not be political.

I have heard that sentence all my life. A few times I even believed it in the name of some sort of lightness that was required from me. Oh come now, don’t be such a downer. Do not be so political!

We were entering the full brutality of the attack on Gaza and people wanted us to shut up. To die in silence. Not to upset them with our tragedy.... READ MORE   https://thisweekinpalestine.com/palestine-is-poetry/

[AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine]

 

This Week In Palestine April 2024 Palestinian Voices of the Diaspora      https://thisweekinpalestine.com/articles-312/