Marilyn Hacker & Deema K Shehabi
Poetry putting conflict in perspective - A poetic conversationSample Passages
And this is how it begins
M
Five, six – and righteous,
the child in green in Gaza
stands in her wrecked home,
grubby, indignant. Her hands
point; she explains what was done
bombed, burned. It all smells
like gas! We had to throw our clothes
away! The earrings my
father gave me… No martyr,
resistant. The burnt cradle…
D
breaks over the cold mountains
of North Carolina where a Cherokee
poet huddles in a cottage
by an indigo fire. She sees
the child and says,
This is the new Trail of Tears.
Calls out, Oh outspread Indian nation
Let’s braid our hair
with the pulverized
gravel of Palestine.
Witness, she says, the unpinned
knuckles of this child. Feel
the burlap curtains whip across…
M
the third floor window
in Belleville, dyed blue-purple
like the hyacinth
on the windowsill. Nedjma
does math homework. Strike today;
but school tomorrow.
Coming back from the demo
they sang in the street –
Rêve Générale! – the slogan
makes her smile. Wan winter sun…
D
is grafted on the broken sink
that Maher uses for percussion.
He sings Frank Sinatra
in a deep cigarette voice
as the bombs catapult down
“It’s now or never.”
He pauses, and his niece releases
her breath over the scratchy
phone line between Gaza
and California. Where are the hills
M
…he saw from New York…
“Marhabâ yâ Nafîsa,
Girl, you watch your back!
Tanks and uniforms zap guys’
minds worse than testosterone
but you were gorgeous
reasoning as you dodged to
keep them from aiming
at the brothers behind you
dancing along the barbed wire.”
M — Marilyn Hacker
D — Deema Shehabi
And this is how it begins
M
Five, six – and righteous,
the child in green in Gaza
stands in her wrecked home,
grubby, indignant. Her hands
point; she explains what was done
bombed, burned. It all smells
like gas! We had to throw our clothes
away! The earrings my
father gave me… No martyr,
resistant. The burnt cradle…
D
breaks over the cold mountains
of North Carolina where a Cherokee
poet huddles in a cottage
by an indigo fire. She sees
the child and says,
This is the new Trail of Tears.
Calls out, Oh outspread Indian nation
Let’s braid our hair
with the pulverized
gravel of Palestine.
Witness, she says, the unpinned
knuckles of this child. Feel
the burlap curtains whip across…
M
the third floor window
in Belleville, dyed blue-purple
like the hyacinth
on the windowsill. Nedjma
does math homework. Strike today;
but school tomorrow.
Coming back from the demo
they sang in the street –
Rêve Générale! – the slogan
makes her smile. Wan winter sun…
D
is grafted on the broken sink
that Maher uses for percussion.
He sings Frank Sinatra
in a deep cigarette voice
as the bombs catapult down
“It’s now or never.”
He pauses, and his niece releases
her breath over the scratchy
phone line between Gaza
and California. Where are the hills
M
…he saw from New York…
“Marhabâ yâ Nafîsa,
Girl, you watch your back!
Tanks and uniforms zap guys’
minds worse than testosterone
but you were gorgeous
reasoning as you dodged to
keep them from aiming
at the brothers behind you
dancing along the barbed wire.”
M — Marilyn Hacker
D — Deema Shehabi