Grrr, I’ve been getting some of those condescending emails, too, and they feel so icky to read. What a lovely thing to process that in a poem. “Yet somehow this is not enough.” I keep wondering when “enough” will finally come and what it will look like to our complicit country.
Thank you Lisa, for opening this space and for your brave, honest and incisive poems. Naomi Shihab Nye is one of my favorite poets, and a Palestinian-American writer of great insight and depth. THis is poem of her that I like, as it names one many consider one of the world's greatmills and demons, that is, Fundamentalism, be it religious, political, economic, social, national or moral. It is too often the underpinning and driving force for so much warfare, violence, hate and fascist responses and actions.
Fundamentalism
BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE
Because the eye has a short shadow or
it is hard to see over heads in the crowd?
If everyone else seems smarter
but you need your own secret?
If mystery was never your friend?
If one way could satisfy
the infinite heart of the heavens?
If you liked the king on his golden throne
more than the villagers carrying baskets of lemons?
This is stunning. Thank you so much for sharing, Larry! I've read a few of Naomi Shihab Nye's poems here and there but have never sat down with a full collection, and now I'm thinking I should!
Ever since listening to this amazing episode of We Can Do Hard Things a few days ago (the interviewees are two activists who work together for peace, one Palestinian and one Israeli) - https://www.podplay.com/podcasts/we-can-do-hard-things-716421/episodes/what-these-palestinian-israeli-activists-need-us-to-know-standing-togethers-sally-abed-alon-lee-green-290890694 - I've been thinking about extremism and fanatacism and the ways in which the extremes arise as reactions to one another and continually become more extreme in an ever-escalating back and forth, and how this in turn fuels and "justifies" war, and how maybe that's all happening on purpose because there are unfortunately individuals and corporations who profit tremendously from war and see nothing to gain from peace.
Thank you for sharing, Larry! This is a powerful poem. I’m new to the Palestinian (and Palestinian-American) literary world, and I look forward to reading more of Naomi Shihab Nye’s work.
Thank you for the intentionality, generosity and courage with which you've opened this space for us. And for sharing your beautiful, powerful expressions of outrage and ache. So grateful for the permission and pause you are providing.
Thank you for all your beautiful, painful and heartfelt words Lisa. I read each poem. I am guilty of not speaking up because I don’t know what to say. I cannot imagine the pain and terror and suffering that continue to go on.
Thank you, Karri! There's a sense in which it's impossible to know what to say because no words are adequate. And maybe in a sense, it's impossible to know what to do since no single one of us has a hand on the lever that, if pulled, would stop the genocide. I think it's natural to feel guilt in the face of such incredible suffering and what feels like such powerlessness. I've felt that many times over when it comes to other big injustices or problems in the world. Lately, I've been focusing on trying to grow my love to be bigger than my guilt, bigger than my despair, bigger than my fear. For me, this means taking a small action every day and doing my best to ground that action in love and caring. I'm feeling grief and rage but also a sense of connectedness. I think everyone's journey looks so different, though. We all have different gifts, different capacities, different struggles, and different competing priorities. In any case, I'm so glad you're here, Karri!
Thank you again, Lisa, for opening this space and conversation, and for providing one means for expressing our outrage, anger, sadness and sorrow over the genocidal assaulkt on Palestine by the Netanyahu regime in Israel. Here is one that came to me this evening.
For Palestine
Snow turned sleet turned rain turned snow
falls upon the dark valleys of our quiet hills
in these fitful starts to spring,
I wonder what falls from the skies in Palestine?
How many are dying in this very present moment?
Will there be more carnage and death,
rolling through nightmares with no end;
Gifted by trembling leaders who have forgotten
the source of their being
and the sacredness of every living creature.
blathering bullies drunk on toxic stews of hate.
How many children will cry out in pain and fear,
Unable to sleep in this apocalyptic tragedy?
How many will starve,
as crumbs scatter from the skies,
meager humanitarian aid trickles in,
and the war machines turn their heads and yawn?
Another genocide to record into history,
one more testimony to the powers who dominate
with guns and bombs and weapons of mass depravity.
This is such an aching and beautiful reflection, Larry. There were so many powerful phrases in here, but a few that especially grabbed me were the simple question "I wonder what falls from the skies in Palestine," the phrase "drunk on toxic stews of hate," and the incredible but all-too-apt image "the war machines turn their heads and yawn." I'm working on a poem right now that centers around this notion of a war machine, whose cogs keep turning, even when we're asleep.
(hoping not to break any rules, but, while sharpening my hammers, i burgle a favorite)
Human Kindness
from The Canoe by Carrie Tree
Human Kindness
I know that there’s more to this ugly game
I see a war designed to never be tamed
I’ve slept in the rubble amongst the shame
Screaming at the bombs
This is not in my name
I’m seeking kindness
I’m longing for safety
I’m praying for home
I’m craving compassion
Searching for sanity
Praying for home
I’ve been stripped to the bone
Home Is where we can belong
Home Is where our children grow strong
Home Is where the fire burns long
Home Is where peace can come from
I’ve traveled for months,
Ran thousands of miles
I fled the land that holds the heart of my kin
And I know you now see the torn state I’m in
I can’t tell you my name or the places I’ve been
I’m seeking kindness...
Home Is where we can belong
Home Is where our children grow strong
Home Is where the fire burns long
Home Is where peace can come from
I’m praying for human kindness
I’m praying for human kindness
I’m praying for human forgiveness
I’m praying for us to all to belong
They call me a migrant
They call me a thief
They call me a beggar man
An asylum seeker
I was once a teacher
I was once a family man
I was once a dreamer
A community leader
And I’ve seen friends and family
All scattered and broken
And we don’t know why
The cruelty keeps raging
Yes I’m seeking your kindness
I’m longing for safely
I’m praying for home
I’m craving compassion
Searching for meaning
And I feel so alone
I’ve been stripped to the bone
Home Is where we can belong
Home Is where our children grow strong
Home Is where the fire burns long
Home Is where peace can come from
Home Is where peace can come from….
https://youtu.be/LRzJIv9E4_A
These lyrics are so beautifully big-hearted. Listening now! Thank you, Chuck.
Thank you for this, Lisa. I wrote this one today:
A man meant to represent me
sends a condescending email
in reply to my pleas for support
of a ceasefire, smug and unmoved.
There are children losing limbs
and lives and loved ones,
none of which can be replaced,
yet somehow this is not enough.
We've drawn lines on maps
and money and many other
made up, unnecessary things,
but genocide is lucrative, so...
I love the description of maps and money as “made up things.” This is beautiful and painful and all too real.
Grrr, I’ve been getting some of those condescending emails, too, and they feel so icky to read. What a lovely thing to process that in a poem. “Yet somehow this is not enough.” I keep wondering when “enough” will finally come and what it will look like to our complicit country.
💔💔
Here's one I just wrote. I'll call it Stripwreck until I can think of something better.
.
In the wrecked strip,
American food arrives
fantastically. It is palletted
and dropped from planes.
It is riding the swells,
rattling the hold
for weeks while pork-piers
get built and bellies hold
nothing.
.
It is making the news,
getting clicks. It is splashy.
It is a bowl of plastic fruit,
placed to attract the eye
and hide the hole
on the table where
our hearts should be.
.
November smudges
the horizon. Above,
our captain shakes loose
the low-hanging points.
Below, as is traditional,
he reminds the bully
to snatch our lunch.
This poem just kinda punches you in the gut in a really good way. Like Lindsey, I was especially struck by the the ending of the second stanza.
Oof. 💔 “it is a bowl of plastic fruit, placed to attract the eye and hide the hole on the table where our hearts should be”
Yes, this!!!
Thank you Lisa, for opening this space and for your brave, honest and incisive poems. Naomi Shihab Nye is one of my favorite poets, and a Palestinian-American writer of great insight and depth. THis is poem of her that I like, as it names one many consider one of the world's greatmills and demons, that is, Fundamentalism, be it religious, political, economic, social, national or moral. It is too often the underpinning and driving force for so much warfare, violence, hate and fascist responses and actions.
Fundamentalism
BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE
Because the eye has a short shadow or
it is hard to see over heads in the crowd?
If everyone else seems smarter
but you need your own secret?
If mystery was never your friend?
If one way could satisfy
the infinite heart of the heavens?
If you liked the king on his golden throne
more than the villagers carrying baskets of lemons?
If you wanted to be sure
his guards would admit you to the party?
The boy with the broken pencil
scrapes his little knife against the lead
turning and turning it as a point
emerges from the wood again
If he would believe his life is like that
he would not follow his father into war.
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Fundamentalism” from Fuel. Copyright © 1998 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Used by the permission of BOA Editions Ltd., www.boaeditions.org.
This is stunning. Thank you so much for sharing, Larry! I've read a few of Naomi Shihab Nye's poems here and there but have never sat down with a full collection, and now I'm thinking I should!
Ever since listening to this amazing episode of We Can Do Hard Things a few days ago (the interviewees are two activists who work together for peace, one Palestinian and one Israeli) - https://www.podplay.com/podcasts/we-can-do-hard-things-716421/episodes/what-these-palestinian-israeli-activists-need-us-to-know-standing-togethers-sally-abed-alon-lee-green-290890694 - I've been thinking about extremism and fanatacism and the ways in which the extremes arise as reactions to one another and continually become more extreme in an ever-escalating back and forth, and how this in turn fuels and "justifies" war, and how maybe that's all happening on purpose because there are unfortunately individuals and corporations who profit tremendously from war and see nothing to gain from peace.
Thank you for sharing, Larry! This is a powerful poem. I’m new to the Palestinian (and Palestinian-American) literary world, and I look forward to reading more of Naomi Shihab Nye’s work.
Thank you for the intentionality, generosity and courage with which you've opened this space for us. And for sharing your beautiful, powerful expressions of outrage and ache. So grateful for the permission and pause you are providing.
Thank you for joining me in this space, Keith!
Beautiful, Lisa. And here’s me tying it all back to Hurray for the Riff Raff, as I am wont to do: they have been reading this poem on stage: https://inthesetimes.com/article/refaat-alareer-israeli-occupation-palestine
Oh wow, that is stunning and heartbreaking! Thank you so much for sharing!
Hey God,
suppose it's you.
And what you bring to the mix.
Suppose it's those last few
well meant but volatile shakes
of your religious spices
That add enough dogma
to make a man's emotional stew
foam at the mouth.
Enough to turn a love-your-neighbor family guy
into a bone-crushing gang-raping leviathan.
Suppose you back off a little.
Suppose you swallow your pride a little.
Suppose you stay in the spice rack a little
At least til we can get the fuckin' lid
nailed back down on this barrel of unleashed horror.
war is such bullshit.
Blessed are the peacemakers.
I love the metaphor of spices . . . "suppose you stay in the spice rack a little."
I wanted to challenge god a little stronger but, you know, those lightning bolts sting 🙂
😂
Thank you for all your beautiful, painful and heartfelt words Lisa. I read each poem. I am guilty of not speaking up because I don’t know what to say. I cannot imagine the pain and terror and suffering that continue to go on.
Thank you, Karri! There's a sense in which it's impossible to know what to say because no words are adequate. And maybe in a sense, it's impossible to know what to do since no single one of us has a hand on the lever that, if pulled, would stop the genocide. I think it's natural to feel guilt in the face of such incredible suffering and what feels like such powerlessness. I've felt that many times over when it comes to other big injustices or problems in the world. Lately, I've been focusing on trying to grow my love to be bigger than my guilt, bigger than my despair, bigger than my fear. For me, this means taking a small action every day and doing my best to ground that action in love and caring. I'm feeling grief and rage but also a sense of connectedness. I think everyone's journey looks so different, though. We all have different gifts, different capacities, different struggles, and different competing priorities. In any case, I'm so glad you're here, Karri!
Thank you again, Lisa, for opening this space and conversation, and for providing one means for expressing our outrage, anger, sadness and sorrow over the genocidal assaulkt on Palestine by the Netanyahu regime in Israel. Here is one that came to me this evening.
For Palestine
Snow turned sleet turned rain turned snow
falls upon the dark valleys of our quiet hills
in these fitful starts to spring,
I wonder what falls from the skies in Palestine?
How many are dying in this very present moment?
Will there be more carnage and death,
rolling through nightmares with no end;
Gifted by trembling leaders who have forgotten
the source of their being
and the sacredness of every living creature.
blathering bullies drunk on toxic stews of hate.
How many children will cry out in pain and fear,
Unable to sleep in this apocalyptic tragedy?
How many will starve,
as crumbs scatter from the skies,
meager humanitarian aid trickles in,
and the war machines turn their heads and yawn?
Another genocide to record into history,
one more testimony to the powers who dominate
with guns and bombs and weapons of mass depravity.
One more witness to a world gone cold,
songs silenced before they begin,
tears raining down like these cascading storms,
threatening to never end.
This is such an aching and beautiful reflection, Larry. There were so many powerful phrases in here, but a few that especially grabbed me were the simple question "I wonder what falls from the skies in Palestine," the phrase "drunk on toxic stews of hate," and the incredible but all-too-apt image "the war machines turn their heads and yawn." I'm working on a poem right now that centers around this notion of a war machine, whose cogs keep turning, even when we're asleep.
Thank you for this space, Lisa, and for sharing your own beautiful, brave poems. I look forward to spending time here in the comment pages. ❤️
I'm so glad you're here!
I couldn’t read all of it - but the first two poems are just beautiful. Just the space between our hearts. “what do I need to let go of
so that I can hold all of this?” 💔💔
Thank you, Lindsey! Poetry feels like one of the only ways I know how to hold all the things right now.