"nakba" poems
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. Keywords/Tags: butterfly, children, storm, lightning, thunder, hailstones, snow, frost, night, shelter, comfort, safety, rose, fire, warmth, Holocaust, Nakba, Gaza, Trail of Tears, slavery, injustice, abuse, ethnic cleansing, genocide
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 4:39 AM UTC
Something
―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba
by Michael R. Burch
Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.
Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.
Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality swept into a corner, where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.
It was my honor and privilege to work with survivors of the Holocaust and Hiroshima on translations of their poems and accounts into English. What they have told us is unutterably sad, and saddest of all is hearing about the lives of children being full of horror and terror, only to be cut short. Unfortunately today Palestinian children in Gaza and the West Bank are experiencing something similar, a modern Trail of Tears ...
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 2:09 AM UTC
But a dream-prayer clawing its way into corporeality
A curse cast to plunge the heads of every deathmaker onto the spikes as a reminder
A rebuke of the money-monger celebrities
who remain silently complicit as thousands of mothers let out
A guttural scream for the severed limbs & excavated hymns of the blessed children
A plea for justice
A song for peace
Sprouting from seed
“Bury Zionism under the rubble of my grief”
she says, as…
[the invocation eclipses into a tangible thing]
“The Nakba is over…”
Palestine is free
[the soft sun rises over Rafah]
ٱلْحَمْدُ لِلّٰهِ
“…alhamdulillah…”
From the river to the sea
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 2:14 PM UTC
Along the river bank
on a sweltering day
there she was, shining in radiant beauty
lariviere quenched her thirst
her timid smile, gentle touch
personified kindness in tranquility
the desire of many men over time
for she was not one woman
she was a piece of history
re-incarnated many times over
you may have known her as Hind Al-Husseini
who cared for the children of the Nakba
passionate for the plight of all women
her history and roots she proudly expressed
with a museum of folklore, all impressed
Then there was Hind Shoufani
who learnt love from burnt villages
we are all tired, always though in the hearts
love falasteen
re-incarnated yet again
as Hind Rajab
an innocent child
like Jesus feared by evil
and those with power
shot this child over 300 times
sixty bullets for every year of her life
a gentle life stolen by the star of David
of course there was Rostom of the Nile
whose sensual moves so captured the eye
she remained a mystery to most
the humble and shy often do
passant hind at the rivers edge
red hair blowing in the breeze
sadness of the world, a suffocating heat
on the other side of the river
was it my imagination?
or did I see a small smile?
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
We gave them day
They gave us night;
It was not forthright
They bore a disguise
Where is delight?
It fled, with them in sight!
Where is mirth?
It wilted with plight!
There is plague:
A demon’s hour,
A century’s fever,
Unkind to all men
The wells run dry
The olives take flight
And heritage – lies
Everything – dies
What is this Hour?
We’ve been disowned:
Citizens of paradise –
Al-Aqsa is our Home!
Our refuge with God,
Our shade under wings;
A symphony of hope –
Trembling in our souls:
‘From the river to the sea
From the river to the sea
Palestine will be free –
From the river to the sea!’
Jun 16, 2024
Jun 16, 2024 at 6:10 AM UTC