"shatila" poems
On the sewage puddles of Sabra and Shatila
there you transferred masses of human beings
worthy of respect
from the world of the living to the world of the dead.
Night after night.
First they shot
then they hung
and finally slaughtered with knives.
Terrified women rushed up
from over the dust hills:
"There they slaughter us
in Shatila."
A narrow tail of the new moon hung
above the camps.
Our soldiers illuminated the place with flares
like daylight.
"Back to the camps, March!" the soldier commanded
the screaming women of Sabra and Shatila.
He had orders to follow,
And the children were already laid in the puddles of waste,
their mouths open,
at rest.
No one will harm them.
A baby can't be killed twice.
And the tail of the moon filled out
until it turned into a loaf of whole gold.
Our dear sweet soldiers,
asked nothing for themselves—
how strong was their hunger
to return home in peace.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
12.2k
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
What will be his legacy
After such a deep long sleep
Rising to the Golan Heights
Rue Sabra and Shatila
In circling Pharohs Army
Or clearing strips through Gaza
Roaring Lion Rebel Angel
r 13Jan14
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
When the sun makes day,
With mist and dew,
In the camps of 1945,
The barbed wire still weeps.
In deserted land of West Mayo,
Abandoned potato drills,
And the hunger of 1845,
The barbed wire still weeps.
In the desert sun,
Of Sabra and Shatila,
And the now deserted camps of 1985,
The barbed wire still weeps.
In the African air,
The Sun of Zaire,
In the camps of 1995,
The barbed wire still weeps.
In Jerusalem halls and Palestine walls,
In the morning light,
Where Abraham calls,
The barbed wire still weeps.
If we ever forget,
Or if we ever regret,
The barbed wire,
Will weep for us all.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC