Published : Saturday, 22 May, 2021 at 12:00 AM Count : 1265
Poetry can affect all generations while making people consider anything from love to loss, foremost, what a poet can do is inspire. In the midst of unyielding Israeli air raids to raze Gaza City to the ground, innocent Gaza dwellers are passing through the most difficult of times.
This week's Observer Literature page comes with a special message...you can bomb and vanish whatever is left of Palestine, but you can never wipe out the hope, inspiration and the dream of the Palestinians for a free state.
Three Palestinian, one Jordanian and an Indian poet have picked up their pens expressing their poetic expressions on the pains of Palestine.
They say "The pen is mightier than the sword"...on poetry, I would say - "A poem can pull down the most powerful of predators to the pitfalls of hell". I salute my poets, waging a poetic war against a brutal Zionist regime, inflicting pain, torture, injustice and oppression on innocent Palestinians.
Poetry is power. -Shahriar Feroze
Its Soil, O Nour *
Etaf Janim
(Translated by Nizar Sartawi)
How many a beach in whose shells I hid a new tale of Sinbad of the wondrous presence and absence!
How many a ship suffered seasickness as I went on board! How many a star did I trifle with promising to bring her a basket brimming with figs and joy ...
How many a house did I warm with fragrance, lush gardens and life within But I, O Noor,
like roots in our country would feel disgraced if I spent a single night away from its holy water
............
Its soil, O Noor. flees from the fingers that peel and can flees from the mind of the executioner flees from rivalry among brothers flees from our shy neighing, from our weird stillness Flees� where ..O where ?? when our anguished pulsing heritage drags it from the its collar to the silver of presence and faith
..............
Behold... there in the constellations our birds...children... flags are wet blood And look at the hanging gardens surrounding the neck of the sky dome There, the fruits of dreaming shine above us so juicy... so passionate gazing at you Extend your hands Release your tongue I have abandoned this humpbacked age and smashed with my flaming slippers the trough of despair Hurrah! Now we pick the fruits of the dream and they greet us saying in conclusion: the soil is not ours but from the grandfather of the seventh land to a star that opened the gate latches of the sky for our Prophet has returned to sing amongst us Ya mejana Ya mejana Ya mej ana **
** Ya mejana is the title of a Palestinian folk song with different versions ----------------------------------------- * Nour Amer is a Palestinian poet. Etaf Janimis a Jordanian poet and an educator of Palestinian descent.
The Interpretation of Bleeding
Iyad Shamasnah
In my country
we write poetry to vanquish oppression and carry on with our lives
We are a people for whom God ordained to see the elite among the tyrants We hold the ember in the fireplace whenever we taste the new abomination
But we sing to guard against the thoughtlessness of the gullible in the valley of sleep
Iyad Shamasnah is a Palestinian poet, novelist, and translator born in Jerusalem, his poems have been translated into English and published in many journals and anthologies.
Braille in Bullets
Nizar Sartawi - Palestine
Moving the oil lamp further away from the window she squats on the kitchen floor turns over the potato cubes in the greasy frying pan on the grimy brass primus stove she adds some salt and turns them over again
The four-year-old kid is still trotting from corner to corner dee dee� dee dee� urging his broomstick.
In the distance shouting and shooting�
she looked at her child still trotting and shouting: dee dee�
She knew they were in town she knew they were coming and her sack was ready she turned the wick of the oil lamp down
A blind volley of bullets whizzed through the dilapidated window She subdued a scream looked around ran for the sack threw it on her shoulder grabbed the little kid by the waist ran out of the backdoor and disappeared in the dark
Back in the kitchen the brass primus stove was still roaring� the potato cubes cooking� the flame from the oil lamp flickering
On the wall opposite the window the tale was chiselled in deep Braille alphabets
Jerusalem
Samih Masoud (Translated by Nizar Sartawi) O Jerusalem City of peace Your little children are crucified morning and evening and your women die in their deep grief O Jerusalem Hymns are not heard in your ancient house Prayers are not allowed in the prophets' houses Their bells are pigmented with blood No water No air No fire No light The candles are turned off The stars are stolen in the threshing floors of heaven O Jerusalem No matter how long we suffer and taste the pains of misery we will always be here growing like thorns in the eyes of strangers we will remain inside you growing olives almonds and chestnuts tell the tales of our grandfathers around the fire brazier in the winter nights sing ataba play the fiddle every evening dance the dabka * as we please and reap wheat when July arrives. We stay in you in your hamlets the symbols of pride Within the twinkle of an eye a thousand baby boys are born a thousand baby girls a thousand poems and caravans of martyrs and poets. O Jerusalem O icon of glory in the heights of heaven
The Conflict�
Asoke Kumar Mitra
The conflict between two nations
Airstrikes and Hamas rocket Face to face two groups� Rockets fired�"Iron Dome" demolished
Civil unrest between Arabs and Jews Separated by the dark fence of opposition Calls for ceasefire by world leaders Between optimism and pessimism
Broken window pane, broken glass Which are now stained red Silent prayers for the people, Childhood, youth all gone
They lay in silent rows under the olive trees They are all dead The blood of innocents Let us unite to stop this devil's games
Men women and children would never have to cry Blood spills will be thousand roses in bloom�
Asoke Kumar Mitra is a retired journalist and editor of "CALCUTTA CANVAS" and "INDUS CHRONICLE". He is a bilingual poet.