Monday, October 23, 2023

A Poet's View (Poem)

A Poet's View


Explosions settle
dust on the table,

the last of the bread
in orbit, saucers

overflowing with
black tea, stains spreading

from here to there and
a mother, crying

between screams. Her
child, motionless.

Beit Lahia was warned.


The children have no
room to run, no pitas

to calm their asking
for juice. No biscuits.

No mangoes to toss
like footballs. Olive

trees: splintered. Water
erupting old pipes.

Books - by Gibran and
Darwish and Shihab
Nye - floating past as
another shock wave
works its way through the
electrical grid.
Thirteen floors tumble
to garden level.
Drones yet whirred like flies.
Numbers. Begin with
one thousand four hundred
news-worthy names shared
world-wide. Not Beit Lahia's.
There, leaflets, like birds,
still fall from the sky,
where the cries of dogs
become lullabies;
pots and pans, rockets.
Stones or bombs:
what's the difference?
All going south.

This poem was inspired by poet Mosab Abu Toha’s essay in The New Yorker, “The View from My Window in Gaza,” October 20, 2023. Online:

1 comment:

Rajani said...

You have found words for loss and despair that many of us are still searching for. Thanks for writing this.