Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Eight Poems for the Wall

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

 

1.

At Checkpoint Charlie

customs huts

 

The death strip – scraped earth

:wildflowers.

 

Sepia postcard of the Brandenburg Gate.

Organized bus tour. A one-day visit.

 

2.

Windows are bricks instead of glass.

 

3.

A summer day, lapis-blue sky.

My husband buys a rucksack.

“These East Berliners look unhappy,” he says.

 

I remember, his leaving bruises.

 

The Mauer, the Wall, cuts through houses.

Ripped-up cobblestone.

 

4.

People are forbidden to wave

to family and friends.

 

5.

White crosses under an old elm.

 

A Strasse becomes a cul-de-sac:

from a steel viewing tower

one sees the street life.

Blank faces of passers-by.

 

6.

People break the Wall with hammers,

take home souvenirs. 1989.

 

7.

We are a family, divorced.

 

8.

A piece of Mauer still stands along the river,

one kilometre long. Dandelions, graffiti art.

 

Centre of the city under construction.

The Invasion of Gaza

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

[See English version below]
 
 
 
 

 

غزوة غزة

  

بأكتبلَك

من جوه حصار

بأكتبلَك من تحت جدار

كان يوم شايل سقف الدار

بأكتبلك من أرضي الحِبلى بالأحرار

بأسمي وبأسم الشهدا والثوار

… بأكتبلَك

… وفي حلقي مرار

   ***

غزوة غزة

غارسة في قلبي سيف من نار

جيش جرار

كل سلاحه جبن وعار

وشعبي الأعزل واقف صامد

وإنتوا بتختلقوا الأعذار

   ***

أنده لك

ألاقيك محتار

أسيادك ماسكينلك ذِلة

وإنتَ حمار

لا بتحسب إيه أخرة صمتك

ولا عارف مين اللي بياكلك

ولا بكره مين راح يحتلك

ما هو لازم حيجيلك الدور :

مرسوملنا كلنا إدوار

   ***

الأخت الكبرى

بايعة شرفها ، ويّا الغاز ، للسمسار

وولادها لو ولّعوا شمعة

أو قالوا بصوت عالي كلمتهم

العسكر يحرقوا دنيتهم :

أسوار جواها أسوار

   ***

غزوة غزة

شاهدة عليكوا ليوم الدين

مساكين

باصين لكن مش شايفيين

طول ما إنتوا في ليل الخوف مساجين

على فين رايحيين ما إنتوش عارفيين

   ***

غزة يا أخويا مش حتموت

ولا حتسلم

ولا تنهار

أقفل بابك ، سد ودانك

الّف الف حكاية خسيسة

مهما حتكدب

مهما حتهرب

حتماً برضه حيجي نهار

 

 

The Invasion of Gaza

  

Besieged

I write

From underneath my collapsed roof

I write

From my persistent land

I write

In my name

and for the fighters

and the martyrs

I write

 

Bitter …

I write

 

***

 

The invasion of Gaza

pierced my heart

with a poisoned spear:

Planes and bombs

Unarmed people

A world

that doesn’t see or hear

 

***

 

I call on you

You are confused

Clueless, manipulated, used

For you too they have a plan

but you can’t see your time is near

 

***

 

The invasion of Gaza

will scar you

to the end of days

You can’t move

and you can’t think

You’re stuck in fear

 

***

 

Gaza, my friend,

will not collapse

surrender

or die

Plug your ears

Close your eyes

Believe their lies

No matter how long

falsehood survives

the sun shall rise

“Con el alma encendida con nuevas luces” (homenaje a Celia Hart)

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

 

June 04, 2009

 

Note for readers of Serai: I recently composed this poem in homage to my dear Cuban friend Celia Hart for a book being published in her memory by Havana’s Martí Studies Center. The poem’s title in English is “With the soul ablaze with new lights,” a phrase coined by Celia in an E-mail to me to describe the inspiration she felt after a stroll through the blossoming lilacs of Montreal’s Botanical Garden in May 2008, a few months before she and her brother Abel died in an automobile accident in Havana, at ages 45 and 48 respectively. The reference in the poem to Celia’s “padres” (parents) is to Armando Hart and Haydée Santamaría, famed revolutionaries of the July 26th Movement that led the Cuban Revolution of 1959. As Minister of Education, Armando launched the UN-praised “Yes I Can” literacy campaign now used throughout the world, including some of Canada’s First Nation communities. Haydée (d. 1980) founded the Casa de las Américas, a publishing and cultural center currently celebrating its 50th anniversary. Celia Hart is a widely published revolutionary intellectual whose last public address and interview outside of Cuba took place in Montreal’s Centro Cultural Simón Bolivar and was carried live by Montreal’s Radio Centre Ville. In my poem, the phrases in quotation marks are the words of Celia, with the exception of George W. Bush’s “los rincones oscuros” (“the dark corners” of the world used by Bush as a racist caricature of supposed backward less developed nations suspected of harboring terrorists).

 

Celia Hart, ¡presente!                                  – James Cockcroft

 

 

“CON EL ALMA ENCENDIDA CON NUEVAS LUCES” (homenaje a Celia Hart)

por James Cockcroft

 

 

“Con el alma encendida con nuevas luces”

me escribiste en un E-mail de junio,

tu típica manera de ver y vivir…

 

Desde aquel baile hace tantos años

tu sonrisa explosiva e ideas revolucionarias

enardecieron y desafiaron mi ser.

 

Durante nuestro paseo de mayo en le Jardin botanique de Montréal,

sin saber del futuro, las lilas radiantes encendieron nuestras almas…

y me di cuenta de que tu ser tan vital encandila a todo el mundo.

 

Demasiado fácil sería atribuir a tus padres revolucionarios y ejemplares

tus calidades excepcionales, incluso tu pasión,

sin sospechar ni un segundito de la complejidad de lo originario en ti misma.

 

Fiel hasta la muerte a la Revolución que te creó,

amaste a tus padres tal cual a esa “cofradía comunista…

los niños en Cuba… los únicos que saben querer”.

 

Cuando no estaba de moda,

rescataste el pensamiento de León Trotsky

de la condena terrorista estalinista…

 

Para agregarlo al legajo invalorable de

Maceo, Martí, y Mella,

de nuestro Haydée, de nuestro Che.

 

Caminabas, mejor dicho corrías, con “nuestros Cinco” y Fidel,

para que la gente en “los rincones oscuros” del Occidente

supieran de la belleza de la siempre imperfectiva Revolución Cubana…

 

Y para que se la defendieran en la mejor forma posible:

crear dos, tres, muchas revoluciones,

e internacionalizarlas.

 

Ofreciste tus críticas, tus sentimientos, y tu amor

a todas y todos en la única manera que conocías:

honestamente desde el corazón.

 

Seis días antes de tu muerte inesperada

respondiste a mi preocupación acerca del Huracán Gustav:

“¡Solo una revolución puede salvar vidas frente a esta herrumbre del consumismo!”

 

Te honro, mi pasionaria,

“mi amor de lilas”…

¡Celia Hart, siempre presente!

Don’t Join

Monday, March 30th, 2009

 

 

 
Hey kids! Want a career with a dubious future?

A job where you get paid to play real life deadly games?

Then join the Canadian Armed Forces!

Kill innocent people!  People you’ll never know!  People just like you!

Kill them up close or far away – your choice!

Kill babies, moms with children, old geezers, wedding guests,

pet dogs, donkeys, nurses, doctors, teachers and more!

They don’t want you there anyway, so kill ‘em all!

Unlike civilians, you’ll be licensed to kill! How cool is that?

In war, everyone is fair game!

And blame-free, easily excused ‘accidents’ happen all the time.

You can bomb hospitals, nurseries, wedding tents, schools, universities,

family farms, convoys of refugees – just like on TV

- and no one will chew you out! You’ll be obeying orders ‘doing your job.’

It’s patriotic! Satisfying! You’ll score huge points. And get paid, too!

You can do all this killing with modern ‘smart’ bombs, ‘intelligent guns’

and ‘enemy-sensitive’ grenades. You don’t have to think!

These amazing weapons only kill the bad people,

their bad kids and bad pet rabbits.

When you fly our ultra-cool jet fighters,

you get free cases of Coke before every flight.

We even pipe your favorite heavy metal tunes into the cockpit

to help drown out a nagging conscience.

And we’ll fill you full of beer and drugs afterwards to help you unwind.

Flying killer bombing missions was never easier!

For every evil, freedom and democracy hating, anti-Canadian, anti-American,

anti-God, anti-Tim Horton’s, anti-Hockey Night in Canada

enemy person, family or pet you kill,

you’ll get bonus air miles points for gift purchases.

Compete with like-minded patriotic killers from the USA for rad prizes.

Make your folks proud! And if you capture any of the ‘enemy’ alive,

learn how to hand them over to the Americans to torture,

or learn how to torture them yourself! It’s easy! Everyone’s doing it!

We’ll even teach you how to spot anti-patriotic, evil, insurgent,

dissident, anarchist, environmentalist, homosexual, feminist, foreign trouble-making,

anti-war Canadians from miles away so you can spy on them

and round them up for us in your spare time.

And if anyone questions why you kill for a living,

tell them you also hand out blankets, shoes, candy and k-rations

to poor, starving, homeless people – after you bombed their homes

or wiped out their families. That will shut them up.

Then return to the field of battle as part of the ‘reconstruction team’

to show them what a good sport you are,

re-building their destroyed country in our own image!

Come home to get congratulated by the number-one-killer himself,

the man who condones, encourages and promotes our nation’s contribution

to worldwide war, mayhem and devastation – but who never dirties his hands

- the oh-so-Christian, God-fearing, fearless Mr. Prime Minister!

He’ll decorate you for re-decorating other people’s faces, bodies, families

and cities, or for rearranging your own. Because it sometimes happens.

Good, well-meaning, job-desperate folk like you

can get maimed, wounded, paralyzed, blinded, amputated,

hospitalized for life, or even killed.

But heck, whether you return home in a wheelchair, stretcher or body bag,

we guarantee you’ll be feted like a real hero! With the Canadian Armed Forces!

Black Watch

Monday, March 30th, 2009

 

lesley  

Standing on the sidelines of

the parade grounds, they are old now,

grandmothers, great-grandmothers;

women who forfeited their lovers

to the bagpipe sirens:

the tangled sheets cooled

by waving flags.

 

Penelope knew the secret,

the dark unraveling of the tapestry

keeping her fingers busy.

Never bury the dead.

Let them linger and take

their own time leaving.

Less anger that way. Less grief.

Remember to Forget

Monday, March 30th, 2009

 

 

May you die, in a coffin buried with tears,

Buried with the youth of my years,

Buried with the breadth and depth of your fears,

May you die, in my eyes one more night,

Buried from my sight,

Buried in your fright

 

May I one day, forgive forgiveness

Forget memory

And tremble in bravery

 

May you die, in the night of my eyes,

In the passion of a fiery sunrise.

Let your frigidness of snow be the death of season,

For I am the unlaw: I am passion free of reason

 

Because if you pass away, your soul will be born.

 

You are the living dead.

 

You have the emotions of a plastic card,

Full of the pity of capitalistic disregard,

Like a union organizer’s severed head.

 

May you die, in the night of my eyes,

So that from your body, a soul will arise,

 

You are the sea, walking in the streets,

Its waves, and shores, ebb over town as it retreats,

Washing across the doors, skipping heartbeats,

 

Ah, the sea, the sea, and nothing but the sea.

 

The reefs are bleached, the fish are dead,

The salt has reached the world instead

 

Ah, the sea, the sea, and nothing but the sea.

 

Let water burn fire, and fire drown water.

 

May you die, in the night of my eyes,

For one evening, and learn the explosion of musical ecstasy,

And that the nuclear blast of love is but a bridge to eternity,

And learn the beauty of kindness creates the greatest destiny,

 

 

May you die, in the night of my eyes,

And learn what is bliss,

And wake up in a full nothingness,

And find God beyond kiss

 

I will make your tears a tapestry of a thousand stars,

Notes to be play on the Arabic oud and Spanish guitars,

 

May you die in harmony!

May you die in agony!

May you die in ecstasy!

In the shadow of the night of my eyes,

 

May your soul become a constellation that will guide travelers of every nation to sunrise.

And may I awake in the amnesia of nectar and ambrosia divine, and rivers of holy wine.

And disappear forever in mourning of morning skies.

 

 

http://www.maria-al-masani.com/

 

The Pan Scrub Game

Monday, March 30th, 2009

 

From thickset specky windows

 

he eye-balls

the tough job warp and weft

of the launch pad

as it floats itself

for the copter’s sea-strip.

 

Then the kitchen’s remodelled

-                    Tony bumps the eggbeater

off its base

buoying the bobbish sponge-backed slab,

hosing it into the bowl

to plane a cruddy pan.

 

In a fumbling presto

it slips into quick-sight

blades limiting a circle,

a cascade lighting on horizon.

 

Landing’s right as a trivet.

The Old Airport

Monday, March 30th, 2009


 

Look through grandmother’s kitchen window:

a concrete airstrip, wheat fields,

red poppies, cornflowers.

Forsythia, osier willows in bomb craters.

 

We moved to Halle 7, in 1950,

two-story, red-brick house attached to a shed.

Windows blasted, front door, missing. Roofless hallway.

Linden tree, gooseberry, red currant shrub.

 

Bavarian Forest foothills ridge,

 

after the war, refugees settled in the ruins

of the military airfield, Neutraubling.

 

Pigtailed, Hungarian girl of eight.

My friend Ingrid, her family, Silesian farmers.

A two-room school. Father Böhm’s chapel.

Nuns in black habits and veils.

Saturday classes, sewing and knitting.

 

If the purple crabapple could speak

what would it say? Electrified barbed wire.

Apartment building whose backyard served

as a sub-camp for slave labourers and war prisoners.

These silent stalks of grass, April 1945:

inmates were herded together and marched to Dachau.

 

The small pond children played in,

was used as a reservoir for the fire watch.

 

Streets, littered with rubble.

Striped marsh frogs. Blue iris.

Yellow poplars.

Keep walking until you reach a round well.

A graveyard where prisoners were once buried.

Their remains were dug up and moved

to a mass grave at Flossenbürg.

 

Through grandmother’s kitchen window:

white plum tree blossoms.

Apocalyptic Phone Call, 2002 & Dolphins Don’t Blow Each Other Up

Friday, January 2nd, 2009

Apocalyptic Phone Call, 2002

On the phone, you told me you’d found Jesus,

that you never really lost him, just strayed,

made your way back,

and I should read my gospels,

all of them, Old Testament

and New, familiarize myself

with Daniel-you knew now

you named your son

after him.

You said you’d seen signs on the news,

the earthquake in Istanbul,

how the fault line in Turkey

originated in Jerusalem, where a mosque

stands heretically over the stone

of Abraham, and in Cape Town

some high force winds passed through.

No one had been expecting them.

The sound of running horses.

I asked, Was it a sirocco?

and you replied, Did you hear about this?

Before I could mention Grade 8 Geography,

you continued on to say the winds

had a Muslim place of origin, that

Jesus had talked about the Anti-Christ,

signs of his presence, how

you now believe this to be Mohammed,

and that all those following him

are being led away from God.

Jesus says it, you said, and Daniel.

It all matches up.

Distraught you couldn’t convince me, I tried

to ease your panic. Don’t worry, I said.

If Jesus does show himself

at the end, I’ll tell him

my sister was right all along.

I didn’t hear your reply.

Dolphins Don’t Blow Each Other Up

Front page article:

a South African scientist’s claim

that despite the large size

of their brains

underwater mammals

are not very smart.

He berates them for accepting

man-made borders, waxes on

about the greater number of ganglia

lesser of neurons

being more a sign of their capacity

for bearing ocean temperatures

than one of intelligence.

But do dolphins bicker

in front of offspring

or, at a party with friends,

find any opportunity

to cut each other

down

to

size?

Do they start wars

on pretence

alone?

Humans, hungry,

might jump through hoops for food.

I would do it for sex

or a day at the spa. And who is he, this

privileged scientist, that is above escaping

the narrow confines

of his own supposition.

© Julie Mahfood


Julie Mahfood lives near Montreal where she hosts WIRE, a quarterly reading series for Montreal’s West Island writers. She has been shortlisted in THIS Magazine’s 2008 Great Canadian Literary Hunt; her work has appeared in the Literary Review of Canada, The Antigonish Review, and others and as well on the CD DuBref Session 1: Spoken word anthology.

Apocalyptic Phone Call, 2002 & Dolphins Don’t Blow Each Other Up

Friday, January 2nd, 2009

Apocalyptic Phone Call, 2002

On the phone, you told me you’d found Jesus,

that you never really lost him, just strayed,

made your way back,

and I should read my gospels,

all of them, Old Testament

and New, familiarize myself

with Daniel-you knew now

you named your son

after him.

You said you’d seen signs on the news,

the earthquake in Istanbul,

how the fault line in Turkey

originated in Jerusalem, where a mosque

stands heretically over the stone

of Abraham, and in Cape Town

some high force winds passed through.

No one had been expecting them.

The sound of running horses.

I asked, Was it a sirocco?

and you replied, Did you hear about this?

Before I could mention Grade 8 Geography,

you continued on to say the winds

had a Muslim place of origin, that

Jesus had talked about the Anti-Christ,

signs of his presence, how

you now believe this to be Mohammed,

and that all those following him

are being led away from God.

Jesus says it, you said, and Daniel.

It all matches up.

Distraught you couldn’t convince me, I tried

to ease your panic. Don’t worry, I said.

If Jesus does show himself

at the end, I’ll tell him

my sister was right all along.

I didn’t hear your reply.

Dolphins Don’t Blow Each Other Up

Front page article:

a South African scientist’s claim

that despite the large size

of their brains

underwater mammals

are not very smart.

He berates them for accepting

man-made borders, waxes on

about the greater number of ganglia

lesser of neurons

being more a sign of their capacity

for bearing ocean temperatures

than one of intelligence.

But do dolphins bicker

in front of offspring

or, at a party with friends,

find any opportunity

to cut each other

down

to

size?

Do they start wars

on pretence

alone?

Humans, hungry,

might jump through hoops for food.

I would do it for sex

or a day at the spa. And who is he, this

privileged scientist, that is above escaping

the narrow confines

of his own supposition.

© Julie Mahfood


Julie Mahfood lives near Montreal where she hosts WIRE, a quarterly reading series for Montreal’s West Island writers. She has been shortlisted in THIS Magazine’s 2008 Great Canadian Literary Hunt; her work has appeared in the Literary Review of Canada, The Antigonish Review, and others and as well on the CD DuBref Session 1: Spoken word anthology.