| Philip Hyams |
| Israel/Canada
PLASTIC FLOWERS Plastic flowers propped up, Standing in brass cartridge casings Of former anti-tank shells. The war is over Mohammed. Its paraplegic losers roll back towards their homes, Twisted limbs and cutout hearts, Twisted limbs and broken bones. Black-masked steel, Who is the mightier power? Arab eyes? Jew noses? Who bleeds the history books? Who paints their own people In black oils? Is this field mined? Will this tree grow? II
“The car blew up over there.” He points at a charred stone wall. “They came during the night in rubber dinghies.” She points towards a bullet-riddled villa. My bones, your bones. My brother, your son. My son, your brother. The war is over Ilan. Your son is born into a world Of blue ocean and sun and sea And green orchards And death And death And murder And defense And justice And injustice Your justice Their suffering Their justice Your suffering My justice. III
Jericho Oh Jericho has no more walls. Jericho dry Jericho has no more tears. No more tears to shed. No more Psalms to sing. No more graves to rob. The Lebanon Oh sweet cedar scent Burns and hands reach out from The rubble, bubble, rubble, bubble Bubble barrel oil. In the West all is best. Their B-52s bring our nourishment While the other’s Kalatchinakovs Feed our children’s imaginations. Abraham’s sons duel. They smile at one another and show Their teeth. The Holy Land is riddled enough. Mohammed take my hand Our wheelchairs need oiling.
THE SURVIVOR
But the numbers indicated Only a victim, One whose eyes burned Like hot coals: The speculum of fire. The human mirror dancing and Eastern jig, One whose destiny sung Like a Spring robin: One later being consumed. The bones rattle in the closet. White flakes all on scorched earth. The khamsin combs the cool air, Its electric heat drying it. Summer is dead and Winter’s near. Bodies are buried only to reappear. The survivors will be coming home.
FRATRICIDE
My Arab brother I now fast your Ramadan Because it was I Who fed that big gun Which took your life And your blood mixed with Our earth Your woman tore her hair While mine clutched me to her In the night I was your life My woman your wife Your children chose darkness To become our conscience Our people commit fratricide And our fathers sow the seeds Of future Shivas How do we cut that tie When we terminate a life? The palms wear rings Rings for each war Rings for each body Each boy we lose becomes Some sort of unlucky Issac And Ishmael we are given No choice We have no voice We are only actors in History’s Nightmare My Arab brother We who both know Abraham Let us throw down our knives In exchange for the plow’s blade The spilled blood from the past Can only fertilize Copyright, date, Poet's Name (if copyright is listed
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