Doves Of Gaza, Part 2 Poem by Michael Burch

Doves of Gaza
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each br--st? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough...
and time? Insufficient to life's brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?

Keywords/Tags: Gaza, mothers, mother and child, mother land, touch, compassion, tenderness, courage, dove, shelter, wing, coos, sings, baby, babies, child, children, fledglings, love, god, mother, injustice



Mahmoud Darwish: English Translations

Mahmoud Darwish is the essential breath of the Palestinian people, the eloquent witness of exile and belonging... his is an utterly necessary voice, unforgettable once discovered.―Naomi Shihab Nye



Palestine
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This land gives us
all that makes life worthwhile:
April's blushing advances,
the aroma of bread warming at dawn,
a woman haranguing men,
the poetry of Aeschylus,
love's trembling beginnings,
a boulder covered with moss,
mothers who dance to the flute's sighs,
and the invaders' fear of memories.

This land gives us
all that makes life worthwhile:
September's rustling end,
a woman leaving forty behind, still full of grace, still blossoming,
an hour of sunlight in prison,
clouds taking the shapes of unusual creatures,
the people's applause for those who mock their assassins,
and the tyrant's fear of songs.

This land gives us
all that makes life worthwhile:
Lady Earth, mother of all beginnings and endings!
In the past she was called Palestine
and tomorrow she will still be called Palestine.
My Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life!



Identity Card
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Record!
I am an Arab!
And my identity card is number fifty thousand.
I have eight children;
the ninth arrives this autumn.
Will you be furious?

Record!
I am an Arab!
Employed at the quarry,
I have eight children.
I provide them with bread,
clothes and books
from the bare rocks.
I do not supplicate charity at your gates,
nor do I demean myself at your chambers' doors.
Will you be furious?

Record!
I am an Arab!
I have a name without a title.
I am patient in a country
where people are easily enraged.
My roots
were established long before the onset of time,
before the unfolding of the flora and fauna,
before the pines and the olive trees,
before the first grass grew.
My father descended from plowmen,
not from the privileged classes.
My grandfather was a lowly farmer
neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Still, they taught me the pride of the sun
before teaching me how to read;
now my house is a watchman's hut
made of branches and cane.
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name, but no title!

Record!
I am an Arab!
You have stolen my ancestors' orchards
and the land I cultivated
along with my children.
You left us nothing
but these bare rocks.
Now will the State claim them
as it has been declared?

Therefore!
Record on the first page:
I do not hate people
nor do I encroach,
but if I become hungry
I will feast on the usurper's flesh!
Beware!
Beware my hunger
and my anger!

NOTE: Darwish was married twice, but had no children. In the poem above, he is apparently speaking for his people, not for himself personally.



Excerpt from 'Speech of the Red Indian'
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let's give the earth sufficient time to recite
the whole truth...
The whole truth about us.
The whole truth about you.

In tombs you build
the dead lie sleeping.
Over bridges you erect
file the newly slain.

There are spirits who light up the night like fireflies.
There are spirits who come at dawn to sip tea with you,
as peaceful as the day your guns mowed them down.

O, you who are guests in our land,
please leave a few chairs empty
for your hosts to sit and ponder
the conditions for peace
in your treaty with the dead.



Passport
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

They left me unrecognizable in the shadows
that bled all colors from this passport.
To them, my wounds were novelties―
curious photos for tourists to collect.
They failed to recognize me. No, don't leave
the palm of my hand bereft of sun
when all the trees recognize me
and every song of the rain honors me.
Don't set a wan moon over me!

All the birds that flocked to my welcoming wave
as far as the distant airport gates,
all the wheatfields,
all the prisons,
all the albescent tombstones,
all the barbwired boundaries,
all the fluttering handkerchiefs,
all the eyes―
they all accompanied me.
But they were stricken from my passport
shredding my identity!

How was I stripped of my name and identity
on soil I tended with my own hands?
Today, Job's lamentations
re-filled the heavens:
Don't make an example of me, not again!
Prophets! Gentlemen! ―
Don't require the trees to name themselves!
Don't ask the valleys who mothered them!
My forehead glistens with lancing light.
From my hand the riverwater springs.
My identity can be found in my people's hearts,
so invalidate this passport!



And a Little Child Shall Lead Them
by Michael R. Burch
written July 10,2016

1.
'Where's my daughter? '

'Get on your knees, get on your knees! '

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

2.
where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
when winter scowls
when nights compound dark frosts with snow...
where does the butterfly go?

Four-year-old Dae'Anna Reynolds, nicknamed Dae Dae, loves fireworks; we can see her holding a 'Family Pack' on the Fourth of July; the accompanying Facebook blurb burbles, 'Anything to see her happy.' But perhaps Dae Dae won't appreciate fireworks nearly as much in the future, or 'Independence' Day either.

Diamond Lavish Reynolds, Dae Dae's mother, will remain 'preternaturally calm' during the coming encounter with the cops, or at least until the very end.

Philando Divall Castile, cafeteria manager at a Montessori magnet school, was 'famous for trading fist bumps with the kids and slipping them extra Graham crackers.' Never convicted of a serious crime, he was done in by a broken tail light. Or was it his 'wide-set nose' that made him look like a robbery suspect? Or was it racism, or perhaps just blind—and blinding—fear?

Lavish, Dae Dae and Castile went from picnicking in the park early on the evening of the Fourth, in an 'all-American idyll' celebrating freedom, to the opposite extreme: being denied the simple freedom to live and pursue happiness. Over a broken tail light and/or a suspiciously broad nose.

Castile can be seen sitting on a park bench. Dae Dae and a friend are 'running happily across the grass.' Lavish, wearing an American flag top, exclaims, 'Happy Fourth, everybody! Put the guns down, let these babies enjoy these fireworks! ' Odd to have to put guns down to celebrate a holiday. Only in America, land of the free and the home of the brave?

3.
where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
when the only relief's a banked fire's glow
where does the butterfly go?

... Now the cop's gun is drawn in earnest, four shots ring out, Castile slumps over in his seat, a 'gaping bullet hole in his arm, ' the vivid red blood seeping 'across the chest of his white T-shirt.' The cop continues to point his pistol into the car. His voice is 'panicky.'

'F--k! '

The same curse a Baton Rouge police officer screamed after shooting another black man in a similar incident.

'He was reaching for his wallet and the officer just shot him! '

'Ma'am just keep your hands where they are! '

'I will sir, no worries.'

'F--k! '

'I told him not to reach for it. I told him to get his hand open.'

'You told him to get out his ID, sir, and his driver's license.'

Little Dae Dae, sitting in the back seat, watches it all unfold. So praiseworthy when confronting the unthinkable, she seeks to console her mother, her voice 'tender and reassuring' in marked contrast to the cop's screams.

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

4.
and where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

'Oh my God, please don't tell me he's dead! Please don't tell me my boyfriend went like that! '

'Keep your hands where they are, please! '

Suddenly so polite, perhaps sensing some sort of mistake?

'Yes, I will, sir. I'll keep my hands where they are.'

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

5.
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

More cops appear on the scene.

'Get the female passenger out! '

'Ma'am exit the car right now, with your hands up. Exit now.'

'Keep 'em up, keep 'em up! Face away from me and walk backward! Keep walking! '

'Where's my daughter? You got my daughter? '

'Get on your knees! Get on your knees! '

'It's okay, Mommy, I'm right here with you.'

6.
Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

'Ma'am, you're just being detained for now, until we get this straightened out, OK! '

By now the cops realize the severity of the situation and Castile's injuries, which will result in his death within twenty minutes of the shooting.

'F--k! F--k! F--k! F--k! F--k! '

'Please don't tell me my boyfriend's gone! He don't deserve this! Please, he's a good man. He works for St. Paul Public Schools. He doesn't have a record of anything. He's never been in jail, anything. He's not a gang member, anything.'

Lavish begins praying aloud: 'Allow him to be still here with us, with me … Please Lord, wrap your arms around him … Please make sure that he's OK, he's breathing … Just spare him, please. You know we are innocent people, Lord … We are innocent. My four-year-old can tell you about it.'

Lavish asks one of the cops if she can retrieve her phone.

'It's right there, on the floor.'

'F--k! It has to be processed.'

The cop speaks to Dae Dae, who has started heading back to the car.

'Can you just stand right there, sweetie? '

'No, I want to get my mommy's purse.'

'I'll take care of that for you, OK? Can you just stand right there for me? '

The cops continue to treat Lavish as a suspect. She later said that the cops 'treated me like a criminal... like it was my fault.'

'Can you just search her? '

Mother addresses daughter tenderly: 'Come here, Dae Dae.'

'Mommy…'

'Don't be scared.'

Lavish informs Facebook Live: 'My daughter just witnessed this.'

She tips the phone's camera to the side window of the squad car: 'That's the police officer over there that did it. I can't really do sh-t because they got me handcuffed.'

'It's OK, mommy.'

'I can't believe they just did this! '

Lavish cries out, sounding 'trapped, grief-torn.' Dae Dae speaks again, 'mighty with love, ' a child whose 'quiet magnificence' commands us to also rise to the occasion.

'It's okay, I'm right here with you.'

7.
And a little child shall lead them.

Amen

NOTE: The quoted parts of this poem were taken from a blow-by-blow account of the incident, 'The Bravest Little Girl in the World, ' written by Michael Daly and published by The Daily Beast.



The Beautiful People
by Michael R. Burch

They are the beautiful people,
and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon
to the listless strains of an ancient tune.

Oh, no... please don't touch them,
for their smiles might fade.
Don't go... don't approach them
as they promenade,
for they waltz through a vacuum
and dream they're not made
of the dust and gross dankness
to which men degrade.

They are the beautiful people,
and their spirits sighed in their mothers' wombs
as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes.

Winds do not blow there
and storms do not rise,
and each hair has its place
and each gown has its price.
And they whirl through the darkness
untouched by our cares
as we watch them and long for
a 'life' such as theirs.

I believe I wrote this poem around 1976, at age 18 or thereabouts.