The following are segments from a longer poem — “Moons and Donkeys" — which I wrote after I spent a summer in Gaza in 1997. I dedicate them to the people of Gaza who are currently suffering and resisting yet another massive Israeli assault.
Gaza is a cage,
barb-wired on the inland sides;
the sea mostly off limits.
No mountains, no valleys,
the place is flat.
Forget about movies, books and bars.
The war is said to be over, the price paid,
and will be paid further.
A torpid peace is settling in.
What were the Prophets smitten by?
I am told
The yellow finches
perch on the fence,
consider,
smell the rampant sewers
then wing back to the desert.
I go around,
like an ancient Chinese poet,
watching moons and donkeys.
————————————————————————-
A man who lived for many years in Norway,
told me that on the first day back here
he went out for a walk
when, a few blocks from his parent’s house,
two old men and two middle-aged women
sitting in a row on low chairs on the curb,
caught in boredom’s web,
unleashed their eight eyes on him,
with such penetrating, persistent stares
he began to scan his shirt and pants,
and feel his face with his agitated hand
to find out what was wrong with him,
until he almost stumbled.
————————————————————————–
After a few weeks
the spirit corrugated,
like the rooftops in the refugee camps.
My feet walked backward,
like the feet of the shoeless children.
—————————————————————————
At dawn
the muezzins’ megaphones
clash, overlap,
each spurred on—
to call us, louder,
and louder — for prayer,
to amplify to God
our impotence.
—————————————————————————–
The ash-colored donkey
was pregnant and flaunting it —
belly full, hanging low
like the night’s moon.
She stepped into the road,
slowly, deliberately,
then balked. Turned
her head this way and that.
All the honking fell on deaf ears.
I watched from my stopped car
this mock checkpoint
this street theater.
——————————————————————————–
I want to cross borders
unseen
like salmon
like contaminated wind.
———————————————————————————
Scores of fishing boats
spread out
of the meager port.
In the depth of the night
their kerosene lamps
an oasis of lights,
soft, yellow —
a beauty
hard to conquer
or resist.
The fishermen doze off,
then row again.
————————————————————————————
A crescent moon gleamed,
rocked, like a gondola.
The orthodox clouds
marched on, and covered it.
————————————————————————————-
A daily summer ritual.
A wedding motorcade
in the late afternoon:
A few cars (for the lucky ones),
a bus, and a pickup truck or two
packed with young boys
who laugh and dance,
clap and sing,
like birds singing
to make themselves visible
in the cage.
“Moons and Donkeys” appeared in Elmusa’s book, “Flawed Landscape,” Interlink Books, 2008.
