For Mahmoud Darwish


He could wax ecstatic. Dervish, he would spin
And ululate, his passions alien to me, to my
Sort, sober, stolid, dull, allegedly without emotion.
Still, my sort had conquered his, passion
Masked, there nonetheless. He swung his
Sword. We fired rifles. His kin sit on stones
With nothing, their homes snatched away
From them. They wail. My kin sits somewhere
And plots, at ease in air conditioning.
The troops are fed and in their transports,
Set to sally forth again. The shelves are
Stocked with his kin's olives, oranges,
Their lamb and blood. Their passion's
All that's left to them, their hatred, hot as
August's sun. They wax ecstatic, ululate,
And ask their Allah to return to drive us
From their land.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 56 times
Written on 2018-04-01 at 13:40

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Like most conflicts, when you sit down and think about them they seem absurd. Well written and does what all good poetry should do. Removing scales from eyes.

jim The PoetBay support member heart!
I suspect that under different circumstances you would have enjoyed, or preferred, a life in which showing and expressing passion is allowed (not in a conquering way, of course). The sober, stolid, dull life you suggest doesn't fit a man of passion. Were his passions really alien to you, or merely alien to your culture?

I like this glimpse of another way of living life, though the politics of it are eternal and depressing.

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
A truly thoughtful comment on a long festering sore that has erupted again infected by hideous imbalance of this theologically scared land

I get the feeling you are trying to convey, but I'll have to read more works of Mahmoud Darwish in order to fully appreciate this poem.