| home |
IN TZOTZIL
On a green hillside
south of Ocosingo,
a campesino in rubber boots
and a black ski-mask
raises his single-shot .22 high
and curses the deep blue sky
that has taken his children.
Together, the family had gone
to cut the sweet cane in its season
when the plane came circling back
and dropped its death bombs upon them.
the bultos hit the ground
like an evil kiss, the concussion
knocking him into mindless oblivion,
and when he awoke,
blood was bubbling
from Rosa's lips
and young Agustin
was cradled limply in his lap
on the banks of the San Carlos river
where such a thing
had never fallen
from the sky before.
It was his own Black Tuesday
and in the broken earth of his heart.
the seed of Jihad germinated.
In San Cristobel,
the Tzotzil men
stand in the street
staring at the banks
of shiny television screens
upon which the jumbo jets
plow into the crumbling skyscrapers
over and over and over again.
What are they thinking?
That it is just a movie?
That it is the end of the world
or maybe the beginning
of the next one?
That it is none of their business
or all of their business
because now the caixones
will come again to tear apart
the new dawn?
War has lacerated
these small wise women and men,
forced them into caves
to eat weeds and offal,
their cousins have been killed
over and over and over again
but not on the TV.
Is it really a movie
or is the movie house
being torn apart
by advanced Tomahawk
missile systems
guided by cowards
at the controls
10,000 miles
from their targets,
too far away
to count the body parts
or hear the lamentations
or taste the blood.
The corn is tall enough now
to be bombed, the river
full of secret germs,
the wind is salted
with the worms of fear –
the Tzotziles have known war before,
have tasted its rotting fruit,
suffered its oozing wounds,
picked up their children
and they were dead.
"There is a fire in my heart"
the mother said,
"if I could reach the one
who killed my son
I would eat him
until he was dead"
the mother said,
the Palestinian mother said,
***********
in Tzotzil, Chiapas 2001
On a green hillside
south of Ocosingo,
a campesino in rubber boots
and a black ski-mask
raises his single-shot .22 high
and curses the deep blue sky
that has taken his children.
Together, the family had gone
to cut the sweet cane in its season
when the plane came circling back
and dropped its death bombs upon them.
the bultos hit the ground
like an evil kiss, the concussion
knocking him into mindless oblivion,
and when he awoke,
blood was bubbling
from Rosa's lips
and young Agustin
was cradled limply in his lap
on the banks of the San Carlos river
where such a thing
had never fallen
from the sky before.
It was his own Black Tuesday
and in the broken earth of his heart.
the seed of Jihad germinated.
In San Cristobel,
the Tzotzil men
stand in the street
staring at the banks
of shiny television screens
upon which the jumbo jets
plow into the crumbling skyscrapers
over and over and over again.
What are they thinking?
That it is just a movie?
That it is the end of the world
or maybe the beginning
of the next one?
That it is none of their business
or all of their business
because now the caixones
will come again to tear apart
the new dawn?
War has lacerated
these small wise women and men,
forced them into caves
to eat weeds and offal,
their cousins have been killed
over and over and over again
but not on the TV.
Is it really a movie
or is the movie house
being torn apart
by advanced Tomahawk
missile systems
guided by cowards
at the controls
10,000 miles
from their targets,
too far away
to count the body parts
or hear the lamentations
or taste the blood.
The corn is tall enough now
to be bombed, the river
full of secret germs,
the wind is salted
with the worms of fear –
the Tzotziles have known war before,
have tasted its rotting fruit,
suffered its oozing wounds,
picked up their children
and they were dead.
"There is a fire in my heart"
the mother said,
"if I could reach the one
who killed my son
I would eat him
until he was dead"
the mother said,
the Palestinian mother said,
***********
in Tzotzil, Chiapas 2001
LINES WRITTEN ON THE F TRAIN
BETWEEN WEST FOURTH STREET AND
BORO HILL BROOKLYN AFTER 9/11
BUT BEFORE THANKSGIVING 2001
* with apologies to William Burroughs
and the flags will fritter and fray,
and the nightmares will fade to black
as the bombing becomes background noise
to our darkening expectations,
and we will return to our daily foxholes
where we think the heat-seeking missiles
will not find us.
and they will trample
our most fundamental human rights
break down the doors to our dreams
and seal us up in subterranean dungeons
and no one will ever know
our names anymore.
and God will bar passengers
bearing turbans and Holy Korans
from using the restroom
on domestic and international flights.
and God will get bored
with blessing America
and go back to where
He came from.
and the oil will freeze in our veins,
and the light will dim in our eyes,
and we will be lost once again
in the night without an inkling
as to why the whole world
hates us.
O Pobre Patria!
O Land Where My Father Croaked!
O My Sweet Sisters and My Brothers!
Deck your heart with lamentations
for the worm has turned
and our days are numbered
BETWEEN WEST FOURTH STREET AND
BORO HILL BROOKLYN AFTER 9/11
BUT BEFORE THANKSGIVING 2001
* with apologies to William Burroughs
and the flags will fritter and fray,
and the nightmares will fade to black
as the bombing becomes background noise
to our darkening expectations,
and we will return to our daily foxholes
where we think the heat-seeking missiles
will not find us.
and they will trample
our most fundamental human rights
break down the doors to our dreams
and seal us up in subterranean dungeons
and no one will ever know
our names anymore.
and God will bar passengers
bearing turbans and Holy Korans
from using the restroom
on domestic and international flights.
and God will get bored
with blessing America
and go back to where
He came from.
and the oil will freeze in our veins,
and the light will dim in our eyes,
and we will be lost once again
in the night without an inkling
as to why the whole world
hates us.
O Pobre Patria!
O Land Where My Father Croaked!
O My Sweet Sisters and My Brothers!
Deck your heart with lamentations
for the worm has turned
and our days are numbered
A PIECE OF CHOCOLATE
The three youngest boys
begged their father
for just one shekel
to buy chocolate
from the market.
Abu Aziz was reluctant
to allow them outside
the small house so late
in the afternoon
but the curfew in Jenin
had been lifted
and the market
only 50 meters away.
Besides they were good boys
who always obeyed their parents
and never threw stones
at the soldiers of the Occupation
so I gave them each one shekel:
a shekel for Achmed,
a shekel for Jamil,
a shekel for Tariq,
and told them
to hurry back home.
After just a few minutes,
we heard a loud explosion
and feared for the worst.
A single Israeli tank
stood smirking in the street.
You could still smell the smoke
from its terrible canon,
and we saw the boys then
lying there in a heap.
Achmed's internal organs
were spread all around them
there on the bloody ground
and Jamil's legs were cut in two.
Only Tariq was untouched
by the exploding shell.
When we ran to them,
we saw that the boys
were still holding
the piece of chocolate
in their little hands.
Both my sons died later
at the Dr. Suliaman Hospital
and we buried the two brothers
still with the chocolate
in their hands.
So this is what it means
to be born a child
in Palestine these days:
you will die in the street
with a piece of chocolate
in your hand
and you will never
get
to eat it.
Occupied Palestine,
************************
From a piece in the Jerusalem Times,
November 2003
The three youngest boys
begged their father
for just one shekel
to buy chocolate
from the market.
Abu Aziz was reluctant
to allow them outside
the small house so late
in the afternoon
but the curfew in Jenin
had been lifted
and the market
only 50 meters away.
Besides they were good boys
who always obeyed their parents
and never threw stones
at the soldiers of the Occupation
so I gave them each one shekel:
a shekel for Achmed,
a shekel for Jamil,
a shekel for Tariq,
and told them
to hurry back home.
After just a few minutes,
we heard a loud explosion
and feared for the worst.
A single Israeli tank
stood smirking in the street.
You could still smell the smoke
from its terrible canon,
and we saw the boys then
lying there in a heap.
Achmed's internal organs
were spread all around them
there on the bloody ground
and Jamil's legs were cut in two.
Only Tariq was untouched
by the exploding shell.
When we ran to them,
we saw that the boys
were still holding
the piece of chocolate
in their little hands.
Both my sons died later
at the Dr. Suliaman Hospital
and we buried the two brothers
still with the chocolate
in their hands.
So this is what it means
to be born a child
in Palestine these days:
you will die in the street
with a piece of chocolate
in your hand
and you will never
get
to eat it.
Occupied Palestine,
************************
From a piece in the Jerusalem Times,
November 2003
THE FIRST RAIN IN YANOON
The first rain
comes to Yanoon
at long last.
We have waited
many dry weeks
for you, drinking in
the sun-baked days
on the terraced hillsides
talking to God
about water,
a conference call
with the clouds.
We are so thirsty
the parched fields
whisper to the wind.
Now the valley
flashes an electric beam
of green blades
and the new wheat
promises bread
and victory.
************************
Occupied Palestine,
The Olive Harvest,
November 2003
These poems are from BOMBA
- available from the author
- available from the author
| home |
Contents this page:
- IN TZOTZIL
- LINES WRITTEN ON THE F TRAIN
BETWEEN WEST FOURTH STREET AND
BORO HILL BROOKLYN AFTER 9/11
- A PIECE OF CHOCOLATE
- THE FIRST RAIN IN YANOON
