If the soul had a written history, nothing would have happened:
A bird would still be riding the back of a horse,
And the horse would go on grazing in a field
Israeli forces just dropped U.S.-made bombs on displaced Gazans, mostly women and children, sleeping in a UN school in Nuseirat refugee camp, killing at least 40 and injuring hundreds in yet another massacre of innocents that “contradicts all human values.”
And isn’t your blood free as a feral pony, coursing
through the uplands of your body?
The poet tries to be canny while practicing an uncanny art.
and you quiver
as if struck by the great hand
of what is true
The violence will increase the heart-wrenching death toll, increase the number of calls for a ceasefire, and decrease your poll numbers — straight through the election.
After we dropped dirt
on my father’s coffin
the long line of cars
drove back to the house.
Once they started invading us.
Taking our houses and trees, drawing lines,
pushing us into tiny places.
I’ll plant Tamatim here
as an experiment
to treat the wounded ground,
the coal that fumes the electricity that plunges
the needle drifts in air that circles a globe that warms
the icecaps that melt into sea that shifts the current
that loves the wind
Terra Incognita follows life on a mysterious island, inhabited by immortal beings.
If I say
what I know of plenty and of empty,
how will I sleep, or dream of herons?
Why do we try
to rush delight, strong-arm joy
into busy lives, when so much
beauty already seeds itself beneath
our restless feet?
Activists emphasized that they were inspired to act because of their Jewish identity and values, not in spite of them.