Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
khalil nieves
57 years old
jerusalem, shaheeda, we have already won
shaheeda
it was on the day that his heart broke, that he just left the village, going nowhere particular, and when he returned he wrote his wife on the leaves of his heart.
listen, my love, it is cold and winter, and often, i miss you, but today we buried one more child in Karbala her name is shaheeda.
they say the breast milk her mother gave her was contaminated from the waters of the Euphrates where the raw sewage drains out into the river. this sewage plant was damaged during the Gulf invasion, and I have been told that the repair parts for the plant are on the list of sanctioned items.
her mother told me that shaheeda wanted to be a teacher, that she wanted to teach young children how to forget air raid sirens, bombs falling, buildings collapsing, the shrieking shrill songs of young children in the intensive care unit as they slowly slipped away.
her mother told me shaheeda had a shy smile, and that the right eye was smaller than the left, that one leg was shorter than the other, but shaheeda had a shy smile, saying, there are others whose eyes have not tasted sunlight, there are others attached to machines. shaheeda had a shy smile, saved her cookies to give to her brother, Ayat pulled the cat’s tail, laughed when her father, rashid twirled her in the air.
listen, my love, it is cold and winter but, did I tell you, how shaheeda left so slowly
first she stopped running, then there was the fever, then the aches.
my love, it is cold. shaheeda never cried though I did. even at the edge of death there was a weak, shy smile.
my love,
after shaeeda died, i broke heart, left our village, and wandered out into the desert of karbala.
jerusalem
my heart, today reminds me of the first day of our honeymoon. the olive flowers are blossoming. rain falls lightly.
you asked to marry when the blossoms came. in the hills above our village. rain fell lightly that night.
in different times, we would go once again to the hills. for our twenty-fifth anniversary.
only because of you, i asked for permission from my keepers, for a day, or an afternoon. then, just an hour.
but my captor’s laughter was drowned out by the screaming as the f-16 fighters bombed gaza- for the seventh straight day.
it is summer. because of the heat i daydream of a cup of cold water from the well for our olive trees, and think of fahim pruning the olive trees in my absence, as a lonely dove settles on the razorwire that encircles muhammad, ali myself and all of palestine.
muhammad had a picture of our flag when the soldiers found it they asked where is this place? then they began furiously beating him.
my heart, surely it is time ihklas is old enough to marry and to go to the training camps. today, muhammad received a letter an israeli guard refused to let his wife pass and she gave birth at the checkpoint. the baby died.
it is fall. ghazi, our imam led us in prayers during our 11th ramadan here. his daughter was not allowed to go for heart surgery.
it is winter. i break the ice on our water jugs. across the valley the apartheid wall lengthens its shadow.
in the evening, the soldiers cut down the olive trees
to warm themselves.
we
have already won in this life and the next. have you not heard, the meek shall inherit the earth.
you have trained torturers to break bone have cast us into dark dank prisons stolen the flower of our youth broken our arms, legs, but never our hearts. gathered armies to destroy our villages, towns, cities, and countries but never our will.
from far distances you hurl artillery shells, from the unseen drop burning bright steel cylinders, yet, still we rise.
“do not say of those who are martyred that they are dead, nay, they live.”
still we rise. our children will take our places. our grandchildren will read the history of these Dark Ages, remember us in their prayers, and our numbers will grow.
