Writers RESPOND to the Israeli War in Lebanon:


Almaz Abinader Poems

Two for Hayan:

(nothing new)
(My Father's House is a Terrorist Target)

(nothing new) 

This is an inspection-they are searching,

full press, all units involved. They are looking

for drums: doumbeck, djembe,

atumpan. checking the hands:

tabla, matka, def, conga,

of the families in the south, scavenging

for fish skin, goat skin, antelope; wooden frames

ceramic bowls, mosaic goblets. Digging up

the backyard, searching the kitchens

the ground floor in the stalls where

the animals once lived. Nothing new.

I am told: the sound of jets streaming

across the sky and of bombs falling

to the earth don't frighten him

so much anymore.  Even the children

rub their hands together, the fleshy part

of their palms already calloused. fingers

swollen as eggplants, nails blackened as the fields

after the fire storm, the oranges and plums

cindered, the vines charcoal bracelets. 

They must find the drums, stop the constant

vibration, this life, this pulse riveting the air.

Secret messages delivered from drums

as clear as machine gun fire: they are crossing 

the border, air force sowing fiery seeds

into the already scorched land. Nothing new

if a bomb lands a mile from the child's school

it is not disproportionate force as they have

been accused, if there are drums--something

to bring the heavens down, to wrap the sky

around the shoulders of the children of the father

of poets-to signal catastrophe and creation.

Nothing loses equilibrium, no imbalance

inner or outer if they have drums--the power

of their own hands commanding the earth

to hold still while the missiles sear the sky.

The children know, seeing the silver smoke

streaking echoes in the air. Someone will be lost

someplace will disappear. They blow

onto the palms to cool them before

they begin again, drum against bomb; bomb

against drum. 

(My Father's House is a Terrorist Target) 

The subject line of an email

The subject line of  my shortness of breath

The subject line of the phone call

to my own father

who stands in the sun and lifts his head toward the sky

listening 

Your father slows his car

on the highway from Beirut

tea and anise cookies in a cupboard

a few miles away, a few miles away

where the beds are empty, the sofa

losing the impression of his body,

the kitchen table with a bowl of apricots

your father slows the car a few miles

away-his eyes glaze over at the night

in front of him, at the stars falling

into the ends of the earth the horizon 

My father-in high dry grass in Maryland

leaves the television talking behind him

loud enough the neighbors all hear what

what he doesn't, lets the phone ring

recognizing the sorrowful notes of his children

asking about home his brothers their families

twists buttons off his shirt counting them

like pennies and the years he left Lebanon

behind stars falling into the ends

of the earth the horizon 

Your father taking his son and wife home  
slows his car but does not watch for long

It is routine to turn around hope for Beirut

damage will be measured tomorrow

when they return if they can 

My father alone in the yard implores

his mother and my mother

as the fireflies rise up and orbit

around his head -- knowing that he cannot return 

You are not the son sitting in the back of the car

reaching a hand forward as the city burns

I am not the daughter pulling my father back

into the house as he whispers the air 

We both sit still our arms covering our heads

a kind of prayer and protection from memory

and anger and shortness of breath. You write

the subject line, my father's house is a terrorist

target and I want to answer each word of that line

breathe deep into the dust and disaster, but cannot--

slow down a few miles away, gaze outside the glass

and find myself stuck. I cannot go beyond my father's.


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I wash my body in Beirut as missiles rain...

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Laila Halaby's letter to an Israeli soldier
Normally in letters I start out by wishing the person to whom I am writing good health and spirits.

Mohja Kahf's letter to a friend entitled "Israel is Godzilla"
From where I sit: Israel has been Godzilla backed by super-Godzilla...

To see Kahf's essay 'The Israelyville Horror?' please go to the homepage of www.MuslimWakeUp.com

Security Apartheid
Ginan Rauf
Amidst all the horror visiting Lebanon recently...

My Family in Lebanon
Hayan Charara -
I have stopped counting the dead. A single death is more than this world can afford...

Elmaz Abinader poems - Two for Hayan
(nothing new)
(My Father's House is a Terrorist Target) 

Word from Dahiyeh, Lebanon
by editor of ArteNews Maymanah Farhat (electronic intafada)


 Featured Artist:

war ration(allies)

al-iqaa


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