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Sunday, December 31, 2023

Poetry for Palestine

 A Little Too Late


Maryam Sakeenah


Father, you kept your promise

To bring my favourite biscuits, 

From the coin you had discovered

In the pocket of the old coat

While scavenging in the rubble

Of our home in Gaza. 

Sorry I broke your heart, father... 

For I couldn't run to you

With that dimpled smile

And the twinkle in the eye

To grab that special treat

I had longed for

Since the bombs began... 


But I am gone, father

To where there is no longing, 

No fear, no pain, 

Upwards and onwards

To the Divine embrace

Sweeter than the treat I awaited. .. 

Hold on, father, 

With the sweetness of faith, 

Patience and hope... 

I'll meet you on the other side

With the dimple and the twinkle

To claim this biscuit pack

You promised. 

It'll taste sweeter then, 

Taking away the bitterness

Of this unfair parting

Between a promise

And its fulfillment...

Thursday, December 7, 2023

Soul of Our Souls

 SOULS OF OUR SOULS


‘’She's Reem," said my little Khadija 

Naming her new dollie... 

Plastic is more durable

Than human flesh these days. 


Yet 

In the skies far above,

Beautiful Reem, 

the Soul of Our Souls

Laughs and prances about

Under the kind gaze

Of Father Ibraheem


It’s a sight to behold, 

With all the new-coming children 

Each one, the Soul

Of Someone's Soul.


- Maryam Sakeenah

Saturday, October 28, 2023

Children of Gaza (and other child victims of war and conflict)

IF YOU COULD SPEAK...

Maryam Sakeenah

Little face in the rubble!
If you could speak
From your midget-coffin-
If your sweet voice could carry through
Your little mouth
Cavernous and hollowed out by death,
Encrusted with old blood
Stopped in its tracks between pearly new teeth
That once shone when your face blossomed into smiles;
Or enlivened with laughter
Over some little silliness, some little surprise-
Those little things, before scary big things took over-
Big feuds between little people
Unable to see the faces in the rubble-
Blinded, insensate...
If you could speak
From beneath the settling dust of oblivion
Falling, falling quietly over hearts-
You’d speak of
When the sky flared up with fires-
Malevolent and blind- as they rained Death,
Leaving the trail of bloodied corpses
And shell-shocked mourners.
And often, battered little bodies-
Timorous and traumatized-
Confounded by unanswered questions.
You’d speak of
The desperate, endless waiting
For a healing hand-
Perhaps your mother’s keffiyeh to cling on to;
A warm breath to reassure
“It’ll be all right”…
But the breath was cold,
The hand lifeless and brittle.
You’d speak of
The stinging, deep pain
Of a disconsolate helplessness,
And the terrifying abyss of cruel questions
Hulking all around you,
Pressing upon your battered self,
Confounding your infantile senses.
You’d speak of
How Death took so long to reach
As you writhed in your own blood...
Yet when She reached, Her touch strangely familiar
In its maternal, Messianic embrace,
As it spread its gentle wing
Soaring above and beyond
Where pain cannot reach-
Onward and upward
To 'The Home of Peace'
That you were promised...
If you could speak-
Your voice would resound...
"If only my people knew..." (The Noble Quran, 36:26)
If you could speak-
The Verdict would ring loud-
An eternal, scathing indictment
Writ large into the very heart
Of the eternal universe...
"Yaa hasrat an al all ibaad" (Alas for mankind!) (The Noble Quran, 36:30)
If you could speak-
The layered silences
Over the tiny mound of earth
That shrouds you
Would be ripped through
By the still, small voice…
Piercing, shattering, tearing, shuddering…
To ask of us
An overwhelming question-
'For what crime was I slain? (The Noble Quran, 81:9)

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