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Reviews tagging 'Medical trauma'
Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza by Mosab Abu Toha
11 reviews
silverchild's review against another edition
dark
emotional
informative
reflective
relaxing
sad
tense
slow-paced
5.0
RUBBLE SALARY
Why doesn’t the warplane heave some rubble
overboard after bombing
a house to increase the pilot’s salary?
On the scale, stones and rebars are heavier
than souls.
WE DESERVE A BETTER DEATH
We deserve a better death.
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV.
Our photos, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade
to our graves.
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.
EVERYDAY MEALS DURING WARS
In previous wars, our neighbors would share meals with us in our basement. My brother would start a fire in the old brazier, and I would prepare tea and put the kettle on the burning coals.
There were truces every couple of days. My father could go out and check on the hens and ducks in their coops. My mother would climb the ladder to the roof to put water in bowls for the sparrows and pigeons.
Men would be taken to jails or concentration camps. They could see those who were fighting and killing them and their families.
Nowadays, we don’t see those who take everything beautiful away from us. We don’t even see our shadows during the day. The F-16s swallow the light from the sun, casting the shadows of their fat bellies on us, dead or alive.
Bombs punch the houses, knock them down, smash the fridges and the dishes. A house turns into a stew of concrete-and-blood.
We no longer share meals with the neighbors.
US AND THEM
I want to build my house on a swing.
I don’t want to walk on this earth.
I tell them about houses being shelled,
about bodies
shred
into
tiny
pieces,
about a noisy sky and
ShAkInG ground.
And they,
they tell me about their concern over the little flowers
they haven’t watered for hours,
over an ailing canary in the cage,
over a TV show they will miss tonight.
Their ears hurt when they hear sirens,
but we are made deaf by explosions.Their muscles stiffen with fear on their way to the shelters,
while ours are pierced by boiling shrapnel.
SHRAPNEL LOOKING FOR LAUGHTER
The house has been bombed. Everyone dead:
The kids, the parents, the toys, the actors on TV,
characters in novels, personas in poetry collections,
the I, the he and the she. No pronouns left. Not even
for the kids when they learn parts of speech
next year. Shrapnel flies in the dark,
looks for the family’s peals of
laughter hiding behind piles of disfigured
walls and bleeding picture frames. The radio
no longer speaks. Its batteries have burnt,
the antenna is broken.
Even the broadcaster felt the pain when the radio
was hit. Even we, hearing the bomb
as it fell, threw ourselves
to the ground,
each of us counting the others around them.
We were safe, but our hearts
still ache.
DISPLACED
In memory of Edward Said
I am neither in nor out.
I am in between.
I am not part of anything.
I am a shadow of something.
At best,
I am a thing that
does not really
exist.
I am weightless,
a speck of time
in Gaza.
But I will remain
where I am.
Why doesn’t the warplane heave some rubble
overboard after bombing
a house to increase the pilot’s salary?
On the scale, stones and rebars are heavier
than souls.
WE DESERVE A BETTER DEATH
We deserve a better death.
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV.
Our photos, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade
to our graves.
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.
EVERYDAY MEALS DURING WARS
In previous wars, our neighbors would share meals with us in our basement. My brother would start a fire in the old brazier, and I would prepare tea and put the kettle on the burning coals.
There were truces every couple of days. My father could go out and check on the hens and ducks in their coops. My mother would climb the ladder to the roof to put water in bowls for the sparrows and pigeons.
Men would be taken to jails or concentration camps. They could see those who were fighting and killing them and their families.
Nowadays, we don’t see those who take everything beautiful away from us. We don’t even see our shadows during the day. The F-16s swallow the light from the sun, casting the shadows of their fat bellies on us, dead or alive.
Bombs punch the houses, knock them down, smash the fridges and the dishes. A house turns into a stew of concrete-and-blood.
We no longer share meals with the neighbors.
US AND THEM
I want to build my house on a swing.
I don’t want to walk on this earth.
I tell them about houses being shelled,
about bodies
shred
into
tiny
pieces,
about a noisy sky and
ShAkInG ground.
And they,
they tell me about their concern over the little flowers
they haven’t watered for hours,
over an ailing canary in the cage,
over a TV show they will miss tonight.
Their ears hurt when they hear sirens,
but we are made deaf by explosions.Their muscles stiffen with fear on their way to the shelters,
while ours are pierced by boiling shrapnel.
SHRAPNEL LOOKING FOR LAUGHTER
The house has been bombed. Everyone dead:
The kids, the parents, the toys, the actors on TV,
characters in novels, personas in poetry collections,
the I, the he and the she. No pronouns left. Not even
for the kids when they learn parts of speech
next year. Shrapnel flies in the dark,
looks for the family’s peals of
laughter hiding behind piles of disfigured
walls and bleeding picture frames. The radio
no longer speaks. Its batteries have burnt,
the antenna is broken.
Even the broadcaster felt the pain when the radio
was hit. Even we, hearing the bomb
as it fell, threw ourselves
to the ground,
each of us counting the others around them.
We were safe, but our hearts
still ache.
DISPLACED
In memory of Edward Said
I am neither in nor out.
I am in between.
I am not part of anything.
I am a shadow of something.
At best,
I am a thing that
does not really
exist.
I am weightless,
a speck of time
in Gaza.
But I will remain
where I am.
Content Warnings
Graphic: War
Minor: Medical trauma
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