Mosab Abu Toha
Memories Are Flowers
Memories are Flowers—
We water them,
narrate them,
turn them into poems
into plays,
into stories.
We decorate them with
light bulbs,
with metaphors
of different hues,
in variant clubs.
Some memories are nasty.
They have rank smells,
and coarse, prickly skin.
No matter how deeply
inhumed the bones,
the worm of sweet memories
shall find their way.
Untitled
A father wakes up at night, sees
the random colors on the walls
drawn by his four year old son.
But he’s dead after an airstrike.
The colors are about 4 feet high.
Next year, they would be 5 or 6.
But the painter is dead and the
museum has no new
paintings to show.
A Poet and Librarian Catalogs Life in Gaza: Mosab Abu Toha
A Rose Shoulders Up
Don’t ever be surprised
to see a rose shoulder up
among the ruins of the house:
This is how we survived.
Memorize Your Dream
Close your eyes
and
walk on the ocean.
Dabble your hands
in the water
and
catch your poem’s words.
Write the words up on
the clouds.
Don’t worry, they will find
their land.
Open your eyes.
In the night,
the sea is no longer blue.
Look around and from
the descending
raindrops
pick your punctuation marks.
Put on your swimsuit,
dive deep down
and look for a title
for your epic.
Embark on your
moving homeland—
your boat.
Go to your bed
and, in your sleep,
begin to memorize
your dream.
My heart breaks for you now and all Palestinians. May your family remain safe at this terrible time in Gaza.
From one librarian to another:
How do we console when we haven’t experienced it? How do we apologize when our government supports those who take your children? No words…
Just know that there are those of us who are aware of your humanity and cry.
Your words are profoundly understanding. Thanks for uttering them.
These poems… my heart is breaking. And they’re so beautiful. I will write them on my signs when I protest this weekend.
Persévérez dans l’élan de votre cœur.
Les écrits sont des armes plus efficaces que les missiles.
La Palestine a besoin d’hommes comme vous.
De cœur, je soutiens vos futurs objectifs.
Mohamed MELHEM.
Teach love
I cry wild across the honey waters of Lethe:
my God,
my God….
Your poems destroy
the warm blanket I cling to at night.
Your poems have destroyed
the safe home I live in.
I am no longer safe, free or alive
While you write the poems you live and die with.