Poetry Friday is hosted by Linda Kulp @ WriteTime.
The news now is all about bombs flying over Israel and Gaza – and in photograph after photograph, we see it once again: the victims – frightened children and grieving families. Of course, bombs and frightened children and grieving families are not new news to us anymore. All that shifts is the location – some new part of our world in which people are tearing each other apart. I think more people need to read Naomi Shihab Nye.
“Let’s be the same wound if we must bleed.
Let’s fight side by side, even if the enemy
is ourselves: I am yours, you are mine.”
—Tommy Olofsson, Sweden
I’m not interested in
who suffered the most.
I’m interested in
people getting over it.
Once when my father was a boy
a stone hit him on the head.
Hair would never grow there.
Our fingers found the tender spot
and its riddle: the boy who has fallen
stands up. A bucket of pears
in his mother’s doorway welcomes him home.
The pears are not crying.
Later his friend who threw the stone
says he was aiming at a bird.
And my father starts growing wings.
Each carries a tender spot:
something our lives forgot to give us.
A man builds a house and says,
“I am native now.”
A woman speaks to a tree in place
of her son. And olives come.
A child’s poem says,
“I don’t like wars,
they end up with monuments.”
He’s painting a bird with wings
wide enough to cover two roofs at once.
(You can read the rest here