TO MILAD DAQQA

Walid Daqqa - Palestinian prisoner who died in zionist prison. He was able to smuggle his sperm out of prison to father his daughter Milad in 2020 — Walid Daqqa – Palestinian prisoner who died in zionist prison. He was able to smuggle his sperm out of prison to father his daughter Milad in 2020.

“Even when conducted legally, war is ugly. It is possible to kill children legally, if for
example one is being attacked by an enemy who hides behind them.”
The Atlantic, Graeme Wood, May 17th 2024

“Love is contraband in Hell,
cause love is an acid
that eats away bars.”
Assata Shakur, Black US political prisoner vet Black Panther , exiled in Cuba

Milad
you are small enough
to still be clasped
firmly in your mother’s arms
yet old enough
for your own story
to be
first person singular
grasped

yesterday
as you looked down
from the podium
into the sea of our faces
your childish eyes were grave
and quiet
while the words of Sana’ Daqqa
your heroic mother
told the story
of how the ultimate contraband of love,
her husband’s sperm,
was smuggled through zionist bars
enabling your birth

how much did you understand
when Sana’s words recounted
the torture
and solitary confinement
visited on Walid Daqqa
for being the criminal perpetrator of your Life ?

your mother
who is your teacher
is deeply wise
and not much was lost
in translation
as you listened
to every word

Milad
you have an older sibling
a paper brother
called
The Trinity of Fundamentals –
the brainchild
of Wisam Rafeedie
who wrote it while in a zionist prison
and had it
smuggled out
in capsules
to live on and on
in our minds

may you
Palestinian children
born against the odds
in the eye of resistance’s gleam
become legion
and
redeem
the intent proclaimed
verbatim
that
“children can be legally killed.”

Milad
you and your upcoming generation
will stand so steadfast
so resilient
such a rising tide
under the stars
nobody will hide behind you
but
all will march at your side
in pride

Milad
never never
will a child be killed legally –
your very existence
against zionist diktat
is a contrario evidence

Milad
yesterday
with your very presence
your very life live
your serious face
your gaze
already ready for
what is to come –
you were
the real time epitome
of continuity
of intergenerational necessity
the alive and strugglin’ proof
there will be no border
no bars
no interruption
to the torch of Love
handed over

little Milad
not so little
you embody
the hope
no longer brittle
that the children will manifest
their ancestors’ dreams
and
your coming of age
will coincide
with the external liberation of the land
and
the path to inner freedom

little Milad
as your father said

you will return
free
to the Palestine
that lies ahead

A CHILD ASLEEP IN RAFAH

to Arthur Rimbaud and his world war one poem “le dormeur du Val”

in a desolate street
in Rafah
near an empty tent
a small child
with sunken eyes
and hollow cheeks
fell asleep
with an enormous piece of
stale bread
in his tight grip

his whole body
is curled protectively
around
this unhoped for gift

starved as he was
for months
he must have eaten
with fierce happiness
because a drool of saliva
runs down his chin
and
a hint of a smile
hovers around his lips

he is sleeping so deeply
lost in his own food-filled dreams
he does not feel the wind
blowing cold on his rags
nor is he aware of
pieces of rubble
jutting into his limbs

a bomb-conditioned cat
that has followed him
for weeks
has left the crust
the child gave him
untouched
because it is too dry
but the feline
remains on the alert
close by

the child is sleeping
the sleep
of satiation
at last

if you come up closer
to rouse him from sleep
and warn him to find shelter
from the made-in-America
zionist bombs
you might almost miss
a tiny
still wet
red flower
bullseying his heart

WHAT IS POETRY TO ME

to the poets who have let me know that poetry does not redeem mass death nor does it reconcile us with it – but poetry may help us to come to terms with the grief left in its wake so we can march forward stronger than ever.

to the Victor Hugo who was against the death penalty and who wrote ” Nous partirons à l’aube/ a l’heure ou blanchit la campagne”;
to Arthur Rimbaud for his “Dormeur du Val”;
to Refaat Alareer for all his poems and who taught Rimbaud to his students in Gaza;
to Agostinho Neto for a poem whose English translation I have been looking for for decades – two soldiers play football in a forest clearing, when we get up close we see that the ball is the head of a freedom fighter;
to Richard Wright who wrote “Between The World And Me” about lynching in the South of the United States

– and to so many others unnamed I am the grateful student of …

have we wondered why
there are no poems
written by the master builders
of genocide ?

perhaps because they prefer
algorithms
to rhymes

certainly because they prefer
bloodlusty imperialism
and mass graves
and because for them
Love
is not billion dollar profitable
and
is lost in translation

rootically
the word poetry
means to do,
whereas the word genocide
means
to do – yes,
but to do away with all Life

poetry
even at its darkest
is the language of hope

poetry to me is
that fleeting moment
alighting in my mind
with butterfly wings
and finding
after letting it go
a few wordgrains
of iridescent powder
still there
for me to write

poetry to me is,
each time,
even at the cutting edge
of the darkness
the zionists try to herd us into,
finding a way
to light
a way out

poetry is to me
a spinning wheel
where the threads of grief
and loss
and repeated mourning
are woven
into transcendence and resolve

poetry to me
is both a shield
and a safety net,
a reservoir of silk
producing a resistant web
life-jacketed
for survival
and a secret harmony
heard
when scientists amplify
the vibrations of the strands
plucked by Ananse,
the African spider
who is so prescient and wise

poetry to me
is breath –
the inhalation and exhalation
that pace
our spoken stanzas,
the respiration
that unchokes
George Floyd
and Eric Garner

poetry to me
is Refaat Alareer’s kite –
an ancestral message unbottled
and untethered
by a legion of children
to be read and echoed
in the liberated expanses
of a soon quiet
domeless sky

poetry to me
is the dust-filled moment
of memories
when grit and rubble
are joyfully swept
out of the shells of homes stolen
now rightfully reclaimed –
even as drones
the IOF’s wannabe vultures
fly in crazed circles
obsessionally driven
and steel brained

poetry to me
is a wounded child
without surviving parents
still able to smile
when he smells his mother’s unburied scarf –
its fabric untorn and unstained

poetry to me
is the old love war of the slaves
captured by the Portuguese –
a never touching
never brushing
dance,
a cryptic graceful capoeira
disguising
the velvet word-clad
weapons of resistance
into
cartwheels of hidden meaning
until the master’s back
is turned

poetry to me
is the tamed dragon keeper
of the wounded healer

each poem
is a candle
lit and burned
till night’s end
for all lives to live
for all genocides to die

WORDS DIE TOO

“Which words are slowly dying ?”
Vijay Prashad, June 6 2024
The Tricontinental Newsletter

what is a lawn
if not the so-called
private property
ivy league elites
would protect
against the human pests
called students ?

what is a lawn
if not the inhumane space
to be mowed
every so often
to keep Gaza’s population down ?

what is a lawn
if not a source of fodder
for starving children
who drink soup
made with grass and water ?

what is a lawn
if not the manicured
pool-side
apartheid-lined
expanse
of the zionists’
shrinking garden ?

what is a lawn
if not a field
munched by sheep
for the sake
of eco-yield

what is a lawn
if not a word
that should be slowly dying ?

ECOLOGY OF IMPERFECTION

sometimes
i just want to take a brush
and paint over
the untidiness
of the scrambled cloud sky
on my mind’s canvas

sometimes
outside my window
the drooping brown branches
of palm trees
seem far from manicured

sometimes
the wrinkles in this tree bark
remind me
of mine

sometimes
i have no patience
with the lack
of a geometrical world

sometimes
i become the school marm
of my inner child
and armed
with a mental red pencil
i cross out
all dream-boxes
colored
beyond the permitted line

sometimes
i want to berate
a friend who has arrived late
before asking
why

always
i fear the
unpredictability
of mortality

always
i lighten up
and tighten up
but
in a ruthless
capitalist society

always
i abhor
the inability of words
ungrounded in action
to stop in its tracks
genocide
and war

i am a slow clumsy
apprentice
of the ecology
of imperfection

now i understand
at least imperfection
means
an absence of hubris

now i understand
at least imperfection
means the vulnerability
to write this

now i understand
at least imperfection
means
the humility
to accept i am unfinished

imperfection
tells us everything we need
to know
about the scars
and
hesitations
and
tribulations
of Mother Earth
as she shows us
how to resist

Fighting Words

Journal of the Communist Workers league

TO MILAD DAQQA | A CHILD ASLEEP IN RAFAH | WHAT IS POETRY TO ME | WORDS DIE TOO | ECOLOGY OF IMPERFECTION

Poems by renowned Black leader and activist Julia Wright