By Francis Oeser
(An answer to W. J. Martin)
Where are the Palestinian poets
who’ll tell us all dreams,
dreams of quiet olive groves,
villagers’ meetings, the rich quiet of
rain on straw grass and dust?
Where are the Palestinian poets,
brother Arabs, progeny of
Homer, Shakespeare, Lorca
whose dreams enrich us all,
dreams opposing hate and war,
the vicious greed of Israelis
and the blind-eyes of the world?
Poems about hooves thumping
hearts too,
of golden olive oil
and the laughter of children,
those who dig in our minds in
sweat-tinged soil,
of the joy of making
of the family of man in
places both ordinary and sacred
where a close hug
negates languages of confusion?
Where are the poets
of hope, bringing us
this precious land
and its active people
in odes, sonnets, magic speech
and children’s songs
of hope, prosperity and peace?
Shouts will go up
when their first songs explode
ringing all the bells of a myriad of cities,
awakening brotherhood and a far less futile future.
– Francis Oeser contributed this poem to PalestineChronicle.com.
