This photographer managed to get this photo out.
He was exterminated the following day.
(Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
(Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA)
—Poetry by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
A ROSE FOR GAZA
Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape.
No garden of Eden here.
No gateway to paradise.
Rubble and rock roses.
So I shall plant a rose for Gaza
in my green space,
in my tranquil garden.
I won’t bruise it,
just gently sniff its fragrance
and hope that one day
fragrant roses will bloom again
in the garden of Gaza.
What else can I do?
(prev. pub. in Poets Haven, Vending Machine
in Poetry for Change Anthology 2014)
SUMMER IN GAZA
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no water.
Metal rain.
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no sunshine.
Smoke rain.
Black rain.
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no life.
Death rain.
Life-ending rain.
Death without life rain.
In the rain of the rockets
there’s no hope.
Deaf rain.
Deaf rain.
Deaf rain.
Death rain.
(prev. pub. in Rain, Party and Disaster Society, November 2014)
GAZA, 20th JULY 2014
Thirteen soldiers died today.
Soldiers.
Soldiers, not people.
People could not do it.
Could not do the things they did.
The thirteen dead and the rest who live.
Soldiers.
Things in uniform obeying orders,
yes sir no sir-ing their way into oblivion.
They could do it.
They would do anything, if told to.
Humanity suspended or cuckooed.
Killing machines, destroyers of dreams,
burying them in the rubble with the bits.
With the bits of bodies,
the hands and the feet,
the breasts and the balls.
Things in uniform.
Daleks of death.
They did it.
They killed every thing.
Maybe if enough things die
they will stop their slaughter.
Maybe if enough things die
they will become extinct
like the dodo,
the stuff of legend
like the unicorn.
I hope so.
(prev. pub. in Quail Bell, August 2016)
GROUND FORCE GAZA
Another volley of stones.
It’s frightening.
Lucky we’re protected
with our body armour.
Lucky we’re safe inside our tanks.
Frightening though.
So many stones.
Such big rocks lobbed
by such little people.
We’re not allowed to kill them
if they’re under twelve.
And orders are orders.
But it’s difficult to tell
sometimes.
Could be worse though.
Could be in a war zone
with phosphorus flying
and armour-piercing shells
doing more than scratch the paint.
We could be fried alive in our tanks
then.
But now,
here,
only us can do the frying.
(prev. pub. by Vagabond Press in The Border Crossed Us—
An Anthology To End Apartheid, October 2015)
TO MY OLD FRIEND WHO KNOWS
HOW IT IS
HOW IT IS
What ever happened, my old friend?
You know
right from wrong.
You know,
you saw with your eyes open.
You knew oppression,
abuse of power,
state terror,
apartheid.
You knew.
You know.
We boycotted,
we campaigned,
we did what we could.
Then
I would have shared anything with you.
Now
I wouldn’t even share my space,
wouldn’t stay in the same room as you.
What ever happened to you, my old friend?
Rediscovering your jewishness shouldn’t mean
giving up your humanity,
negating your history,
seeing with your eyes tight shut
but you know
you know.
What ever happened, my old friend
you know.
(prev. pub. in Inquietude, Issue 1, April 2018)
SEED SHELLS
The first seeds were sown a long time ago.
When these small seed shells burst open
they were scattered locally.
They grew patchily at first, in Palestine, in Israel,
in Lebanon and throughout the Arab world.
There were only little streams to irrigate
and fertilise them, so they often failed to thrive.
But that was then.
Now the shells have grown bigger
and the seeds have flown further.
Further and further.
And the streams have grown wider and longer.
And more nutritious.
When the seed shells have burst in this century,
they found ground that was even more fertile.
So more and more has come under cultivation,
irrigated and fertilised now from rivers,
rivers of blood.
So well irrigated,
so well nurtured and tended that
the patches of brown soil became rare indeed.
But there were some.
Later seeds spread wider over Gaza.
As larger seed shells broke and splintered
they found and colonised new areas
outside the brown patches
where it was now easy to germinate and thrive.
Now even trees could grow there and send out suckers
into the newly bloodied green places.
Soon there was a wood with dense undergrowth.
The rivers were torrents now
bloody torrents
with plenty of irrigation channels.
Now more seeds have flown. Ever bigger
seed shells are exploding and unloading
their crop of giant seeds.
The wood is a forest now,
a forest of giants now spreading their own seed
in the already fertile ground,
spreading it ever more thickly,
growing ever taller.
A forest of hate,
a writhing, spitting jungle
that we are unable to cut down
(prev. pub. in Guide to Kulchur 2016)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
War does not determine who is right—only who is left.
—Bertrand Russell
____________________
Poets cannot ignore what’s going on around them, unfortunately, and it was inevitable that some of our SnakePals would tackle the war in Gaza head-on. Many thanks to Lynn White for these frightening poems; she says she “wrote them almost 10 years ago but they are sadly more relevant than ever.” Find Lynn at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com AND/OR https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/.
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
sadness has
emptied us
like a bottle
on the beach…