by Mohammad Javanmard
today I woke up hearing the news
you all know the news
‘except the one who is still laughing’
I heard the news and meaning
erupted
on the floor
as if a flow of a sticky, dark, smelly liquid
you all know the news
‘except the one who is still laughing’
I heard the news and meaning
erupted
on the floor
as if a flow of a sticky, dark, smelly liquid
poetry is not for talking about politics
we all know that
but I’m sorry,
I’m truly sorry
when I heard the news
the meaning erupted
like a bomb in Gaza
near a basement
where Sadiqa and her two children live(d)
poetry is not a political statement
I apologise from all of you
it should be about beauty and love and profound things in life
like when Mahmoud Darwish talks about:
‘the hesitation of April
the smell of bread at dawn
the beginning of love,
grass on a stone…’
but how can one explain to a terrified one-year-old
what bombing is
and why the ground is shaking every few minutes
and the windows
and the half empty glass on the table
and the framed picture of a man you’ve never met
on the wall
and people say that’s your dad
I remember once
my mom took me to a funeral
and everyone was crying
and my mom cried
I felt the whole world started shaking
and I cried
and I wet my pants
‘mama let’s go out of here’
pulling her head scarf
and people thought I’m so sympathetic with the one who’d died
but my mom was crying
and all this is pointless
the main question is
how can one explain to a three-year-old
sitting in a bus
heading to the south
why we should leave our house today
in the midst of all these horrible sounds
and the rubbles of buildings and of
humans
and why…
(the bus erupted)
I’m sorry I’m truly sorry
I know we’re not supposed to use too many adjectives
in a modern poem
that’s just bad taste
I know
I know that poetry should be self-referential and create a semi-autonomous environment
that poetry is not to gain its meaning from outside
signs should interrelate and then the surplus significance emerges from within
I know we shouldn’t express our feelings so explicitly
but forgive me
that I couldn’t think of any ‘objective correlative’
for the bombardment of the children’s hospital in Gaza
for people’s thirst
for the bodies left behind
just like when Neruda couldn’t find any
for ‘the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.’
forgive me that there is no literary equivalence for the catastrophe
there has never been.
today
when I was having my cereal
sitting beside my daughter
in a city in the middle of the UK
the meaning erupted
and it’s unraveling my poetry
(and how cliche this trick is! Disgusting!)
I went to the main square afterward
to see others who’ve felt the earthquake just like me
from far away
we looked at each other’s eyes
we said ‘oh it’s awful’
it’s horrendous
we shared our mutual despise of the political leaders
we talked about the horror
about water
electricity
bread
about last night’s meal that we’d had in the pub nearby
‘how is Tom by the way?’
a friend asked
tom was alright
fortunately
minding his own business
and we chanted
someone said ‘what a cute little girl’
but nobody asked that main question
that we were all thinking of
that how you can explain to a...
the basement exploded.
(another rubble among the rubbles)
no need to explain anymore.
no need to think about it.
Mohammad Javanmard is a poet whose work has thus far appeared in Persian. He also does research on the 21st century collective movements /collective subjectivities through world literature.
