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Showing posts with label wailing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wailing. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 28, 2023

BYE, BYE, HOMO SAPIENS… WE HARDLY KNEW YA

by George Salamon


“‘All the cemeteries are full': Palestinians buried in a mass grave in Gaza.” —Reuters, November 22, 2023

"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind." —John Donne, Meditation 17, 1623


On the pile of rubble
the wailing of a mother
means nothing.
On the broken street
the raised fist of a father,
nothing.
The weeping of entire
populations on both sides,
nothing.
The killing of the air,
the end of our oceans,
nothing
In times of exhaustion
and nihilism, values
have vanished and we
are turning into machines,
surviving to function, not
to live.


George Salamon thinks the lords of Silicon Valley have,  million clicks after millions of more clicks, succeeded into turning most of our minds and hearts into file clerks and bean counters.

Thursday, April 28, 2022

THE RELICS OF MARIUPOL

by Agnieszka Tworek


A Reuters photo shows the building of a theatre destroyed in the course of Ukraine-Russia conflict in the southern port city of Mariupol, Ukraine on April 10, 2022.


grey butterflies of ashes
rise and fall on Mariupol
after each missile or bomb
is dropped
 
bridges and roads
to safety are gone,
no way in or out
 
many can’t pass
the threshold to the other
world because even Death
is overwhelmed in Mariupol
 
ghosts help wounded
soldiers reload their guns
 
the lacerated land
bleeds into the sea
shadowed by the enemy fleet
 
sirens lull children
to sleep and wake them up
 
what is for breakfast?                         
a spoonful of air
 
what’s to drink?
a cup of rain
 
what is a house?                     
fire and smoke
 
what is a school?                    
a gaping hole
 
what are the walls?                
your mother’s arms
 
the city landmarks endure
on maps stored
in survivors’ hearts
 
grey butterflies of ashes
rise and fall on Mariupol
at dawn, noon, and dusk
 
a woman covered in dust
presses her hands on the ground,
as if trying to resuscitate
her hometown
 
wailing and blood
are spilling out
from the underground
 
does anybody know? 
everyone knows
does anybody come? 
nobody comes
except for bullets, rockets,
and bombs.


Agnieszka Tworek was born and raised in Poland. Her poems have been published in Ploughshares, The Sun, Best American Poetry, The Southern Review, Rattle (Poets Respond), and in other journals.  She lives on Staten Island.