Demonstrations

 

1.

The feeling is not new.  We have been seeing

the move away from the country we had dreamed

as soon as it was created. Even before, when

Arlozorov muttered, “Jews did not kill Jews,”

days before he was shot. Kestner assassinated

because his heroism may have been understood

as selfish. Everyone is afraid of betrayal,

and for fear of the fear, betrays.

We fear each other too much

 to trust ourselves. 

 

2.  

Here, on the streets of Tel Aviv,

facing the t-shirt of the back

of some anonymous protester,

we agree to be friends, beg pardon

as we move with our flags close

to the screens to hear the speaker,

joke with strangers about the heat,

unbearable but unfelt faced

with a country bound by laws

from the middle ages. 

 

3.

Half a block away from the crowds,

Some kid was kicking over the scooters

when an older guy stopped him

and threatened to call the cops.  the boy

went beserk and began to scream out curses

I hadn’t heard in ages.  The only one missing

was that he’d fuck the other guy’s mother.

And in the background was the chaos

of the demonstrations, the drums and whistles

piercing randomly and with growing force.

You have to be for or against, he feels, but

All he knows is the pain of uncertainty,

A house shaking on its foundations.

 

4.

“We’re right behind you,” she said,

A woman I had not seen in years

nor thought of, but suddenly embrace,

“We lost you in petty differences,

she says, “but now we are one people.”

I turn to her, sweaty, breathless.

I never dreamt this day would come.

 

5.

And what of the others?  My comrades

who have left the country in desperation?

Could we bring them back?  My heart aches

for each work of art not created in this land

that spat out anyone not following the path.

Suddenly I see the possibility of room

for all tongues, colors, ways of life,

for a land that restores hope for all.

 

6.

But then my mind returns to Tennyson

“So runs my dream: but what am I?
    An infant crying in the night:
    An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.”

He could afford it

 

 

 

 

 

 

Demonstrations

 

1.

The feeling is not new.  We have been seeing

the move away from the country we had dreamed

as soon as it was created. Even before, when

Arlozorov muttered, “Jews did not kill Jews,”

days before he was shot. Kestner assassinated

because his heroism may have been understood

as selfish. Everyone is afraid of betrayal,

and for fear of the fear, betrays.

We fear each other too much

 to trust ourselves. 

 

2.  

Here, on the streets of Tel Aviv,

facing the t-shirt of the back

of some anonymous protester,

we agree to be friends, beg pardon

as we move with our flags close

to the screens to hear the speaker,

joke with strangers about the heat,

unbearable but unfelt faced

with a country bound by laws

from the middle ages. 

 

3.

Half a block away from the crowds,

Some kid was kicking over the scooters

when an older guy stopped him

and threatened to call the cops.  the boy

went beserk and began to scream out curses

I hadn’t heard in ages.  The only one missing

was that he’d fuck the other guy’s mother.

And in the background was the chaos

of the demonstrations, the drums and whistles

piercing randomly and with growing force.

You have to be for or against, he feels, but

All he knows is the pain of uncertainty,

A house shaking on its foundations.

 

4.

“We’re right behind you,” she said,

A woman I had not seen in years

nor thought of, but suddenly embrace,

“We lost you in petty differences,

she says, “but now we are one people.”

I turn to her, sweaty, breathless.

I never dreamt this day would come.

 

5.

And what of the others?  My comrades

who have left the country in desperation?

Could we bring them back?  My heart aches

for each work of art not created in this land

that spat out anyone not following the path.

Suddenly I see the possibility of room

for all tongues, colors, ways of life,

for a land that restores hope for all.

 

6.

But then my mind returns to Tennyson

“So runs my dream: but what am I?
    An infant crying in the night:
    An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.”

He could afford it