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Photo replaced on November 13, 2015
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Here a house, a gate, a pitcher, a well, a fruit tree, a window…here.
Here olives and figs, apples and mint, pomegranates…sweetness.
Here markets and shops and schools… Idlib, Homs, Aleppo. Here.

Here bullets, here shrapnel and glass, here twisted metal …our bodies.
Here Ghada, here Youssef, here Samar… lie down beside me.
Here Shiite and Sunni, Alawite, Kurd, Christian, Druze… children.

Here hunger, here thirst, here dirt…we smell of our fear.
Here we walk, here we fall and walk again… we are not there.
Here fences , eyes, checks and questions…how can we face them?

Here fantasy, here dreams that we may be welcome….if we are there.
Here sun, here morning, here birds that chatter…are we here?
Here what was once, what was ours…here a place like our own?

Here a bed, here a pillow… autumn leaves not seen before.
Here our songs, our poems, our prayers…here our sisters and brothers.
Here our love, our thanks, please forgive us, lie down in darkness with us.

Steve Bucknell. 12.11.15.

forever is a long time, diedje, corduroy cat, John FitzGerald and 4 other people have particularly liked this photo

6 comments - The latest ones
Pierre VDM
Pierre VDM
Excellent words to a tragedy. Even if they seem to systematically fade away when confronted to those realities. And since they re too far, they come to us, not in a violent way, but in a human way. Do we feel pity? sorrow? empathy? anger? Do we feel? (Well, you undeniably do)
2 years ago.
Steve Bucknell has replied to Pierre VDM
I think any poem like this risks being a melodramatic and sentimental piggybacking on real events. There is something indecent about it. One subtext is: “look at me, look at my empathy, my understanding of the situation.” The sensitive poet co-opts his sensitive readers and all rise together to a happier more self-satisfied place.

Yet I hope that there is some generosity in it. It was prompted by reading the poems of Syrian refugees, by the drip drip of news and by my need to write something. I like one of Miroslav Holub’s definitions of poetry: “in principle and essence it is not against tyrants, against automobiles, against madness and cancer and the gates of death, but against what there is all the time, all the time inside and out, all the time in front, behind and in the middle, all the time with us and against us. It is against emptiness. A poem is being as against emptiness…”
2 years ago. Edited 2 years ago.
Yvonné Lizzy Bruní (HvidLiljer)
Yvonné Lizzy Bruní (…
Straight to the point!
2 years ago.
Armando Taborda
Armando Taborda
A great text, my friend!

No required words to comment!
2 years ago. Edited 2 years ago.
Peter Van Lom
Peter Van Lom
Good documentation.
Have a nice evening.
2 years ago.
A White Stone in the chaos!
Peace, not surrender ... I wish
2 years ago. Edited 2 years ago.