SUNDAY MORNING, REVISITED
In Memoriam, Yahuda Amichai, 1924-2000
"Palestinians launched their Intifada against Israeli rule after (future Prime Minister Ariel) Sharon visited a Jerusalem site holy to both Muslims and Jews on September 28. At least 318 Palestinians, 52 Israelis and 13 Israeli Arabs have been killed in violence since then."
Reuter's report, 02/09/2001
"...Over the seas, to silent Palestine
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre."
Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning"
Sunday morning arose with a bang and a clatter
and a promise as empty and tasteless
as the dust left in the air
by the passing of soldiers in personnel vehicles
guns bristling from the windows
a prickly pear if ever there was one
a picture that became consistently clearer
as I opened my tired eyes
to the tired scene
to the tired, tired, tired scene
of the crime: the pundits have it that the Hawk is rising
to defend Jerusalem
with Gestapo tactics.
What could it hurt?
So long as the power coalitions don't break down
he can keep drawing his goddamned lines in the sand
keep claiming that his work is only
for the good of Israel. But then
the power coalitions always break down
the peace breaks down, the machinery breaks down
the walls that promised to keep
the sacred separations.
What land gave these large mannered motions
to his mythy mind? Does he even know what
he is doing? I fear he does. I fear him. I fear
that what I hear behind his words is the solemn oath
that he will not rest until this vast tract of broken ground
has been staked out for reasoned theft once again
and bloody Palestine again screams in pain
and again rises
to strike
her tormentor
My vision is smudged by the smut
of burning cars and black blood drying
in the sun on the twisted and torn limbs
of your people, Lord. I have lost my voice; I can no longer
ask, What's happened here, what the hell
has happened here in your Holy Land?
The air
is thick with cries of protest, indignation, rocks and stones
bullets and batons, vows
and profanities. I have lost my voice,
Oh Lord. What am I to say, what am I, if anything,
to say?
Your words have left me. Your breath
has left. And still I wait to hear
your command, your contrition, confusion, confession, Amen!
Hallelujah! Yehuda! Why
are you wandering the desert, when you should be here,
where you are needed most, telling me
what, my sweet Lord, if anything,
I should say?
The sun has passed it's crux, swinging
on its tether towards where
the sea will quench it. I imagine the sweet winds
Bringing the last of the day's heat off the desert. You see,
I have a confession to make: I cannot lose hope. Just
as you could not. Just
as you never did. Just
minds will prevail, must prevail, will prevail,
won't they? Musn't they? You see, I am, always, ever
wishfully thinking
as you were, that someday
the sepulchre might be empty of blood
that Sunday morning will bloom bright on the quiet desert floor
to the hush of desert winds and the blessing
of the quiet smile of an optimist, gazing out on the desert peace
and thinking Next year,
In Jerusalem
James MacFarlane Williams