MARK LIPMAN

 

A Walk in the Woods

          for Mahmoud Darwish

 

There comes a point

when you have to step

out of the ether,

to walk and get

back to nature,

to listen to the birds sing,

to breathe and write

about beautiful things

before being drawn right

back into Gaza.

 

And how privileged

I am to be able to stop,

to step back and walk away,

to take a breath, a sip of water,

to think about evergreens today

beside a lake, far from cannon fodder

and dead children, the cries of mothers,

somewhere peaceful and full of bird chatter,

when from above an engine roars, cutting

through the sky, to once again shatter

that moment of peace, with eyes shutting,

as you wait for the next bomb to drop.

 

Yet, the only thing falling

on me is a rusty leaf,

the rubble, merely sprawling

foliage, covering not limbs and grief,

broken bodies for the mass grave

that becomes the founding stone

for another theme park, but pave

only over ants, just bugs, to be shone

the same indifference as a Zionist

would looking upon a child’s fragments

a hand here, a foot there, just statistics

for the “better than’s” of “chosen” figments

of the imagination. No tears will be shed today.

 

Yet, as my tracks,

like those of a bulldozer,

tramp over the mounds and stacks

of debris, like some American poser

stealing a home in the West Bank, with mud

thick as blood, covering my boots, staining

the soles of me feet, the thud

of another acorn falls, raining

down from the trees, and I recall

the words once spoken to me

from the books that they all cherish,

saying, “What you do unto the least

of my creatures,” they say in every parish,

“you do unto me.” Yet, they still refuse to cease

the fire, holding themselves higher than all others,

above the law and their own commandments,

and I just wonder, at what point will this all end,

so that we can hear the birds sing once again?

 

A Stirring Underfoot

 

A rumbling can be heard on the horizon

A great stirring underfoot

          as dried, dying leaves crack and crumble

                   from the weight bearing down on them

The march into battle echoes in far off villages

          and mighty metropolis

                   as clear as the fallen pin.

 

A wisp of wind in the Sahara

          is all that is needed

                   to create a sand storm

                   in the dust bowl of the mid-west

Unrest in the streets and town squares

          amassed in the raised voices

                   at the checkout counter

And a fist can be seen in the air

          multiplied by the millions

                   of disheveled and downtrodden.

 

No, we are not to blame for the bankers’ plunder.

 

We, we are merely the results of deregulation

          of capitalization

          of corruption in high places

          and our voices will be heard

 

Vibrating in your meeting halls

          crumbling your capitols

                   to dust and ash

                   from whence they came.

 

Greedy children and their teachers

          are not the guilty parties.

 

The excess spoils will not be found

          in the pockets of the toiling masses.

 

Grandma’s social security check

          did not crash the economy

          any more than did immigrants

                   send your jobs to China.

 

We are not the problem

            but like a thunderbolt from Zeus’ fingertips

            slicing through the darkness

                       of their expedient lies

 

We … will be … the solution.

 

Until It Is Done

          for Nelson Mandela

 

For all those who say,

  it can never be done,

    

  who look upon those ivory towers

  with their militarized trenches

  disappearing chambers

  and puppet mechanisms

 

  imitating human beings

  in all aspects

  ‘cept for a conscience

  and a body to jail

 

  enslaving a world with divisions

  of hate and sectarianism,

 

I say, dream of a world

  which is at peace with itself.

 

For all those who have

  given up hope,

 

  who have fallen to despair,

  who see the skies falling in on them

  and the shoreline inching closer

 

  who have given into fear

  and the bitter tears of defeat,

 

I say, courage is not the absence of fear,

  but the triumph over it.

 

Stand tall and lead.

 

To be free is not merely

  to cast off one’s chains,

  but to break them all.

 

For all those who dream of freedom

  there is no easy path.

 

  hills follow hills

  and mountains

  before we reach our valley

 

  we must use our time wisely

  and see the horizon.

 

Settle not for a life

  … worth less than living.

 

Reach with your first and very last breath

  towards victory, to that mountaintop

 

  and we will all be there with you,

  on the frontline of life

  standing in the light

  of that glorious sun.

 

Lift up your hearts, the time is ripe

  it always seems impossible

  until it is done.

MARK LIPMAN

 

MARK LIPMAN, US National Beat Poet Laureate 2024-2025; founder of the press Vagabond, the Culver City Book Festival, and the Elba Poetry Festival; winner of the 2015 Joe Hill Labor Poetry Award; the 2016 International Latino Book Award and the 2023 L’Alloro di Dante (Dante’s Laurel – Ravenna, Italy), a writer, poet, multi-media artist, activist and author of fifteen books, began his career as the writer-in residence at the world-famous Shakespeare and Company in Paris, France (2002-2003). Since then, he has worked closely with such legendary poets as Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Jack Hirschman on many projects, and for the last twenty years has established a strong international following as a leading voice of his generation. He’s the host and foreign correspondent for the radio program, Poetry from Around the World, for Poets Café on KPFK 90.7FM Los Angeles. As Mark continues to travel the world, he uses poetry to connect communities to the greater social justice issues, while building consciousness through the spoken word.