Poems that I love

by Samih al-Qasim The day I'm killed my killer will find tickets in my pockets: One to peace, one to fields and the rain, and one to humanity's conscience. I beg you--please don't waste them. I beg you, you who kill me: Go.

by Samih al-Qasim From the narrow window of my small cell, I see trees that are smiling at me and rooftops crowded with my family. And windows weeping and praying for me. From the narrow window of my small cell-- I can see your big cell!

by Aharon Shabtai Two days ago in Rafi'ah, nine Arabs were killed, yesterday six were killed in Hebron, and today -- just two. Last year as we were marching from Shenkin Street, a man on a motorcycle shouted toward us: "Death to the Arabs!" You can read interviews with three Israeli poets on The News Hour's website .

by Agi Mishol (taken from a segment on "The News Hour" on PBS ) You are only twenty and your first pregnancy is a bomb. Under your broad skirt you are pregnant with dynamite and metal shavings. This is how you walk in the market, ticking among the people, you, Andaleeb Takatka. Someone loosened the screws in your head and launched you toward the city; even though you come from Bethlehem, the House of Bread, you chose a bakery. And there you pulled the trigger out of yourself, and together with the Sabbath loaves, sesame and poppy seed, you flung yourself into the sky.

by Richard Wilbur In any company, he listens hard For signs of vanity and self-regard Reacting to each name that’s dropped, to each Complacent anecdote or turn of speech With subtle indications of surprise— A wince, perhaps, a widening of the eyes, Or a slight lifting of the brow, addressed To the egomaniac within his breast.

by Wendell Berry I stand at the cistern in front of the old barn in the darkness, in the dead of winter, night strangely warm, the wind blowing, rattling an unlatched door. I draw the cold water up out of the ground, and drink. At the house the light is still waiting. An old man I've loved all my life is dying in his bed there. He is going slowly down from himself. In final obedience to his life, he follows his body out of our knowing. his hands, quiet on the sheet, keep a painful resemblance to what they no longer are.

by Blaise Cendrars It is an antique carcass eaten up by rust The engine repaired twenty times does not make more than 7 to 8 knots Besides to save expenses cinders and coal waste are its only fuel Makeshift sails are hoisted whenever there is a fair wind With his ruddy face his bushy eyebrows his pimply nose Master Hopkins is a true sailor Small silver rings hang from his pierced ears The ship’s cargo is exclusively coffins of Chinese who died in America and wished to be buried in their homeland Oblong boxes painted red and light blue or covered with golden characters Just the type of merchandise it is illegal to ship from the French by Monique Chefdor