Look at the images and hold up a candle to end the war in the Middle East.
W. H. Auden is one of my favorite poets, perhaps, one of my own influences. This poem below reflects how I feel the world should react to such carnage that war, and particularly, the war in Gaza is causing.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
———-W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Civilians die when there is war. Children and old people, no matter whether they believe in the fighting or not are indiscriminately killed by the fighters on all sides. We all pause even as we enter the new year and wish everyone well, for the end of the fighting in the Middle East. All peace loving people around the world should stop all the arguments and seek to bring back peace to the people of Israel and Gaza.These pages are to commemorate all those who have already been killed on all sides, and to pray for those still alive, for the leaders on all sides to begin talking and the end of war. War is horrible.
Isreali Poet, Yehuda Amichai, who lived from 1924-2000 could not have written more about today.
Memorial Day for the War Dead
——-by Yehuda Amichai
Memorial day for the war dead. Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you. Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
“Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.”
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day. Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist’s mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying
all through the night under the jasmine
tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
“Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.”
A pall of smoke rises after an explosion from an Israeli missile strike on the Hamas controlled Islamic University in Gaza City on Monday (AP photo by Hatem Moussa)
Emily Dickinson, one of my favorite poets wrote about everything there was under the sun. Her poems are as timeless as this one.
I Measure every Grief I meet (561)
————by Emily Dickinson
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –
I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –
I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –
I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –
I always come from the perspective of someone whose very life depended on whether those on all sides would just sit and talk to one another. You sit there and watch the bombs fall, watch children die, watch executions, and wonder, where is the world as all of this is happening. You wonder how anyone can get up and go to work, how anyone can cook a meal, how anyone can put on nice clothes wherever in the world they are while other human beings like you are dying.
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less
—-by Gerard Manley Hopkins
The times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;
The times are winter, watch, a world undone:
They waste, they wither worse; they as they run
Or bring more or more blazon man’s distress.
And I not help. Nor word now of success:
All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one—
Work which to see scarce so much as begun
Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness.
Or what is else? There is your world within.
There rid the dragons, root out there the sin.
Your will is law in that small commonweal…
SAY A PRAYER, WILL YOU? END THE WAR NOW!!