Read one of the best poems by Juan Felipe- Enter the void :
I enter the void,
it has the shape of a viola:
Israel, Jenin, West Bank, Nablus—a rubble boy
shifts his scapula as if it was his continent, underground
Gazaground, I want to say—his only bone,
the rubble boy is a girl, I think,
her hair tossed, knotted and torn under
the green shank of fibers, tubes and shells.
She digs for her rubble father, I say rubble
because it is indistinguishable from ice, fire, dust,
clay, flesh, tears, concrete, bread, lungs, pubis, god,
say rubble, say water—
the rubble girl digs for her rubble mother,
occupation—disinheritance—once again,
I had written this somewhere, in a workshop, I think,
yes, it was an afternoon of dark poets with leaves, coffee
and music in the liquor light room.
A rock, perhaps it's a rock, juts out, two rocks
embrace each other, the shapes come to me easily,
an old poetic reflex—memoria, a nation underground,
that is it, the nation under-ground,
that is why the rocks cover it.
I forget to mention the blasts, so many things flying,
light, existence, the house in tins, a mother in rags.
It is too cold to expose her tiny legs,
the fish-shaped back—you must take these notes for me.
Before you go. See this
undulate
extend
beyond
the pools of blood.
I ride the night, past the Yukon, past
South Laredo, past Odessa, past the Ukraine,
old Jaffa, Haifa and Istanbul, across clouds,
hesitant and porous, listen—
they are porous so we can glide
into them, this underbelly, this underground:
wound-mothers and sobbing fathers, they
leave, in their ribboned flesh, shores lisp
against nothingness, open—toward you,
they dissolve again into my shoes—
Hear the dust gong:
gendarme passports,
cloned maize men in C-130's, with tears
bubbling on their hands, pebbles
en route—we are all en route
to the rubblelands.
I want to chant a bliss mantra—
I enter the void,
it has the shape of a viola:
Israel, Jenin, West Bank, Nablus—a rubble boy
shifts his scapula as if it was his continent, underground
Gazaground, I want to say—his only bone,
the rubble boy is a girl, I think,
her hair tossed, knotted and torn under
the green shank of fibers, tubes and shells.
She digs for her rubble father, I say rubble
because it is indistinguishable from ice, fire, dust,
clay, flesh, tears, concrete, bread, lungs, pubis, god,
say rubble, say water—
the rubble girl digs for her rubble mother,
occupation—disinheritance—once again,
I had written this somewhere, in a workshop, I think,
yes, it was an afternoon of dark poets with leaves, coffee
and music in the liquor light room.
A rock, perhaps it's a rock, juts out, two rocks
embrace each other, the shapes come to me easily,
an old poetic reflex—memoria, a nation underground,
that is it, the nation under-ground,
that is why the rocks cover it.
I forget to mention the blasts, so many things flying,
light, existence, the house in tins, a mother in rags.
It is too cold to expose her tiny legs,
the fish-shaped back—you must take these notes for me.
Before you go. See this
undulate
extend
beyond
the pools of blood.
I ride the night, past the Yukon, past
South Laredo, past Odessa, past the Ukraine,
old Jaffa, Haifa and Istanbul, across clouds,
hesitant and porous, listen—
they are porous so we can glide
into them, this underbelly, this underground:
wound-mothers and sobbing fathers, they
leave, in their ribboned flesh, shores lisp
against nothingness, open—toward you,
they dissolve again into my shoes—
Hear the dust gong:
gendarme passports,
cloned maize men in C-130's, with tears
bubbling on their hands, pebbles
en route—we are all en route
to the rubblelands.
I want to chant a bliss mantra—
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