This isn't a painting.
Don't prance around with
your camera; this isn't
an exhibition. The red you see
here and there
is real blood, not abstract art.
It's just that. Blood.
Fresh and real.
This isn't a story for you to enjoy.
Don't make us a topic for
your new essay.
Don't quote the bitter things we
say; they were not said
to impress you. This is war.
This is anarchy. This is a mixture of
white phosphorus mortar bombs, and
shells and rockets and grenades,
This is burnt skin, and teary eyes, and
feet running away from bullets, and
hearts hiding in cartoon boxes.
This is the closest one could ever
be to death.
This isn't a stage, so whoever you are,
don't play the victim.
Don't write about freedom if
you're home. Don't
write about it unless you're grabbing
bars with both hands and
as if your scream could melt
the iron down.
Don't make profit off
our misery. TV screens won't
give life back to us.
Let this city die in peace,
this city where broken hearts
watch the sunset, and smile,
because it's beautiful,
this city that learnt to look for
beautiful, to see beautiful everywhere,
to snatch it and hug it
The city where we laugh through
tears, where we caress the hunger in
Noura, what can I say? Your poetry truly amazes me! You have captivated, inspired and humbled the reader with this poem.. I cried through the entire poem and am not afraid to admit that.
You have shed light upon war, devastation, murder and mayhem- adding a very classy and yet "In your face" look at the feelings and emotions that come with true gut wrenching sorrow that is being shed upon this world. This poem needs to be spread worldwide (It is by being shared upon this site) however it needs to be sent to every media coverage as well...
I can't say enough... Top poem on this site to date!
The emotion stirring within this piece is something that cannot be contained, and something I cannot even fully grasp because I am not the one living in this fear, witnessing death everywhere I go. I have found with a lot of your poetry that you have a few lines that are "staccato", and you speak without sugarcoating, as directly as you can. I love that as it may be painful to read, I know it is not an exaggeration and that words still cannot express the horror of this violence. The opening line of "this isn't a painting" introduces the poem so well, capturing the reality that we all may protect our eyes from. It's not abstract; it's real. The third stanza is overwhelming in its intensity, and it is something I remember the most. "Don't write about freedom if you're home." How true is that? We talk and speak at how blessed we are of these freedoms, yet we may not know what it is like to live without them. The ending is more soft and I like how you write about beauty, still believing in it and searching it, wanting to embrace it once more. A seriously breathtaking write! (10)
There really aren't many words to add here, Noura, but I feel sometimes our "vents" or "rants" or whatever you want to call them are the most truthful, breathtaking pieces. This needed to be written and each line speaks with a loud voice.