A poem written for a painting by Phyllis Bluhm. My interpretation of the meaning of her poem is that the images reflect the reality for Palestinians forced to flee, or killed by their oppressors, or whose lands are destroyed by the oppressors, others whose grandparents were forced out, but who still hold the keys to their ancient homes.
In the night, lantern-lit windows shine onto streets
and well-worn paths. Stories emerge…
One
She and her child have come home in the dark of night
to her family, refugees in a foreign land.
Tears of welcome, arms of warmth greet them.
She and her child had been prey in a dangerous land
full of horror and fire and death.
They are the lucky ones who escaped.
They will live to tell their stories,
to sing the songs of their ancients,
to beat the drums of truth-telling when the time is right.
Their bodies may seem whole, unscathed,
but their souls will be in grief and turmoil and fear
for many moons of time.
Two
Two sisters meditate upon an ancient key.
This key unlocks their family's centuries-old door,
perhaps weathered by time and war.
But the welcoming door exists in another place, another time.
And that door might now be the residence
of the thief who stole the house,
or the door may not even exist after so many moons,
after so many seasons of fear and flight.
Will they ever be able to return?
Three
A man reaches up his arms in supplication.
He mourns his love though she is right there before him.
She is wounded, dying, and her face looks to the night sky.
She knows she is soon to be leaving her body
to rise to the sanctity of the stars.
She feels the pull of light on the path to the beyond,
which we, still living, can never perceive.
He also knows her soul shall live on,
that she will always be with him, even if just in his mind's eye
and as a strain of melody in his beating heart.
A forlorn future awaits: He may not survive either.
And who will mourn him if he dies?
He is the last of his family to be alive.
Four
Someone stands alone, his family’s home and belongings
burning before him.
He wonders, with streaming tears and a heavy heart,
“How could I lose that which I built with my own hands?
Why did they destroy what was so beautiful,
so much a part of this place?”
Will he walk away from this destruction,
or will he turn and fight,
One man against an oppressor of immense power,
whose eye lacks a soul.
Epilogue
Why?
We ask ourselves that question
and there will be no good answer,
for the only useful question is:
What shall be humanity’s answer when asked
to witness, to save, to mourn, to heal?
The Muses of Happiness 