3 poems by Marsha Barber

Raw

What use is poetry
except to say
our hearts hide

in safe houses—
burned alive,

in kibbutzim—

babies slaughtered, fed 
to fire,

in the desert—
girls raped near corpses
tortured and defiled.

What use is poetry
as captives lie
in their blood,
no light, no warmth, no balm.

We stumble through
this darkness,
ruined, raw

our only hope—
to clutch
our bloodied pens.

First published in Am Yisrael Chai anthology, ed. Rabbi Menachem Creditor, 2023





Suicide Bomber
“Suicide Bomb Kills 3 in Bakery in Israel” – The New York Times

Somewhere a young man
the same age as my son
wants to blow me up.

Oblivious,
I apply fresh lipstick, blood red,
the day is filled with hope.

I leave for the market to buy bread:
thick crusted, warm from the oven. 
When it happens, I’m thinking how good
a slice will taste after I spread fresh butter
and share it with you. 

I note the boy. He has dark curls just like
my son, which makes me smile.
In a second, the sunshine through the bakery window
becomes too bright, as bright as fire.

Yesterday the boy ate with gusto
the hummus and olives his mother served,
was tender in the way of sons,
teased his mother, told her she was the best cook
in all the world, and she blushed.

He held her tight
when he hugged her close
for the last time.

This morning he shaved carefully,
washed with rose water,
repeated prayers, rhythmic as rain,
the soothing notes
bracing him for the light-filled path ahead. 
 
In a second
we are on the floor
in pieces,
the bakery now a butcher’s shop.


How strange that
his blood, muscle, sinew,
last breath,
mix with mine,
in a puddle on the tiles,
which means
he is now
part Jew.

First published in "Love You to Pieces" (Borealis Press, 2019)




White Phosphorous

White phosphorous is used for military purposes…to generate a smokescreen and as an  incendiary. -- World Health Organization

Feather duster,
languid jelly fish,

delicate strands
of destruction,

luminous, 
lovely,

cascading down
like Rapunzel’s hair,

from a burned out tower
in the seventh circle of hell. 

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Marsha Barber’s fourth poetry book “Kaddish for My Mother” was published in December 2022 by Ottawa’s Borealis Press. Her writing has appeared in such periodicals as the Literary Review of Canada, FreeFall, The Antigonish Review, The Walrus, The New Quarterly, Juniper and The Prairie Journal. She’s been invited to read her poetry around the world, including in Australia, Cambodia, England, Israel, Italy and Laos. In addition to her other awards, Marsha has been longlisted for the national ReLit Award and shortlisted for the international Bridport Poetry Prize and the Montreal International Poetry Prize. She’s a professor at Toronto Metropolitan University.

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