Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
John P. Portelli, originally from Malta, is a professor emeritus in the Department of Social Justice Education at the University of Toronto. He has taught in Canadian universities since 1982. He has published ten collections of poetry (three in Maltese and English, one in English and French, and another in English, three in Maltese, and one in Greek and Italian). He also published two collections of short stories (one translated into English and published as Everyday Encounters), and a novel, Everyone but Faiza (Malta Horizons and Burlington, ON: Word and Deed, 2021). His literary work has been translated into many languages. One of his latest collection Here Was (2023) has been translated and published in Romanian, Arabic, Farsi, and Turkish. It has been recently short-listed for the Canadian Book club Award. Five of his books have been short-listed for the Malta Book Council Annual Literary Award. His most recent publication is a collection of poems with Ahmed Miqdad, The Shadow: Poems for the Children of Gaza (Malta: Horizons, October 2024). All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to Gaza. He now lives between Toronto and Malta, and beyond! Email: [email protected]
Nothingness
To my friend Ahmed Miqdad, poet
from Gaza City, after we spoke for 30 seconds
we had it all you told me
the orchards, the houses, the sea
the olive groves
and the cooing of the quails
then came another time:
nothingness
in the era of nothingness
there is nowhere to go
invain we search
only nothingness
doubting humanity
nothingness provides no shelter
impossible to get off its grip
all is bloody and misery
and today your eyes tell
one thousand and one stories
your lament sheds no tears
in nothingness
no rest and no dreams
there is nothing left to guard
except your poetry
scribbled with your finger
on the sandy beach
hoping the waves remain serene
so they can soothe your emotions
and you
under the shadow of death
like a lost soul
still hoping
You swallow your anger
Today like yesterday and always
you swallow the anger accumulated
over years of exile in your homeland,
you lose sense of time
constantly surrounded by the dead,
and the smell is like the stink of smoke
of Auschwitz.
Bodies are bodies;
after death differences do not matter –
sobbing and pity are of no worth.
Suddenly, as always, the ground shook
the tent flapping frantically with every wind
searching for a spot without graves—
but to no avail;
your destiny is too harsh.
Even the ground has gotten used to
the stains of children slaughtered
on the boiling sand.
With a lump in your throat,
you gather the lonely shoe of your daughter,
not to place it in the museum
but so, her siblings may remember her
if they are lucky enough
to live another hour.
Olives and Love
Today even the black olives of Malaga finished
only the sediment lingers in the bottom of the jar
and the oil trickling from the lid.
And you smiling near the calm sea
sketching my face on the weakened sand
soon to be swallowed by the emptiness of winter
longing for the sun of your old age
in your youthful disposition thrilled
by what you call love.
Suddenly you gazed at me and uttered:
in the silence of love, I found peace.
And I replied:
do not forget to control your voice
maybe you will avoid this human hell.
