When I woke up this morning
An angel was at the foot of my bed.
What are you doing here?
I have come,
the angel said,
to deliver you of a poem.
You brought me a poem? How nice!
No, to deliver you of a poem.
I laughed.
How can that be, I have not known man,
at least not recently.
(The words sounded familiar as I said them.)
You don't need a man to make a poem, said the angel.
Well that was good news.

The birth was quick and easy.
The angel didn't do much,
just a few words of encouragement
and the poem was delivered,
all wet and shiny.
Here it is,
I have brought it to show you.
Not very well formed yet.
Does it look like me?
I haven't given it a name,
but it's a beautiful day,
I think I'll keep it.

Marcia Holtzman
September 2005

What If

What if Eve said to Adam,
"Why don't we give these animals names,
so we can call to them and they might answer
and we can talk about them to each other.
and we can warn each other
if one with sharp nails, for example, is approaching.
Adam, are you listening?"

Adam was looking off into the distance.
A rock nearby caught his eye.
He bent down and picked it up and looked under it,
but there was nothing there.

"I know what," Adam said after a pause,
"Let's give names to these animals."
"That's a very good idea," said Eve.
Adam smiled.

At the Special Olympics Swim Meet

Before the games begin
in the warm swimming room,
the parade of athletes
circles the pool,
pausing to shout the oath
in ragged chorus:
Let me win,
they shout, let me win,
And if I cannot win
Let me be brave!

We are the parents
watching from the bleachers,
eager, anxious and weary
families challenged by fate
and the contests of the endless day,
their young or middle-aged children
competing one way or another,
heat after heat,
amid whistles and chatter,
shouts and cheers,
medals of honor hung around their necks,
posing half naked for the cameras
like Arbus photographs
in the warm swimming room.

We are the parents watching,
We have been here many times,
We have seen it all before.

Suddenly
but with no special notice
in this crowd of special people,
a tall silent boy appears,
led by his coach to the edge of the pool.
Look, look carefully,
he seems to see nothing, to hear nothing.

Look, this may be something
we have not seen before
such bravery, such desire
coming out of darkness and silence
as from this young athlete
spelling his hopes and fears
into the hand of his coach, watch him,
reading the other's lips with his fingers.

What? What words of encouragement
are spelled into that darkness,
what response by the athlete
of fear and determination
to meet the challenge
all the way from one end
of the vast Olympic pool to the other?
Poised at the edge
he doesn't hear the cheers.
Perhaps he feels them.
He doesn't hear the starting whistle.
Poised at the very edge
his coach standing behind him,
one hand on his shoulder
pushes him into the pool
legs kicking, arms fiercely flailing
the warm water,
lifting his blind head for great gasps of air,
kicking and flailing,
he reaches the opposite end
where the other races to meet him,
the Risen Hero.

Look, look
laughing, the athlete spells his triumph
into the hand of his coach.
Together they hold up his arms
for the cheers of the crowd.

What can we the watchers know of this swimmer,
his risks, his courage?
And what of the coach
He who has learned the secret language,
imagining himself into the silent darkness,
linking his heart to this passion for success,
entering the mysterious water, emerging
Joined to such astonishing victory!

Marcia Holtzman

Suicide Bomber

Yesterday a young Palestinian
was intercepted by Israeli soldiers
at Hawara Checkpoint on the West Bank,
dressed in a red sweater and blue jeans,
with death strapped to his heart.

What had they promised him
and what did he imagine
leaving for school that morning
to become a martyr, a brave hero,
admired, rewarded in the after-life?

But when the time came
he was afraid,
he called to the soldiers for help,
saying he did not want to blow himself up.

We see him today in the news photos,
the boy between two Israeli soldiers,
staring, his mouth half opened, at the camera.
The boy with his hands on his head,
revealing the explosives inside his gray vest.
The boy, stripped of explosives,
kneeling on the ground in his underwear.

His name is Hussam, he tells the soldiers.
He is 14, in the eighth grade.

My eighth grade students think
confusedly about death.
We have been reading "Our Town."
One girl wrote
Thornton Wilder believed that when you die
you sit in the cemetery on chairs
and forget what happened in your life.
"Do you really think Thornton Wilder believed that?"
"Yes... I don't know."




They gave him an oversized olive jacket
to cover his nakedness.
A soldier escorted him back over the border.

Today all day I see Hussam
among my 8th graders,
chewing his pencil,
staring into space,
ignoring the business
of the classroom,
dreaming of heroism,
longing to be admired.

In my head I make a cardboard placard
of the Boy Suicide Bomber,
with a hole where the face should be.
I put some of my 8th grade faces behind it,
Anthony smiling, sticking out his tongue,
Amahl mugging as usual.
Eric angry, Sean scared,
one at a time, I place them behind the placard,
each with a bomb strapped across his chest.

Did you know you were carrying a bomb,
they asked him.
He knew. His mother said later,
she had not known,
he left home for school in the morning
saying nothing.
This is shocking, the mother said.
to use a child like this is forbidden.

I imagine it's a dress-up day,
maybe Halloween,
one of my students comes to school
in a suicide bomber costume.
I take him out into the hall.




"Did your mother see you dressed like that?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
"What? She saw you like that and thought it was all right?"
"No. I don't know. She didn't see me."

All day long
through the comings and goings
in my classroom,
the vocab quizzes and the science assembly,
the discussions of the deeper meanings
of Our Town,
I watch my 8th graders.
I see Hussam's face among them,
I see him
in his blue jeans
and red sweater,
dreaming of heroism,
and admiration,
under his vest,
Death
strapped to his heart like a lover.

Marcia Holtzman
March 2004.