I was going to write a poem about Eurovision…

...but then I decided to shut the fuck up instead.

I was going to write a poem about Eurovision…

…but then my mind went to Noor Hindi’s poem, as it often does, and I realised she says it better and better and better. I wanted to write about the way international institutions, cultural and sporting bodies and global powers take great pains to condemn the Russian invasion of Ukraine (rightly so) and shoehorn solidarity with Ukrainians into every opportune moment, but stay silent when it comes to Palestine. No, wait. Israel’s illegal occupation of Palestine. No, wait. The forced displacement and murder of Palestinians as Israel illegally occupies their land.

Eurovision banned Russia from performing, claiming that the decision reinforced the “ultimate values of democracy.” But there, on the world stage last night, was Israel, distracting viewers from its apartheid against Palestine by deploying a young, beautiful woman to sing her heart out. I say deploy deliberately; Israeli women are soldiers too. They are conscripted into the army, alongside men. It’s mandatory.

‘Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying’ is one of a small handful of poems that has squashed itself into my brain and refuses to leave, for which I am grateful. Every few months I’ll be doing something mundane like cleaning the bathroom or trying to write, and the lines will stand up, dust themselves off and announce themselves: colonizers write about flowers, I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks.

Attempting to write after those words punch you in the face? Never.

So anyway. I was going to write a poem about Eurovision and then I thought about Noor Hindi and remembered that sometimes shutting up and listening to other people who know better is a thing most people – me firmly included – don’t do enough of.

Here she is.

Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying

Colonizers write about flowers.

I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks

seconds before becoming daisies.

I want to be like those poets who care about the moon.

Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons.

It’s so beautiful, the moon.

They’re so beautiful, the flowers.

I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad.

He watches Al Jazeera all day.

I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan.

I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies.

Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound.

When I die, I promise to haunt you forever.

One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.

Noor Hindi

Full disclosure – I’ve just discovered Hindi has a poetry collection, Dear God. Dear Bones. Dear Yellow.

As soon as it lands on my doorstep, I’m going to devour it and then probably gift a copy to everyone I know.