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When the War Parts: A Poem from Gaza by Heba Al-Agha

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When the War Parts

By Heba Al-Agha

Translated by Julia Choucair Vizoso

I won’t be the same

might become a closet or a bed

a gas canister, a rug

a library 

a giant lap, one long embrace.

 

When the war parts

I won’t find a grave to visit 

for the road itself will be the graveyard

There will be no flowers to lay

as they too will have died.

No palms on graves, and no graves either.

 

I will stumble on a head here, a foot there, a friend’s face

on the ground, his bag carrying crumbs for the little ones.

Scattered eyes, I’ll see them everywhere

and a heart that has gotten lost, panting

will settle on my shoulder 

and I´ll walk it through the rubble

this broken stone with which we were killed. 

 

No history book said how

to prepare for the long war

no class taught to pitch a tent 

on the side of the road

no math teacher said that the corner 

fits ten people

no religion class revealed:

children also die

also rise

as a butterfly, a bird, a star.

 

I hated chalk once

and the morning lineup too

but loved to pause in an opening line

stroll through the Eastern line 

lose myself in the city perched on twin trees

But I am outside any city I know

outside all place and ejected from time 

to the dimension of Gaza, to ask 

what has happened what is happening

What is  the name of our street?

Have any of you seen our street, our house?

Do the neighborhoods still know each other?

Can the city recognize us? 

Can my mother? 

Is the sea counting the victims?

Does the sun rise to shield the bodies in the streets?

Can the merchants afford heaven?

Will these bodies sprout tall buildings that bear their names?

Their names, will we know them all?

My aunts, will they fathom the catastrophe?

The house, was it really our house?

Does the soldier sleep a night?

 

My throat is swollen

from words 

without remedy 

but bayt: this line, home.

 

Translator’s note: This poem was first published in Arabic on February 8, 2024 on Heba Al-Agha’s Telegram channel and later the same day on the website gazastory.com: https://gazastory.com/archives/5335. Since October 22, 2023, the author has been sharing her diary from Gaza through these two channels. The entries include poetry, freeform narration, descriptions, and visuals, as she is forced to move with her children from her home in Khan Younis to Rafah, where this poem was written. Her work has not been translated to English, except for a short text that will appear in a forthcoming issue of ArabLit Quarterly (translated also by Julia Choucair Vizoso). Heba and Julia have been communicating through WhatsApp, through a family member of Heba, intermittently, whenever communication is possible.

Heba Al-Agha is a mother, amateur writer, and creative writing educator at the A.M. Qattan Foundation in Gaza City. She does not belong to any writers’ unions and has not published any literary books, but works with an army of young writers training them in freedom and the power of writing. She writes at t.me/hebalaghatalkwar andhttps://gazastory.com/archives/author/hebaaga

Julia Choucair Vizoso is an independent scholar and seasonal translator. She hopes Heba Al-Agha’s words move you to refuse and resist the Israel-US genocide of the Palestinian people and destruction of Lebanon, wherever and however you can.


‘They Prepare for their Weddings’: New Poetry by Atef Alshaer

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We have one poem by Atef Alshaer in the Spring 2024 issue of ArabLit Quarterly, in partnership with Majalla 28, which accompanies his conversation with journalist Ursula Lindsey about Gaza’s literary histories, “A Form of Refuge.” This conversation was a collaboration with The Point magazine, where it also appears.

Here, as an online companion, we share a second poem by Atef Alshaer, translated by the author.

They Prepare for their Weddings

By Atef Alshaer

Translated by the author

 

Those who die now

from my country

with the sun on their faces

and a horizon betraying them.

Those who die

with the bullets of Israel

and die with the promises of Israel

they die at the gathering of roads

and from the weightless burden of the sky

they die

in houses bereft of light

in hospitals emptied of cures

they die.

Death visits them more than poetry,

hunger eats their children,

and they prepare for their weddings

under collapsed roofs

over dead bodies under the rubble.

They die without mirrors

and walk in roads unashamed of their narrowness

those who die now

from the youth of my country

they are

without a doubt

concealing in their bodies

the barest sparks of a fire.

يُجهّزون لأعراسهم

من يموتون الآن
في بلادي
مع شمسٍ تداعبُ وجوههم
وأفاقُ تخذلهم
من يموتون
برصاص “إسرائيل”

“ويموتون بوعود “إسرائيل

يموتون في زحمة الطرقات

ومن ثقلٍ سماءٍ بلا وزن

يموتون

في بيوتٍ بلا ضوء
وفي مستشفيات بلا شفاء

يموتون

يزورهم الموت أكثر من الشعر

ويأكلُ الجوعُ أطفالهم
يموتون
وهُم يجهّزون لأعراسهم
تحت أسّقفُ مُهدمة

وفوقَ أمواتٍ تحت الأنقاض
يموتون دون مرايا
ويسلكون طرقاً لا تخجل من ضِيقها
من يموتون الآن
من شباب بلادي
بلا شكّ
يُخبّئون في أجسادهم

.شرارات النار الأسطع

Atef Alshaer is a senior lecturer in Arabic Studies at the University of Westminster. He is also a poet and translator who grew up in the Gaza Strip. His published books include Love and Poetry in the Middle East: Love and Literature from Antiquity to the Present, Language and National Identity in Palestine: Representations of Power and Resistance in Gaza, Poetry and Politics in the Modern Arab World, and A Map of Absence: An Anthology of Palestinian Writing on the Nakba.

‘Houses That Cling to the Tongue’: New Poetry by Mahmoud Kiralla

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Houses That Cling to the Tongue

By Mahmoud Kiralla

Translated by Tamer Fathy Mabrouk

When I was young,
the train that passed our old house,
with its loud whistle—which still pierces dreams—
and the dust it dispersed
over our windows
—with supreme justice—
was my greatest sorrow.

***

It was enough that it made the walls tremble,
dislodging slivers of the ceiling
that dropped directly
onto our family dinner plates.

These tiny stones,
—which would never grow, never become a house—
had a bitter taste
the kind that lingers on the tongue.

***

These stones were a bitter curse,
distasteful sins,
because those who consume the flesh of houses
at a young age
will never escape their wickedness.

Believe me,
as I grew older,
houses would frequently explode above me
every few years
because of that bitterness lingering on the tongue.

***

I feel sad that life
has always been bitter,
like a slow night train
that laps up passersby from the ground,
leaving a man alone on the platform
whose feet betrayed him,
and whose soul failed to grab
the outstretched hand
ready to snatch him
from the last passenger door.

***

Life is that moment
when a desperate man decides
that he has raced long enough,
like a horse.
He has run enough to stop,
suddenly
since he no longer wishes to keep up.

Life is like the “clickety-clack” of the departing wheels,
while the hand
—remains—
outstretched in this harsh void.

***

When I was a child,
I thought of life as a plaything:
I would move trains with a wave of my hand,
Stick out my fingers so their carriages overturn,
or deliberately open up the rails
until the passengers fell into the mud.

I humiliated thousands of people
who hurtled out of the train,
which my father brought me
from a country that knows trains
only as
toys.

***

When I was born,
the world blew a whistle for me,
and my heart was filled with immigrants.

“It’s the 10 o’clock train,”
my mother says, curtailing her laughter:

“I was sad when you were in my belly;
your grandfather died before you were born,
your uncle was on the war front,
and your father was in a faraway country”

“Forgive me,
the train arrived before anyone else
and whispered the adhan in your ears, my son.”

بيوتٌ عالقة في اللسان

 محمود خيرالله

حين كنتُ صغيراً

كان القطارُ كلما مرَّ

أمام بيتِنا القديم،

بصفيرهِ العالي

ـ الذي يخترقُ الأحلام ـ

والتراب الذي ينشره

ـ بمنتهى العدلِ ـ

على الشبابيك والنوافذ،

هو أكثر الأشياء حُزناً في حياتي.

**

يكفي أن الجدرانَ كانت تهتزّ له

فتهبط من السقفِ قطعٌ صغيرة،

تسقط مباشرةً

في عشاء العائلة.

الأحجارُ

ـ التي لن تكبرَ ولن تصيرَ بيوتاً ـ

كانت مرارتُها

من ذلك النوعِ الذي لا يُفارق اللسان.

***

هذه الأحجار

كانت لعنةً مُرة

خطيئةً بطعمٍ كريه،

لأنّ من يتذوق لحمَ البيوتِ صغيراً

لن يخلص من شرّها أبداً،

صدقوني..

حين صرتُ كبيراً

أصبحت البيوتُ تنفجر فوق رأسي،

كل عدة أعوام،

بسبب تلك المَرارة العالقة في اللسان.

***

يؤسفني أن الحياةَ

كانت دائماً مُرّة،

مثل قطارٍ ليلِ بطئ

يلحسُ الأرضَ من العابرين،

تاركاً رجلاً وحيداً على الرصيف،

خانته قدماه

ولم تعلق روحُه

باليد التي تدلت لتنتشله

من آخر الأبواب.

***

الحياةُ هي تلك اللحظة

التي يقرّر فيها رجلٌ يائسٌ

أنه ركض كثيراً في هذه الدنيا،

مثل الأحصنة،

رَكَضَ بما يكفي لكي يتوقف،

فجأة،

لأنه لم يعد يريد اللحاقَ بأيِّ أحد،

الحياةُ هي “تكتكة” العجلاتِ المُغادرة

بينما اليد ممدودة

ـ لاتزال ـ

في هذا الخلاء القاسي.

***

حين كنتُ صغيراً

كنتُ أعتبرُ الحياةَ نوعاً من اللعب،

أحرِّك القطارات بإشارةٍ من يدي،

أمدّ أصابعي فتنقلب عرباته،

أو أفتح له القضبان عمداً

ليهبطَ الركابُ في الوحل،

لقد أهنتُ الآلاف

وهم يهرعون من القطارِ،

الذي عاد به والدي

من بلدٍ لا تعرف عن القطارات

سوى أنها

نوعٌ من اللعب.

***

حين ولدتُ

أطلق العالمُ من أجلي صافرة،

وامتلأ قلبي بالمهاجرين،

“إنه قطارُ العاشرة..”

تقول أمي وهي تُتلف ضحكَتها:

“كنتُ حزينة وأنت في بطني

مات جدُك قبل أن تولد

خالك كان على الجبهة،

وأبوك في بلدٍ بعيد،

سامحني،

لقد سبق القطارُ الجميعَ

وأذّن في أذُنِك يا ولدي.”

Mahmoud Khairallah is an Egyptian poet born in 1971. He is known for his profound contributions to Arabic literature through poetry. Khairallah’s work delves into the complexities of human emotions, societal issues, and the intricacies of the human experience. His poetry reflects a deep connection to the Arabic language, employing rich imagery, symbolism, and lyrical expression to convey his thoughts and insights. Through his verses, Khairallah explores themes of love, loss, identity, and the search for meaning in a changing world.

Tamer Fathy Mabrouk is an Egyptian translator, journalist, documentary screenwriter, and poet. He writes for various news websites, including Correspondants.org, Mada Masr, and Khatt30. He has also published two poetry books: Yesterday I Lost a Button, Story of Garments (2005) which was published by Dar Sharqiyat, and republished by the Public Authority for Books (2012) and Falling (Biography of a Smell) (2020) which was published by Dar el-Maraya. Tamer’s main interest lies in linguistics and sociolinguistics, and he has translated several books, cultural articles, and poems. He currently teaches the Arabic language at the University of Sciences Po and the Institute of Arabic World in France, where he resides.

‘Every Time I Leave the House’: New Poetry by Haidar al-Ghazali

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This poem was inadvertently left out of the THIS MOMENT section of ArabLit Quarterly’s “Gaza! Gaza! Gaza!” section. We will be correcting future issues but also encourage you to read it here.

 

By Haidar al-Ghazali

 

Every time I leave the house,

I bid him farewell

for I may not come back.

 

Dressed up fancy

to go out and about,

you would find me looking elegant,

and ready to step out

if you saw me during the war.

 

I do not love you,

Death

I love life and everything blue,

but my fate is always

sealed by you

 

I am sick, a sick person

who loves a city

a city that can give me only

the chance to die

the way I want to.

 

March 7, 2024

 

 

 

حيدر الغزالي

كلما خرجتُ من البيت

أودعه

فربما لا أعود

كمن جهّز نفسَه لموعد غرامي

إن رأيتني يوماً في الحربِ

ستراني أنيقاً

جاهزاً للرحيل

لا أحبكَ أيها الموت

أحبُّ الحياةَ والزرقة

لكنّ أقداري

لا تأتي بغيرك

مريضٌ أنا

مريضٌ بِحُبِّ مدينة

لا تعطيني سوى فرصة الموت

كما أحب.

7 مارس 2024

New Poetry in Translation: Yahya Ashour’s ‘When a Missile Lands’

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This poem appeared in the “THIS MOMENT” section of our Gaza! Gaza! Gaza! issue, produced together with Majalla 28.

When a Missile Lands 

By Yahya Ashour

Translated by Khaled Rajeh

 

When a missile lands

by my house

I hope

that in its haste

it can see

that I have long braced myself

in a grave

dug by fear

and not a bed

When the missile lands

I say, finally, death has come

but death, to my luck

shuns the ones most ready to die.

عندما يسقطُ صاروخٌ

عندما يسقطُ صاروخٌ قرب بيتي

أتمنّى رغم عجلته غير المبرّرة لو يُلاحظ

أنّني منكمشٌ منذ زمن

في قبرٍ حفره الخوف لا في سرير

عندما يسقطُ الصاروخ

أقولُ أخيرًا سأموت

لكنّه الموتُ لغرابةِ حظّي

لا يعجبه الموتى الجاهزون

Yahya Ashour is a Palestinian poet and author from Gaza. He has authored a children’s book, winner of the 2022 ACBPF award, and a collection of poetry. His poems and award-winning stories have been anthologized and appeared in newspapers and magazines in Palestine and internationally, in Arabic and translation. He has taught creative writing and literacy skills to both children and adults at various community organizations in Gaza.

Khaled Rajeh is a writer and literary translator from Baakleen, Lebanon.

New Poetry: From Akram Alkatreb’s ‘The Screams of War’

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These poems come from the collection The Screams of War, a collection of poetry by Akram Alkatreb — translated by Jonas Elbousty — that speaks to a post-2011 Syria. It’s out now from Seagull Books.

The Statues of Midday

By Akram Alkatreb

Translated by Jonas Elbousty

My friends are the brothers of darkness,

statues of midday,

nothing left from their features

beside the smell of the hand extended to the waiter

behind the coffee shop’s window.

 

A harsh hand, frozen from the cold,

flaunting,

or blinking like a tearful eye.

Do You Know How Much We Love You?

By Akram Alkatreb

Translated by Jonas Elbousty

We are your sons, and we are leaving the world.

Do you know how much we love you

and that you are about to die?

Your body was hanging in the air for ten thousand years.

Are you still alive?

So we can meet by chance in the history books

that praise kings from the Stone Age?

Then you lose your birds, your soul, your trees, and your

        mother tongue.

Do you know how much we love you?

The History Of Emotion

By Akram Alkatreb

Translated by Jonas Elbousty

I left all of Damascus at your door.

The moon will not rise on the roofs, for the children of

        my neighbourhood are laying grapes

under the August sun,

then they take you to their dreams.

 

I must wait another twenty years to teach them the

       lesson of regret.

 

Each of us wants to steal your heartbreak.

We desire you like we desire the bread sold in front of

        shops.

And we follow the smell of your robe, which reveals

        your breasts in front of the children,

transforming them into trees and sunflowers.

 

You are taking off the buttons of the springs, and with a

        parched mouth

we run towards you to discover the origin of writing

        and of reading,

and we try to sleep next to you in bed

but your lover does not want us in the house.

Akram Alkatreb is a Syrian poet, residing in New Jersey. He has worked as a literary critic and journalist for over two decades, with numerous contributions appearing in many major Arabic literary magazines and newspapers. He has published six poetry collections in Arabic, and one in Spanish.

Jonas Elbousty is a writer, literary translator, and academic, whose latest book is Tales of Tangier.

Muhammad Al-Turki’s ‘Now You Are All of Us’

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Translator’s Note

The young Saudi poet Muhammad Al-Turki mourns the great Saudi poet Badr Bin Abdulmohsin Al-Bader, who passed away on May 4, 2024, in a poem titled “Now You Are All of Us.” The suggestive title captures a spirit of reuniting with Al-Bader’s poetry after his passing, a moment that mirrors the experiences of the grieving reader, who recalls the riveting lines of their beloved poet’s work. No other words seem sufficient to express this grief — a testimony to the decades of sentimental education during which Al-Bader guided his readers not only in coping with the flow of human emotions but also in recognizing, describing, and expressing the experience of falling in and out of love and the sorrow of loss.

Muhammad Al-Turki astutely performs the relationship with Al-Bader, who taught the young poet’s generation the language of new poetics. At the same time, he shows that there are no words to mourn Al-Bader except to recall, echo, and weave in titles of his unforgettable lyrics and memorable phrases. “Now You Are All of Us” is a tribute to Al-Bader’s remarkable poetic influence and lasting recollection. In translating this poem, I italicized the borrowed titles and phrases to restage the citationality that’s part of the mourning process, creating a layered palimpsest. -MAG

Now You Are All of Us

By Muhammad Al-Turki

Translated by Moneera Al-Ghadeer

 

Don’t be sorry

Love taught us silence

And lovers chose

To separate in melody

The pain of the train

That passes between them

 

And I became like the rest

Awaiting another voyage to metaphor’s gate

An echo of the Traveler

Who was tempted by a detour in the road

 

You left us

In the morning

And you closed the poem

And the curtain

 

I began to hear in the distance

“Oh, the loss of our voices.”

Now, who will take Riyadh by the hand?

I found her shadows

A dawn on the tips of his toes

Trying to see you there

In the darkness of day

 

Don’t be sorry for anything

O you who is etched in our voices

This is the Time of Silence

We are wary of news that confirms

Al-Bader’s final trip

And hopes within the departure halls

Look out from the waiting void

 

We will linger in the poems

Reading The Bedouin

Who casts to the wind

Suitcases of meaning

If a girl in the neighborhood left the music hall

She came to take her letters

And leaves a strand of her braids, escaping rhythm

A bit of her braid

To blur the decision

 

Take us all by the stream:

Water on the surface of metaphor

Features engraved by the letter

So drink it

To find in its quelling of thirst

The taste of home

 

We will live in the anticipation of love

Which bursts from her phone numbers

When she starts a call

Then returns

In worry

As the oud tightens its strings

And weeps from the pain of “Al-Bayat”[1]

Until windows respond and rearrange the wall

 

Now you are all of us

Al-Bader dwells in every song

Rises from the imagination of the captive poet

Inside his nightly cup

When it’s struck by meaning

It eludes every rhyme

And refuses to be turned

 

الآن صرتَ جميعَنا

لا تعتذرْ..
فالحبّ علّمنا السكوتَ
وآثر العشّاقُ
أن يتفرقوا في اللحن
يعبرُ بينهم وجعُ القطارْ..

وغدوتُ كالباقين
أرقبُ رحلةً أخرى على باب المجازِ
صدى قريبًا للمسافر
حين يغريه انحرافٌ في المسارْ..

غادرتنا
صبحًا..
وأغلقتَ القصيدة
والستارْ..

وطفقتُ أسمعُ من بعيدٍ
“يا ضياع اصواتنا”
من يمسك الآن الرياض بكفّها
فلقد وجدت ظلالها
فجرًا على أطرافِ رجليه
يحاول أن يراكَ هناكَ
في عتَم النهارْ

لا تعتذر عن كلّ شيءٍ
أيها المكتوبُ في أصواتنا
هذا زمانُ الصمتِ
نحذر فيه من خبر يؤكِّدُ
رحلةَ البدر الأخيرة
والأماني بين صالات الرحيلِ
تطلّ من ثقُْب انتظارْ..

سنظلّ ما بين القصائدِ
نقرأ البدويَّ
يلقي في الرياحِ
حقائبَ المعنى
إذا ما طفلةٌ في الحيّ قد خرجت من المغنى
“وجت تاخذ رسايلها”
وتترك خصلةً هربت من الإيقاعِ
شيئًا من ضفيرتها
ليرتبكَ القرارْ..

خذنا جميعًا للغديرِ
الماءُ في سطح المجازِ
ملامحٌ منقوشة بالحرفِ
فاشربها
تجدْ في ريّها
طعمَ الديارْ..

سنعيشُ ما بين الترقبِ لاندلاع العشقِ
في أرقام هاتفها وقد وصلت لمنتصف اتصالٍ ثمّ عادت..
في التوتّرِ
إذ يشدّ العودُ من أوتارِه
ويصيحُ من وجع “البياتِ”
لتستجيبَ نوافذٌ وتعيدَ ترتيب الجدارْ..

الآن صرتَ جميعنا
فالبدر يسكن كلَّ أغنيةٍ
ويطلع من خيال الشاعر المسجون
في فنجانه الليليِّ
حين يصيبه معنى
يراوغ كل قافيةٍ
ويرفض أن يُدارْ

Muhammad Al Turki Born in Riyadh in 1983. He holds a B.A. in Arabic from Imam Muhammad bin Saud Islamic University, as well as a diploma in preparing broadcasters from King Saud University. He has published four poetry collections and won Muʿallaqā poetry competition in 2024 and the Okaz International Prize for Arabic Poetry in 2017. He has participated in a variety of local and international cultural events and presented a number of poetry readings. He is a well-known broadcaster at the Saudi Radio and Television Authority as well as a content creator.

Moneera Al-Ghadeer was a Visiting Professor of comparative literature in the Department of Middle Eastern, South Asian, and African Studies at Columbia University and was a Shawwaf Visiting Professor at Harvard University. She was a tenured Professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and received her Ph.D. from the University of California, Berkeley. She has published Desert Voices: Bedouin Women’s Poetry in Saudi Arabia (I.B. Tauris, 2009) as well as many articles, book chapters, and translations, including Badr Bin Abdulmohsin’s five poetry collections.

[1] Al-Bayat maqam is one of the Arabic music melodic scales and cannot be played by Western instruments. It is played in love songs and characterized by a sorrowful tone.

New Poetry: Ramzi Salem’s ‘I Did Not Survive the War’

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Palestinian poet Ramzi Salem’s “لم أنجُ من الحرب” originally appeared in Al Araby in December 2023. We will have a second of Salem’s poems, a translation of his “أقدامٌ تسبق الفجر“, tomorrow.

I Did Not Survive the War

By Ramzi Salem

Translated by the author

I still remember that night so clearly

when the wind became a dagger,

the night’s cockroach a wolf,

the bird a fly,

the room’s window a mine,

and the ceiling a trap

that might close around my chest,

my throat, my nose

at any moment, and drown me

in an orange sky

with every shell that falls.

 

My hands tremble,

under a winter blanket,

through a scorching summer.

My eyes are bloody,

mauled by saltwater.

My body is not my own:

stolen by fear and turned to dust,

waiting to merge with the rubble,

to return to where it belongs,

to its home and haven,

with every shell that falls.

 

Now ten years have passed

since the last wars, the first torments.

I still remember those nights

in the summer of July 2014,

which became scars on my belly,

which console every gray hair that invades my head,

piercing the dark flesh of my skin,

and cooking it slowly without any care

for my hypersensitivity to the shadow of fire,

feeding it to the naked night bats,

before they launch another belt of fire.

 

Now, in my eighth year

of the exile of body and soul,

in the desolate forests of the West,

war stings again, its venom more lethal.

I scour my skin

and snatch fragments of sleep

while I long for the respite of slumber.

Anxiety chews at me, tearing me apart with its fangs,

as the lion devours the deer.

 

This iron mask wears me out:

pretending as if nothing is happening

while the ants can find nothing to eat

and David’s daily question exhausts me.

Did I hear my mother’s voice again?

I’m tired of recycling the same answers,

of my sigh and the silence that follows,

of another massacre

that might happen at any moment,

or maybe it’s happening now,

as I carve out this text.

 

Ask the fields of gray on my head,

and don’t forget to count them strand by strand.

Let each lock of hair tell you its own story,

about how it became a ghost in the middle of a Gaza night,

how it broke time and turned it into nothing:

to be born prematurely at forty,

twelve years early,

before my skull was widened by a single centimeter,

before the broad lines split my forehead.

 

Now, eight years later,

I did not survive the war.

War is born with us,

with our names and titles,

with the first cry,

with the first frown,

with the first suckle,

and with the stamp of our birth certificate.

 

We are children of war,

so how can war kill us?

Ramzi Salem is a Palestinian poet who lives in Belgium. He has published many poems addressing various topics, including Palestine, exile, homesickness, and recurring wars. He is currently working on his first collection, which primarily highlights the disastrous effects of the devastating war that erupted in the Gaza Strip on October 7, 2023. This collection deeply explores the pain of loss, suffering, hunger, and cold, and expresses his feelings as an expatriate—his constant anxiety and fear, along with longing and homesickness. It also reflects on the world’s failure and the loss of humanity.


New Poetry: Ramzi Salem’s ‘Feet That Come Before the Dawn’

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Palestinian poet Ramzi Salem’s  “لم أنجُ من الحرب” originally appeared in Al Araby in January 2024. We ran a translation of his “أقدامٌ تسبق الفجر” yesterday.

Feet That Come Before the Dawn

By Ramzi Salem

Translated by the author

Where does this dawn take us?

Toward what fate does this boredom cast us?

Will it be a fitting end,

where we plant jasmine along the roadside?

Or will it be to the migration of the impossible,

where our names change with a howl?

Or will it be to the depths of the well,

where we feed on memories of love?

Our footsteps have no path—

they see the mirage as if it were before us

and strive for what is beyond it, beyond us.

 

Our feet go before us,

as if they were the guide to our destinies,

as if they were the hymn of our souls,

spreading our shrouds for us,

selling us our dreams,

trading them and our memories.

They go before us and run from us,

fleeing the oppression of our days,

the boldness of our imaginations,

and the clamor of our bowels,

leading us to our doom.

 

How can they guide us to our names

on the first night under our sky’s roof,

with the last tune trembling on the strings of our lives,

when rust consumes the frames of our bodies,

and the damp wind gnaws at the void of our bones,

when the willow leaves become scarves for our necks,

and the doves build their nests upon us,

raising their young in the cavities of our ribs,

and the jasmine blooms in the depths of our hearts

 

Will they guide us to ourselves and our loved ones,

whose fragrant nectar has rooted in our throats,

whose laughter echoes in our chests,

whose images are reflected on our faces?

Will they guide us to ourselves and our tragedy,

to the repeating sharp echo of our groans,

to the consolation of the shadow in our loneliness,

to our oppression and the tears in our prayers,

and our yearning for the moment of our birth,

and our last whispered words before ascent?

 

I will sleep—

perhaps my heart will grow and become a cloud.

My voice travels through it like a melody,

taking us, at a new dawn, to an old destination,

where we hold a funeral for the charming blue sea,

and a funeral for the migrating green willow,

and millions of other funerals for the raging blood.

I will gather the scattered conspiring particles of air,

pile them in the suitcases of memory,

and toss them into the belly of the ship.

Maybe they will come before the dawn and our confused feet,

taking us to a new fate

and a flourishing life.

Ramzi Salem is a Palestinian poet who lives in Belgium. He has published many poems addressing various topics, including Palestine, exile, homesickness, and recurring wars. He is currently working on his first collection, which primarily highlights the disastrous effects of the devastating war that erupted in the Gaza Strip on October 7, 2023. This collection deeply explores the pain of loss, suffering, hunger, and cold, and expresses his feelings as an expatriate—his constant anxiety and fear, along with longing and homesickness. It also reflects on the world’s failure and the loss of humanity.

The Story of a Poem: Refaat Alareer’s ‘If I Must Die’

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By Salih J Altoma 

“And in Gaza and the West Bank, a new generation of poets persists. The most famous, of course, is Refaat Alareer, who was murdered by an Israeli bomb in December 2023, and whose poem “If I Must Die” has rapidly become one of the most read and translated of the 21st century.” -Alex Skopic / Current Affairs (Jan/Feb 2024).

“Refaat’s poem, viewed 33 million times on Twitter, is the most famous poem written in my lifetime.” -Ken Chen/Nation (June 3, 2024).

1

“If I Must Die” stands out as only one of the early poems that leading Palestinian academic and poet Refaat Alareer (1979-2023) chose to write in English (not in Arabic, his native language). According to an interview published in Global Rights International Magazine in June 2018 and reprinted in the Kurdish newspaper ANF NEWS on October 19, 2018, Alareer began to write in English in 2008 during Israel’s offensive on Gaza. He seems to have felt obliged, to use his words, “to write back in English to reach out to the world to educate people about Palestine and save them from the dominant Israeli multi-million-dollar campaigns of misinformation.”

Alareer repeatedly considered and promoted the use of English as a primary tool of expression not only for his creative works, but as an effective means to reach directly (not through translation) a worldwide audience. He stated in the interview:

“… as much as I believe [in], and love, translation, I also believe that we need to train ourselves to express our concerns in the target language, here English…. Palestinians who are able to speak for themselves in other languages should do that directly.”

Alareer also made other references, in this interview, to his poems, his experience writing poetry, and the hope that he would be able to publish some of his creative works, saying:

“I am hoping I will invest more time and efforts into writing fiction and poetry. I have few unfinished texts that I am hoping to bring out to the world.”

Unfortunately, Alareer had no chance in his lifetime to see any of his poems published in a collection. It is only after his death that a posthumous collection of his poems and other writings is expected to be issued by OR Books (in London) in September 2024 under the title If I Must Die.

2

There is no doubt Alareer’s unique choice of English for his poems has contributed to the instant and direct reception of his “If I Must Die” across the world. No other Palestinian or Arabic poem in English translation has captured a comparable worldwide attention or empathetic response within a short time after its publication.

It was in the aftermath of Alareer’s tragic death in an Israeli air strike (December 6, 2023) that his poem went viral in America and around the world. It has since reached millions of readers and viewers by various means:

* Social media

* Newspapers and other publications, including recent dissertations

* Multiple translations (more than 100 languages)

* Public gatherings, vigils, or forums

* Artistic adaptations, poems, and other forms.

3

Given the fact that the poem spreads primarily by oral transmission with no publisher involved to promote it or track its circulation, we have no way to document its readership, although figures in the millions (10-30 million) have been suggested in writings relevant to the poem, such as it “has now been viewed almost 30 million times (Jonathan Edwards, December 14, 2023).

It is possible to use Google’s search for estimated figures, which vary from day to day, or any time you initiate it within a day. (A search on “If I Must Die” on February 26, 2023, for example,  yielded about 1,130,000 results in contrast to 560,000 results  on June 12, 2024.) This is not to suggest that Google’s figures represent only the circulation of Alareer’s poem. They include many similar or related titles; but they do help us have a broad view of the poem’s circulation.

Other indications that confirm the poem’s unusual circulation include the recent statement by Ken Chen “Refaat’s poem, viewed 33 million times on Twitter, is the most famous poem written in my lifetime,” or Alex Skopic’ s  reference to “If I Must Die” as “ one of the most read and translated of the 21st century” century.”

There are other databases which document “If I Must Die”’s global circulation within a brief period such as “Access World News” and “Nexis Uni.” The latter, as an example, provides access to hundreds of articles published in worldwide newspapers and other publications beginning with December 7, 2023 and through June 7, 2024.

4

Such references and remarks underscore the universal appeal of Alareer’s poem and its ability to resonate in different ways with diverse audiences. But they overlook its history by assuming, with rare exceptions, that “If I Must Die” was his last poem or that he wrote it weeks or days before his death. For recent examples, see:

…professor Refaat Alareer — so haunted by the daily devastation and the likelihood he and his own family would be targeted that in his final weeks, he wrote a poem called “If I must Die”—. Philadelphia Daily News April 9, 2024.

The event also included the reading of poem “If I Must Die” by Refaat Alareer, written weeks before he was killed in an airstrike. | Miami Hurricane, The: University of Miami April 3, 2024.

What has been missing from such comments is a historical perspective of two facts relevant to Alareer’s postings of “If I Must Die.”

First, as a poet, Alareer posted no fewer than 14 resistance-related poems, and some of his own translations, between 2011 and 2023. Another important fact is Alareer’s insistence on singling out “If I Must Die” as a symbol of his unyielding resistance to Israel’s oppressive occupation of his Palestinian homeland. He did so by posting or publishing the poem on at least three occasions: 2011-12, 2014, and 2023.

5

The poem was first posted on Alareer’s blog In Gaza, My Gaza (November 27, 2011). It was reposted soon after on the American website Mondoweiss (January 16, 2012). Alareer seems to have intended also to reach a British audience by publishing the same poem in London’s magazine Global Poetry (December 16, 2012).

The next time Alareer published his poem was in 2014, in a special issue of Biography (University of Hawaii), dedicated to “Life in Occupied Palestine.” It was not printed as a separate item and is thus not listed in the table of contents. He chose to use it as a conclusion of his paper “Gaza Writes Back: Narrating Palestine,” in which he expressed his highly idealistic vision of a peaceful co-existence between Palestinians and Jews. The poem follows immediately his final lines:

I want my children to plan, rather than worry about, their future and to draw beaches or fields of blue skies and a sun in the corner, not warships, pillars of smoke, warplanes, and guns. Hopefully, the stories of Gaza Writes Back will help bring my daughter Shymaa and Viola* together and give them consolation and solace to continue the struggle until Palestine is free. Until then, I will continue telling her stories.

As the recent tragic news revealed, Shymaa (sometimes written as Shaima), a pillar of his vision, was assassinated in an Israeli airstrike on April 26, 2024, along with her husband and their 2-month-old son.

6

Despite such repeated postings, “If I Must Die” received little attention prior to Alareer’s martyrdom in 2023, apart from comments or reactions published on Alareer’s own blogs or the poem’s first postings (2011 and 2012) cited earlier: Mondoweiss  and Global Poetry.

Mondoweiss (2012) includes about 30 comments which deserve to be noted. For they represent, in my view, an overlooked early attempt to address the poem’s central themes and issues: death, children and kites, resistance to Israel’s decades of occupation, total blockade, and wars. Only a few illustrative comments are quoted here:

* “ … Israel is not exactly offering life if one submits. they want them gone after all. death is always nearby in Gaza but the spirit of life there is like no other place I have ever been on earth.”

* “Young men and women should not be facing deadly, oppressive, inhuman occupation on daily basis. They do. Death becomes something they see much too often.”

* “Yes, wonderful poem. The kite is a symbol of hope flying in the face of grave sky.”

*  “. I have read extensively about the German invasion of Russia during WWII. What is so amazing about many stories is the willingness of the Russian people, mostly their youth, to choose death over their own defeat. You guys are forcing that same choice on the Palestinians.”

*“When I die” evokes various romantic poems on which East and Central Europeans were raised.”

As suggested in the previous comment, the poem’s evocative power was noted or implied in references to American and Hungarian and Ukrainian poems or songs of resistance including “If We Must Die” by Claude McKay. The latter linkage becomes a recurrent theme following Alareer’s martyrdom on December 6, 2023.

In contrast to Mondoweiss, Global Poetry, as a journal, was known for its focus on “a culture of nonviolence” and for its dedication to poetry that celebrates “the capacity of the human spirit to overcome obstacles and find creative, nonviolent solutions to conflicts …” as its general statement of aims indicates. It published Alareer’s poem “If I Must Die” on December 16, 2012 under the tag “Nonkilling” to indicate the poem’s  nonviolent orientation within the context of “Israel and Palestine Conflict.”

We have no sources to document Alareer’s knowledge about the journal or his familiarity with its mission or the concept of “nonkilling.”  The term “nonkilling” was defined, by the American scientist Glen Paige (1929-2017) as: “nonkilling poetry explores the spirit and practice of how to prevent, respond to, and to improve individual, social, and global well being beyond killing.”

But we can assume that Alareer, as a former student in London pursuing his MA degree, was familiar with the journal or the concept and was perhaps motivated by the focus on nonviolence to submit “If I Must Die” to the journal. He published in the same journal a second poem, “Mom,” on August 4, 2012.

7

In brief, having in mind such an early (2012) positive, though limited, reception, it seems rather surprising that Alareer was not referred to as a poet nor was his famous poem “If I Must Die” cited or discussed during the period preceding his death. It’s surprising because Alareer was widely noted during the same period, for his contributions in multiple areas. He was noted as an outstanding academic renowned for his teaching English poetry and many of his lectures on English poetry and poets are still accessible in videos online; as an inspiring mentor of young creative writers; as the editor of Gaza Writes Back: Short Stories from Young Writers in Gaza, Palestine (2014) and co-editor of Gaza Unsilenced (2015); and as a prolific and tireless blogger sharing his resistance writings with thousands of his followers from 2008 until the last days of his life in December 2023. It is regrettable that, prior to Alareer’s death, none of these and other titles referred to him as a poet or included references to “If I Must Die.”

It is only after his death that the word “poet” became his primary identifying title, often associated with his famous poem,If I Must Die.”

Salih J. Altoma is Professor Emeritus of Arabic and Comparative Literature at Indiana University. He has served as director of Middle Eastern Studies and chair of the Near Eastern Languages and Cultures Department. His many publications in Arabic and English include Modern Arabic Literature in Translation: A Companion, The Yearbook of Comparative and General Literature (2000 ed.) On Arabic-Western Literary Relations, and Iraq’s Modern Arabic Literature: A Guide to English Translations since 1950.

 

New Poetry from Gaza by Mohammed AlQudwa

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War’s Echo

By Mohammed AlQudwa

Translated by Tala Al-Banna

 

I have known war’s echo since I was a child

age five

when a rocket visited the sky of my imagination

 

How well I know death:

the sound of shrapnel when it pierced my window

and shattered the dreams that were

hung on my wall

 

I left my poem behind, hoping it would survive

the wreckage

 

One night, I slept

And went to search my nightmares

for my friends

 

I wish I didn’t sleep

 

I was a young man in his twenties when

I discovered the first white in my hair

Was it a strand of gray? Or dust from the house?

 

Now I’m an old man

saying farewell to his friends

as if we headed to death together

the way we’d lived life together

 

Goodbye.

I won’t forget that here,

I had friends.

صدى الحرب

أعرف صدى الحرب منذ كنت طفلا
في سن الخامسة
حين زار سماء مخيلتي صاروخ

أعرف الموت جيدا
صوت الشظية حين اخترق نافذتي
وكسّر أحلامي المعلقة على حائطي
تركت قصيدتي علّها تنجو من فوق ركامي

نمت ليلة
خرجت بعدها أفتش في كوابيسي عن الرفاق
ليتني لم أنم

كنت شابًا في العشرين
حين رفعت أول شيبة من رأسي
أكان شيبًا؟ أم أنّه غبار البيت؟

الآن أنا شيخ
أودّع الأصدقاء
كأنّا خضنا الموت سويًا
فقد كنّا لبعضنا حياة
أودعكم
ولن أنسى يوما أنه كان لي هنا رفاق..

Mohammed AlQudwa (@alqudwa.mohammed) is in Gaza, where he has been practicing karate for more than 16 years and is on the Palestinian national team. He started writing in 2020 and published his first novel, Last Destination, in 2022. He also studies software engineering.

Tala Al-Banna was born and grew up in Gaza. She is a law student, writer, and activist in the fields of human rights and the environment. She has a strong passion to discover more about the world of animals and nature in general. She likes to read and also embroiders (tatreez) in her free time as a way to bond with her ancestral home in Jaffa.

New Poetry from Wadih Saadeh’s Forthcoming Collection

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Late this fall, Tenement Press will be bringing out a selection of work by the celebrated Lebanese-Australian poet Wadih Saadeh, titled A Horse at the Door. The book, forthcoming December 10, will bring together a “chronology” of Saadeh’s poems, drawing from collections published between 1968 and 2012.

“Another Light” (ضوء آخر) comes from Saadeh’s 2006 collection, تركيب آخر لحياة وديع سعادة (Another Configuration of the Life of Wadih Saadeh).

Another light

On the high mountain he closed his eyes

not wanting the old light, come walking

thousands of years to reach him.

He closed his eyes and came down

to the valley,

….where the floor

whose light is not got from the sun

but from the gaze of stone on stone.

Wadih Saadeh was born in 1948 in the village of Chabtine in northern Lebanon. Tenement Press writes that, as a young man, “he moved to Beirut where he first began to write poetry and where, in 1973, he would distribute handwritten copies of his first collection, The evening has no siblings. He lived and travelled between Beirut and Europe—Germany, France, Spain, Italy, Greece and Cyprus—until in 1988 he finally emigrated with his family to Australia, where he lives now: ‘a village farmer, resident in Sydney.’

He has been a figure of central importance in the development of the Arabic prose poem, but has been little-published in English translation. Anne Fairburn published a collection of his poems with the title A Secret Sky (1997), which is excerpted from a single collection: Saadeh’s 1992 collection Because of a cloud most probably. A Horse at the Door is the first real overview of his work.

Robin Moger is a translator of Arabic to English who lives in L’Hospitalet de Llobregat. His translations of prose and poetry have appeared widely. His most recent publications include Strangers in Light Coats (Seagull Press, 2023)—a collection of the poems of Palestinian poet Ghassan Zaqtan—and Traces of Enayat by Iman Mersal (And Other Stories Press, 2023) which was a joint winner of the 2024 James Tait Black Prize for Biography.

Find more of Saadeh’s work at Tenement Press, where pre-orders are available.

New Poetry by Olivia Elias, July 2024

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Say

By Olivia Elias

translated by Jérémy Victor Robert

A poet of the Palestinian diaspora, Olivia Elias writes in French. Born in Haifa in 1944, she lived until the age of sixteen in Lebanon, where her family took refuge in 1948, then in Montreal, before moving to France. Her work, translated into English, Arabic, Spanish, Italian, and Japanese, has appeared in anthologies and numerous journals. In 2022, she published her first book in English translation, Chaos, Crossing (World Poetry), translated by Kareem James Abu-Zeid. In September 2023 a limited illustrated edition of her Your Name, Palestine, a chapbook translated by Sarah Riggs and Jérémy Victor Robert appeared from World Poetry Editions.

Jérémy Victor Robert is a translator between English and French who works and lives in his native Réunion Island.

Poetry in Translation: Ahmed Yamani’s ‘Love’

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This poem is from Yamani’s collection, Farewell in a Tiny Triangle, published by Dar Almutawassit. A translation originally ran on ArabLit in October 2022.

Love

By Ahmed Yamani Translated by Omar Ibrahim   Love was a single blow from neither an axe nor a hand — a bucket of cold water where the head and legs swim a hospital bed and blood dripping from the bedroom to the bathroom * Love was vomiting in friends’ houses where they ran here and there in search of a hope of survival * Love was painful like a rose’s thorn in the wet garden of a deserted house where a lonely man once lived then was buried inside a room * Love was that room, the man’s immortal shoe, the worn-out curtain that covered his remains * Love was the man’s only servant who hit the nosy boys then went away to cry, lonely, lonelier than the owner of the house * Love was the moment the boys were struck as they climbed mulberry trees in the abandoned garden * Love was never the mulberry tree * Love was her, with her round face and moonstruck eyes who was only ever there once. * Love was a leap from the tenth floor, that left fragments on the ground * Love was the drops of blood from the sidewalk to the ambulance * Love was the skinny body they threw out of the car * Love was the car that crashed into the lamppost * Love was the locked wardrobe inside the locked room in the grandparents’ locked house * Love was the doorman’s lit cigarette * Love was the thief who went to rob the grandparents’ house * Love was the sick woman the horror of her withered body her eyes the boiled food they took to her * Love was the axe that strikes * Love was the hand holding the axe

Ahmed Yamani is an Egyptian poet based in Spain. He holds a PhD in Arabic Literature from Complutense University of Madrid where he currently serves as an Associate Professor. He has published five poetry collections and was previously awarded the Rimbaud Prize in 1991, the 39th Beirut Prize in 2010, the Poets from Other Worlds Award in Spain in 2015, the House of Translators Scholarship in Zaragoza, Spain in 2011 and the Fairmont Studio Writers and Artists Centre Award in 2012 from the United States of America. His poems have been translated into nine languages, and he has participated in poetry festivals in Egypt, France, Spain, Lebanon, London, Algeria, the United Arab Emirates, Italy, Morocco and Medellin (Colombia), as well as numerous translations from Spanish to Arabic. Omar Ibrahim is an Egyptian literary translator, poet and essayist. He translated Mahmoud Morsi’s collection of poems It’s Time I Confess into English, and his Arabic translation of H. P. Lovecraft’s novella The Whisper in Darkness was on the bestselling list of many bookstores. He also has his own poetry collection, titled Fragments of My Mind, and two upcoming translations.

New Poetry in Translation: ‘Man of Glass’

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Man of Glass

By Kamal Abu Al-Nour

Translated by Abdou Elrayess with Yasser Abdellatif

 

Once

I took my heart for a walk

And told him:

I am a dead man

So, what tempts you in a lifeless body?

 

**

 

I open the door so that the day gets in,

leaving a slap on my face.

I close the door so that the night knocks,

leaving a woman’s body and says:

This is how life is.

Remember that you turned your back to those lakes

That no human has walked

So, live in peace,

And keep your eyes on your fingertips

And do not try to put your foot

In the water.

 

**

 

Every man has a cloud:

And when he puts his hands on its chest,

It rains.

Then the man sows its land

Which bears fruit immediately.

I have been laying hands for years,

Yet there was neither rain nor fruit—

Only a thief waiting for a stray cloud

 

**

 

I need to sleep outdoors,

To look for another sky.

My body is no longer obedient

And that fire doesn’t scare me anymore.

I have just learned

Why happiness passes before me in a flash,

I have just learned

That life gets frittered away in the space between

Cognition and obsession

 

**

 

Life told me:

If you want to touch this cloud

Carry me on your back

And climb this mountain!

So, I went up

But my legs got stiff, and my back grew hunched.

Then life gloated as it looked into my eyes

And said: stretch out your hands!

When I, with bowed head and broken eyes,

Looked down at my feet,

I found neither mountain nor cloud

But a dog trembling,

And a cat mewling under my bed.

 

**

 

A woman ties me to her tree.

Then God stretches out His hands

And gives me an axe, saying:

Cut down this tree!

But I bind myself tightly to the tree,

And apologize to it.

 

**

 

Each time the wind blew, I closed my eyes:

It passed and I closed my eyes.

And each time,

A layer of my heart was scraped away

Until I checked my heart once

And didn’t find it.

It is inevitable that my eyelids will be torn off

So, my eyes, stay open forever.

 

**

 

Leave the bouquet in its place,

Leave the book where it is,

Don’t change the music;

My heart only sways to God’s rhythm.

Do not tamper with the sky clock.

I need a cook who is good at kneading happiness—

I am not always a demon or an angel

 

**

 

When I was about to pluck your breaths

The distance between us was enough

To break my heart

I neither plucked them nor healed my heart.

There is a rabid dog

That drives its fangs into my soul

So here I am,

A ghost searching for a ghost.

The distance between us has become vast.

There is nothing in this wasteland

But barking

 

**

 

One evening

I checked my organs;

They have become strange to me.

Before, they were intact,

Each one with its language and music,

But now they are abandoned and lazy.

I thought they were obsolete

But when a breeze passed by,

A breeze I had never yet known,

They returned to their former state.

It seems that they needed to perish

To rise again from the ashes.

 

**

 

Don’t touch this sudden love

This hot water

This luscious body.

You are an outcast:

All bodies you crave

Turn into glass.

 

**

 

I am a cowardly man

The walls I always hide beside,

Curled up in, convulse.

The house is full of ghosts,

The door is wide open,

Yet I don’t step outside

 

**

 

At some point

We must become killers;

These mistakes we made once

Without guilt

Are enough for us

To have the fangs necessary to smile

While we see the bleeding of

The people who shackled our legs.

We wanted nothing but to breathe

We hoped life would shake our hands kindly,

Would embrace us warmly, as we did,

But it doesn’t know that the wounded sheep

Set their traps

To heal their wounds with wolf meat

 

**

 

O death!

You old rascal, please don’t show up on time.

I have a girlfriend I haven’t met yet,

A child whose lungs are not fully developed.

I have happiness for whom I open my arms

But it runs away.

I promise, after the first knock,

I will smash the windows and doors,

And throw her down without a word

And scream without ceasing

Until I get my share of life.

Kamal Abu Al-Nour is one of the poets of the 90s generation in Egypt. His poems were published in magazines such as Ibdaa, Adab, Naqd, Elsher, and Doha, as well as many Egyptian newspapers such as Al-Gomhuria and Al-Massaa. He disappeared from the literary scene in Egypt for more than twenty years. He reappeared in 2017 when his first collection was published under the title Waves of Phobia by the General Egyptian Book Organization and two more poetry collections by him followed, the first Final Jump for a Dead Fish by Dar Al-Ain in 2018 and the second is A Tree in The Heart of a Wolf by the General Egyptian Book Organization in 2022. His fourth collection is in print.

Abdou Elrayess is a translator, researcher, and poet who is a core lecturer for the Culture Palaces and was shortlisted for the Sheikh Zayed Book Award, translation branch, in 2015. He has translated a number of books from English to Arabic, including Samuel Beckett’s Molloy and Richard G. Klein’s The Dawn of Human Culture.

Yasser Abdellatif is an award-winning Egyptian poet, short-story writer, screenwriter, and novelist. In 2005, he was awarded the Sawiris Prize for his debut novel Qanoon al-Wiratha (The Law of Inheritance), which is available from Seagull Books in Robin Moger’s translation.


New Poetry for Ismail Al-Ghoul and Rami Al-Rifi

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For Ismail Al-Ghoul and Rami Al-Rifi

By Heba Al-Agha

Translated by Julia Choucair Vizoso

 

No grief to bear in this city

no wall to weep on

 

no helmet

no armor to carry us

All, too heavy for our bodies

 

no friendly ally

to panic to: see how quickly people die here

 

nothing to keep us from death

but death itself.

If you can, please support Heba via her GoFundMe.

Heba Al-Agha is a mother, amateur writer, and creative writing educator at the A.M. Qattan Foundation in Gaza City. She does not belong to any writers’ unions and has not published any literary books, but works with an army of young writers training them in freedom and the power of writing. She writes at t.me/hebalaghatalkwar andhttps://gazastory.com/archives/author/hebaaga.

Julia Choucair Vizoso is an independent scholar and seasonal translator. She hopes Heba Al-Agha’s words move you to refuse and resist the Israel-US genocide of the Palestinian people and destruction of Lebanon, wherever and however you can.

Fady Joudah: ‘How Is Your Devastation Today?’

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This poem also appears on Mizna.

How Is Your Devastation Today?

By Fady Joudah

Did a particular morning birdsong visit it?

Did innocent grumbling

about a meaningless desire

that has become the meaning of all desire

from one of your kids distract you from it?

Is your espresso machine working fine?

Did a photo or video

of a father sculpting

the rigor mortis of his murdered twins

and their mother sink you?

They say some NGO had helped

throughout her high risk

pregnancy during a war of extermination.

They say the killers had been following

her progress to eliminate her

ninety six hours after C section,

on the day the birth certificates were issued,

a day after the twins were given names.

They say the father refused

to be a collaborator. And the mother,

a physician, a specific kind of witness,

had looked at her killers the wrong way.

She thought they were shit.

They say she hails from my hometown

as does her mother who was also killed.

They say the twins were fraternal.

And the building had sixteen apartments

but only theirs on the top floor was hit.

They say the killers are unconcerned

with your forensic evidence

since they made partner in the archive.

And when my mind drifts

to the Burghers of Calais, they say,

at least those had their lives spared

after guns to their heads

fired blanks. Which changes nothing

of what has become of their faces.

 

Fady Joudah îs a poet for our times & all. He is the author of five collections; most recently, […]. He has translated several collections of poetry from Arabic and is the co-editor and co-founder of the Etel Adnan Poetry Prize.

New Poetry of the Now by Basman Eldirawi

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The Moment

By Basman Eldirawi

 

The saddest part is that we don’t know what the saddest part is

Is it this moment?

The next moment?

Is the moment when you think this is the worst–

just before another missile hits

a worse-than-ever moment?

The moment when you proudly show the map of your home and

are accused of being antisemitic?

The next moment, your home no longer exists.

The next moment, your two best friends are killed.

The next moment, a sister and her entire family are killed.

The next moment, you remember a moment with your friends and cry

The next moment, you remember your home and cry

The next moment, you hear your neighbor in the next tent

crying over his slain son.

The next moment, you ask God, Will you ever live a moment of relief again?

Will you cry?

The moment when you unzip your chest and hand your heavy heart to God

is just before the fiery explosion from Al Fajr massacre eats your son’s skin.

The next moment, you lean against the remains of a wall and cry.

The next moment, they hit the remains of the wall.

They even hate the remains.

No walls are left in the city to cry on.

You lean on your poem.

Another moment, new missiles, new explosions, a new massacre.

Another friend, neighbor, son, house was killed.

The last wall I leaned on, in the poem, was destroyed.

You can support Basman and his brother, the playwright Bassem El Dirawi, through this GoFundMe.

Basman Aldirawi (also published as Basman Derawi) is a physiotherapist and a graduate of Al-Azhar University in Gaza in 2010. Inspired by an interest in music, movies, and people with special needs, he contributes dozens of stories to the online platform We Are Not Numbers.

New Poetry in Translation: ‘The Seagulls are the Gateway of the Sea’

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For the next several Wednesdays, ArabLit will be running a series of poems by Somaya Elsousi, a Palestinian poet from Gaza who now lives in Norway. You can read more of her work at PEN/Opp.

The Seagulls are the Gateway of the Sea

By Somaya Elsousi

Translated by Ali Al-Jamri

Once upon a harbor

(as a storyteller said)

gathering her shells and waiting

watching ships that will not come

stepping fearfully over the cobbles

she is shaped by her shadow.

There is no shade for her

save for her shadow.

 

Her love guards her

love is the companion and the guide tugging the camel’s lead.

 

Swapping out fear for laughter

gathering stories in her small box

watching from a distance the details, start to end

of stories neglected by their owners

she organizes these fragments to complete herself:

lonely lovers rain down

with the melodies of departures

and rivers of desire.

 

Sweeping the doorway of her tale

spraying water perfumed by basil

shaping an emptiness, she is shaped by the emptiness

she grows by the lovers’ tales and beneath her they take shade.

 

Sorrowful as a single oar

its desires broken by the shore

she stares at the nets.

The sands kiss her

the wind burns her

the sound breaking with the waves lets her down.

Her mihrab is her spirit and her heart expands

 

To be with her, it is as if she is made of light and honey.

Vast is her extent

sweet, her melodies

healing, her glow.

She spreads out the strands of her silence

and relaxes in pain’s calm.

 

Confused between

her childhood

and the cry of the woman balling up in her chest

the naughty girl plays between the sentences

tiring herself out with the contrasting color and waiting’s aches.

 

You who runs from her to her—where will you hide?

 

What are you afraid of when

you have experienced life

the distances have bloodied you

and anxiety has shaped you?

 

The revelation

was our secret.

When it becomes fear

and the secret, too, becomes fear,

where do we find our escape then?

 

How unfair were you to the distances and the tale

and the lonely storyteller—

none will understand you but yourself

nothing will shade you save for your tree and single breeze.

Your loneliness is your destiny—well must you understand it.

We were a tale the storytellers did not know

our love sparking the night’s distances.

We wove our threads with the cleverness of amateurs

patch by patch

we braided our fear

feelings of absence

differences

pain.

 

Hand-in-hand we walked to the center of the distance

the distance was sinful

Our sins can endure the sins of the moment more than we can

We mounted one wave separated from the tide

 

No wind washes the face of the young girl from her fear

no hand holds her hand again

no tale for her to step over and light the last candle at the dance’s end.

Without a melody to spin her side

nor a song to illuminate the winds in her hair

she dances… dances…

alone, as in every dance

 

النوارس بوابة البحر

 

ذاتَ مرفأ أو كما قال راوٍ ، جَمَعَتْ أصدافها وانتظرت

تَرقبُ سفناً لن تأتي، تخطو بوجلٍ على حافة الطريق

 يُشَكِلُها ظِلُّها ولا ظل لها سواه

يَحرسُها عِشقُها والعشق في رحلتِها الحادي والرفيق

تُبَدِلُ خوفها بضحكة

 تَجمعُ الحكايات في صندوقها الصغير

تَرقبُ من بعيد تفاصيل أولى وأخيرة

 لقصصٍ أهملَها أصحابها

 تُرتبُ ما تخربش منها  لتكتمل

تُمطرُ قصصاً من عشاق وحيدين

وألحانَ هجرٍ وأنهارَ رغبة

تَكْنسُ بوابة الحكاية

 ترشُ ماء ًمعطراً بالرياحين

تشكلُ فراغاً ويُشكِّلُها الفراغ

تكبرُ بهم و بها يستظلون

.

حزينةٌ كمجدافٍ وحيدٍ كَسَّر الشاطئ رغبته

تُحدقُ بالشِبَاك

 يلثُمها الرمل، تَحرِقُها الريح

 تَكَسُّر الصوت على حافة الموج يخذِلُها

 مِحرابها روحها وقلبها يتسع

.

الدخول إليها أول كل مرة وكأنها تخلقُ من نورٍ وعسل

شاسعٌ مداها ،عذبٌ لحنها، شافٍ بَريقُها

 تَفردُ خُصلاتِ صَمتِها

ترتاحُ في سكون الألم

حائرةٌ بين طفولتها وأَنة الأنثى المتكورة في صدرها

تلهو بين العبارات شقيةٌ يُتعبُها اللون المغاير و وَجع الانتظار

يا من تركُضينَ منها إليها، إلي أين الهرب؟

.

مِمَ تخافينَ وقد عَرفتِ الدروب وأَدْمَتكِ المسافات

وشَكَّلَكِ القلق

البوحُ

كان سِرنا

وحين صار البوحُ خوفاً

والسرُ خَشيةً

لمن نهرب إذن؟

.

كم ظَلَمْتِ المسافةَ والحكايةَ

 والراوي الوحيد

لن يفهَمَكِ سِواكِ

ولن تُظَلِّلُكِ غير شجرتكِ ونسمتكِ الوحيدة

وِحدَتُكِ قدركِ،افهميها كما يجب

.

كنا حكايةً لم يُدرِكها الرواة، أشعلَ عِشقُنا ليلَ المسافة

نَسجنا خيوطنا ببراعة هاوٍ

رقعة ًرقعة جَدَّلنا خوفَنا، وحشتَنا، اختلافَنا،وألمنا

خطونا يداً بيد إلى منتصف المسافة

كانت المسافة آثمة

وكان إثمنا أكثرَ احتمالاً منا لخطايا اللحظة

 رَكِبنا موجةً واحدةً فرقَها المد

.

لا ريح تَغسلُ وجه الصبية من خوفٍها

لا يد تمسكُ يدها من جديد

لا حكاية تدوسها لتشعل الشمعة الأخيرة في نهاية الرقصة

بلا لحنٍ يَغزلُ خاصِرتَها

بلا نشيدٍ يشعلُ الهواء في شَعرِها

ترقص ……..ترقص

وَحدَها كما كل رقصة

Somaya Elsousi is a Palestinian poet from Gaza Palestine who currently lives in Norway as an ICORN writer. She has published five poetry collections: (ناي العتمة) (En flöjt av mörker), translated into Swedish by Hana Hallgren, Jenny Tunedal,  and Anna Jansson and published by Ellerströms in 2024; (فكرة، فراغ، أبيض), co-written with the poet Hala Al Shruf and published by Dar al-Adab in 2005;  (وحدها وحدي). published in 2005 by Sanabel;  (أبواب), published in 2003 by Dar Merit;  ( أول رشفة من صدر البحر ), published in 1999 by the Palestinian Writers Union in Gaza. She has also translated many poems to English, Spanish, Italian, French, Swedish and Norwegian that have been published in various literary anthologies and magazines.

Ali Al-Jamri is a poet, editor, translator, and educator in Manchester. He is one of Manchester’s Multilingual City Poets (2022-present). His work has been published in journals and websites including Modern Poetry in Translation, The Markaz, ArabLit, Poetry Birmingham, Harana and in anthologies. He has co-authored teacher texts with HarperCollins and is the editor of Between Two Islands: Poetry by Bahrainis in Britain (No Disclaimers, 2021) and ArabLit Quarterly: FOLK (ArabLit, 2021).

New Poetry in Translation: Somaya Elsousi’s ‘Her Scent’

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For the next several Wednesdays, ArabLit will be running a series of poems by Somaya Elsousi, a Palestinian poet from Gaza who now lives in Norway. You can read more of her work at PEN/Opp, as well as the poem we ran last Wednesday — also in Ali Al-Jamri’s translation — “The Seagulls are the Gateway of the Sea.”

Her Scent

By Somaya Elsousi

Translated by Ali Al-Jamri

 

a melody, morning coffee

sorrow dripping with sorrows

her scent is absent

her radiance takes over the place

her scent, which mixes with her soul

 

the body’s yearning for her embrace

the sorrow of her eyes hovers far away

 

proximity’s flame, the lonely tale’s melody

her lips repeat that tune

her laughter alone owns what remains

 

the lustful inarticulateness that lives within her

her desire to become

the clamoring silence—

her voice alone can bear it

 

yearning’s great distances

the pains of the first word

the pleasure of new flight:

as usual, the storyteller steals them all

 

the conversation’s fragments

this first love, this feeling as if she were mine

melodies harmonize with the rhythm of absence

her scent—a forest of questions

 

the winds of a thought that did not complete

…another beginning

perhaps

an eternal soul’s sorrow

but we will not be satisfied

 

a scream rips the wall of the tale

 

the tale does not know how to listen

the silence of the thought

—how bitter it is!

 

green icons

inviting conversation

have gone offline

this morning

 

a new tab

a different person from a different time

comes with an intimate melody

 

one morning

a thought of her presence dominates

the ache of a look fixed on a memory

her scent was not a surprise

but I could not endure it

 

loss, we endure

it endures us

this loss was meant for us

at its gate, we remain lost

 

عطرها

لحنُ وقهوة صباح،حزن يَسْقُطُ حزنًا

عطرها غائب

ألقها يسبي المكان

عطرها ،امتزاجه بروحها

شوق الجسد لاحتضانها

حزن عينيها يحلق في سياق أبعد

حُرقة القرب،لحن الحكاية الوحيد

شِفاهها تردد اللحن،

ضحكتها وحدها تمتلك ما تبقى

شبقُ اللكنة المسكونة بها

شهوتُها لتكون

ضجةُ الصمت

صوتُها وحده يحتمل

فراغات الحنين،ألم المفردة الأولى

متعة التحليق من جديد

يسرقها الراوي كعادته

أطراف حديث

الشغف بأولى كأنها لي

تناغم اللحن مع إيقاع الغياب

عطرهُا هنا،غابة أسئلة

رياح فكرة لم تكتمل

بداية أخرى….

ربما

حزن روح أزلي

لكننا لن نكتفي

صرخة تمزق جدار حكاية

الحكاية لا تنصت جيدا

صمت الفكرة

كم هو مرير

أيقونات خضراء

شارة الدخول

الحالة غير متصل

في هذا الصباح

نافذة جديدة

آخر من وقت يختلف

هي بلحن حميمي

تأتي

ذات صباح

فكرة حضور طاغية

وجع النظرة ملتصق بالذاكرة

عطرها لم يكن مفاجأة

لكنني لم أحتمل

فقْدٌ نحتمله

يحتملنا

فَقْدٌ لم يُرسم لنا

على بوابته مازلنا تائهين

Somaya Elsousi is a Palestinian poet from Gaza Palestine who currently lives in Norway as an ICORN writer. She has published five poetry collections: (ناي العتمة) (En flöjt av mörker), translated into Swedish by Hana Hallgren, Jenny Tunedal,  and Anna Jansson and published by Ellerströms in 2024; (فكرة، فراغ، أبيض), co-written with the poet Hala Al Shruf and published by Dar al-Adab in 2005;  (وحدها وحدي). published in 2005 by Sanabel;  (أبواب), published in 2003 by Dar Merit;  ( أول رشفة من صدر البحر ), published in 1999 by the Palestinian Writers Union in Gaza. She has also translated many poems to English, Spanish, Italian, French, Swedish and Norwegian that have been published in various literary anthologies and magazines.

Ali Al-Jamri is a poet, editor, translator, and educator in Manchester. He is one of Manchester’s Multilingual City Poets (2022-present). His work has been published in journals and websites including Modern Poetry in Translation, The Markaz, ArabLit, Poetry Birmingham, Harana and in anthologies. He has co-authored teacher texts with HarperCollins and is the editor of Between Two Islands: Poetry by Bahrainis in Britain (No Disclaimers, 2021) and ArabLit Quarterly: FOLK (ArabLit, 2021).

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