Poetry – Page 7

Slippage

By Lisa Suhair Majaj

I’m forgetting my name, and how it’s spelled,

that alphabet blurred by years of usage,

letters tilting like the time-warped script

in my mother’s worn-out phone book,

its cover encased in a layer of heat-warped plastic.

I’m forgetting the person I used to be

before I got lost in the dust-streaked pages

of brittle phone books with dead-end numbers.

I’ve forgotten how to dial phones that aren’t rotary,

that circular whirr and click

humming the cadences of people now dead.

I can retrieve the dead, their faces and stories,

but I’ve misplaced their voices. I can’t recall

the addresses inscribed in my mother’s cursive

page by page in the grimy volume

I threw in the trash when she died.

But I remember the spasm of regret that rippled through me

as I opened my hand and released that store of names,
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noting how the body bears the current of memory

as if it were a phone line.

I recall my mother’s knuckled despair,

that legacy that haunted me with the lure

of forgetting, till I became so successful at amnesia

I could not recall the way back to myself.

I think of all the people who wrote me letters

of condolence after my mother’s death,

those tissue-thin pages that whispered

from a distant land. By now,

they won’t remember me. If I call,

they’ll rifle through their aging memories

as if through a card file, trying to place me,

We’ll stay on the line a long time,

breathing heavily into the slippage of silence,

unwilling to say goodbye.

For more poems by Lisa Suhair Majaj check full winter 2014 issue

In the Cairo Museum

By Claire Zoghb

So many towering things
in that dusty country:
pyramids, columns, obelisks
and three-story Pharaohs,
one granite leg extended
as if to crush us.

A relief, then
these seated scribes
lining the museum’s glass shelves —

small enough to fit the palm,
legs akimbo, a kind of love
in the hunched shoulders,
tiny hands poised mid-glyph,
each stylus lost to the ages.

Egyptian by birth,
monumental in his own way,
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would not speak to me
for half a decade.
Yet, that May afternoon
in those airless halls,
the dynasties fell away
with the sound of his voice.
Clara, come see —
they mummified their cats.

Fouad has lived seven years
in his own tomb now.
I smooth fresh scrolls
of papyrus across
my alabaster knees,
head bowed, waiting,
my pen casting a shadow
the length of the Nile.

For more poems by Claire Zoghb check the full winter 2014 issue of Sukoon

The Great Man

-dedicated to a dictator

By Jeff Friedman

The great man bullies fleeces from sheep, carrots from the mouths of jackrabbits, gardens from gods—bullies stalks into submission. He bullies the necklaces from graceful necks, the wings from swans, the fancy shoes from fancy feet. He bullies flies from spiders, He bullies the birds from the bush; he bullies the bush until he splits the roots. He bullies figs, petals wilting at his touch. His tongue never rests touching his lips, the tip of his nose, licking the velvet pockets, dulcet wounds, salty cups, Velasquezed veejays.

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The great man rules with a firm hand, showing off his rings, glinting emeralds, ruby reds. He rules with a hoarse laugh, promises to slay the harried kings, the loose sheiks, the brazen bulls who question his authority with their bloody horns. He rules with his own book of prejudice, renames poverty prosperity, swaggering down the aisles, flowers falling at his feet.

The great man showers everyone with his bliss. He parts the rock. He crosses out the sea. He sticks it to his believers causing them to squeal. The great man banishes his band of bandits, punishes the pundits who warn him of disgrace. He hectors the crumpled bodies, rants like an exotic bird in the wrong paradise, like fire burning up the dry brush, smoke embracing the ruins.

Take me with you, to Tel Aviv

By Firas Khoury
Translated from the Arabic by Thoraya El-Rayyes

My Occupier and I ride the train together. “Excuse me” I say, smiling, asking if I can sit in the empty seat next to him. My Occupier lets me through graciously, smiling.

I get off the train. My Occupier serves me coffee and lunch at a restaurant. “Do you need anything else?” my Occupier asks.

“No” I tell him, smiling. My Occupier smiles and backs away, so as not to disturb me by hovering over the table for even another second.

My phone rings. My Occupier speaks to me through the phone, “Can I offer you some of our products?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time.”

“Have a good day,” he smiles.

“You too,” I smile.

I leave the restaurant and head to the bank next door. I get stopped by my Occupier’s car, he asks how he can get to the Occupied street named after a leader of the Occupation. I think, I choose my words in the language of the Occupation and I give him directions. My Occupier thanks me and smiles. I smile.

I go into the bank. Next to me, my Occupier is reading the newspaper of the Occupation. Our eyes happen to meet so he smiles to avoid that pointless awkwardness. I smile back, and wait for the screen to announce my turn. My Occupier processes a cheque for me, a cheque I received from my Occupier after he deducted a percentage for the Occupation army. The money goes into my account (my Occupier’s account). I thank him and I smile, so he smiles.

I enter my Occupier’s university to pay off a debt that is a few years old. It is the first day of the academic year and my Occupier is joyous: my Occupier frolics, dances, sings, jumps. My Occupier is flying high!

“Me and my Occupier are in a garden, under a canopy of roses”

***

I call my Occupier, I want to meet. My Occupier is a dulcet beauty with lips like Golan cherries moist with dew. Nothing can turn my gaze from her breasts except the curve of her hips, my Occupier’s hips. We meet in my Occupier’s bedroom. My Occupier kisses me, I shag my Occupier. She comes, so I come. Me and my Occupier have just come (together).

***

In his taxi, on my way to a party, my Occupier asks me “Shall I turn on the meter?”

“Yes,” I reply, smiling.

“Thirty shekels. OK?” he asks, not smiling.

I say “OK.” I imitate him, and do not smile.

My Occupier has thirty shekels. My Occupier has no meter. My Occupier hates keeping count. My Occupier hates history.

Here we are now…

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“Happy New Year” he says in a voice that pierces through the loud music. “Happy New Year,” I reply, smiling.

My Occupier has a drink and a holiday. My Occupier has no meter. My Occupier hates keeping count. My Occupier hates history.

***

My Occupier hunts me down before dawn between the folds of the last drink in the final bar. He wants to talk to me about politics. My Occupier is a “Leftist”- his hatred of me is gentle and my hatred of him is banal. My Occupier is my Master and feels guilty about his status, so he tries to endear himself to me in the tackiest ways, and smiles. What else can I do? Eternally bored, I smile.

He tells me about his earnest love for the superficialities of my culture and his commitment to the two-state solution. My Occupier has chewed up Yaffa and spit on Haifa, urinated on Akka and swept away the Galilee, cast Safad into darkness, wiped away Al-Lid and Ramlah and combed the coast. He has choked Al-Nasra and swallowed Al-Quds but he would like to take Tubas from the hands of my Occupier and liberate it for me.

My Occupier is a Leftist. My Occupier is a Leftist.

Whether I like it or not, he has publicly declared himself to be a Leftist.

My Occupier is the same as my Occupier.

***

As the first rays emerged from behind the deceitful cement buildings, he began to get comfortable in my company (in his own company) and so he asked me for the only thing I have left, my right to be “Occupied”. He wasn’t content with what I offered because according to him, he is not my Occupier.

My Occupier thinks he is “not” my Occupier, but I think that is the only thing he is. That is how he started out and that is how he insists on continuing. To me, nothing remains of him except this “not.”

My Occupier has no meter and I don’t have anything left to pay him with, so I pay for the glass of whiskey and get up. I do not see him anymore, I do not see my Occupier. I see beyond my Occupier, and I smile.

This story first appeared in Arabic on Qadita.net

Translator’s notes

“Me and my darling are in a garden, under a canopy of roses” is a line from a song by the iconic Arabic singer Sabah Fakhry.

Yaffa, Akka, Al-Lid, Al-Nasra and Al-Quds are the Arabic names for Jaffa, Acre, Lydda, Nazareth and Jerusalem. The English spelling for the other cities mentioned in the story reflects the Arabic pronunciation.

Context

Firas Khoury is a Palestinian citizen of Israel living in Haifa. He is one of over 1.5 million citizens of Israel whose cultural, linguistic and ethnic heritage is Palestinian. They are the descendants of indigenous peoples who did not flee to neighboring Arab countries during the 1948 war that led to the establishment of Israel.

Although they were granted citizenship, Palestinian citizens of Israel were subject to martial law until 1966 and continue to face institutionalized racial discrimination today. Several prominent Israeli politicians have even gone as far as to call for the revocation of their citizenship, or for their collective transfer to a future Palestinian state.

Take me with you, to Tel Aviv is a bold expression of this community’s unique experience of exile within their own homeland. It is a defiant expression of a collective identity that is still considered subversive in Israeli political culture, written in a strikingly detached voice that mirrors the alienation of the protagonist.

On the Plane of Men Without Legs

By Naomi Shihab Nye

A deep lull engulfed us up and down the aisle.
Some lacked arms or hands as well.
I wanted to beg, Tell me your second thoughts
about war, or your fourth. Once the cloud settled
and silence coated the changed air…where
were you then? I would not wish to enter even
the slimmest corridor leading back. But ask,
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says glumly, We are going to a gathering
of people like us. To learn how to live again.
He doesn’t say, anything accomplished.
He doesn’t say lost or won.

Exhaustion

By Naomi Shihab Nye

1
It is not fine to say We are in a time of war
if you started the war.
In Arabic this is called Haki Fawthi – empty talk.
As if war were weather you couldn’t stop.
Snowing this morning, get your cap!
To make it seem you’re doing the right thing.
To justify.

2
I cannot clap for military people on planes.
Invite us to clap for teachers, now that I’ll do.

3
A word called “progress” can never be applied to war.
Nor a word called “success.”
These are crimes against language.
You will have to be silent for a year if you commit them.

4
It is not fine to go to church, mosque, or synagogue,
then go out bombing, because every single religion
says THOU SHALT NOT KILL and
it’s not a casual remark.
Not a hopeful suggestion
like when the waiter says,
Anyone interested in dessert?
and everybody says no and he brings the menu anyway
to try to change your minds.
And sometimes peach crumble does.
It’s not like that at all.
You cannot kill, then act religious.
And that’s the full-on truth.

4
My German-American grandma had a book called
Making Friends and Influencing People.
Who did she want to influence?
The tax collector, the knee doctor?
She could barely open her mouth at the bakery,
she was so shy. I don’t think War had any chapter
in there.

My Palestinian refugee grandmother couldn’t read.
But her heart held one word in high relief, Peace.
She placed her hand over it. Told us it was in there.
Ran her fingers over it when she couldn’t sleep.
Never let it fall out.

5
In all the countries I ever visited,
people were hungry, wanted friends,
washed faces, strolled in a park,
stared at waves, paid for a ticket,
carried a sack of bananas,
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Not one ever said, I hope there will be
killing around my house. Not one.

Don’t listen to any government that says
killing is okay if you are the one doing it.

First job of a citizen.
Say no it’s not. Shout no. Write it
on the air around your bed.
Proclaim it on your forehead.
No it’s not. It’s not okay.
Everyone else wants to live
as much as we do.
This is a sheep
who has lost its way.

Speaking of sheep, how many
get killed in wars? How many goats,
and cats? They never get a head count.
Birds in war zones are said to be
continuing what they were born to do,
collecting sticks and hay, migrating.
Gathering at the river.
Looking for their trees.

Try this bumper sticker –
even if you don’t have a car.
WAR IS TERRORISM WITH A BIGGER BUDGET.
Find a song with lots of harmonies in it.

5
A taxi driver in DC asked,
You wanna know the truth?
Sure, I said. Tell me.
We had just met.
He said, It’s the military industrial complex behind everything.
Making wars. It’s the gun factories, the bomb factories.
They want money so they make wars.

You may have something there, I said.

We were passing the Washington Monument
before it cracked from the earthquake.
He said, Of course I have something.
It’s the absolute truth.

What can we do about it?

Say it, he said. Keep saying it.
Say it till everybody
knows it and says it.
Then say it again.

Democracy

By Naomi Shihab Nye

The old farmer Mohammed Al-Atrash was standing in shock, speechless…

On the first day after the Eid, everyone out and about,
returning to school and work, but Israeli soldiers had a plan.

They brought massive forces starting at dawn, circled an area
over one square mile declaring it a closed military area.
Dozens of olive, almond, za’rur, and pine trees were destroyed.
For pictures of the corpses, see footnote 1 below.

Never mind, we will not include pictures of the corpses. Though stumps,
they are too big for the page. They scorch its edges.
We would like the trees to tell their own stories but
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Before cutting a tree, anyone might hear
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Leaves in sweet successions of light and shade speckling anyone’s face,
saying yes, you are lucky to be part of the esteemed human race.

(Indented sections from an email by Dr. Mazin Qumsiyeh, Occupied Palestine, 2011)