Selected translations
Three poems by Maya Abu Al-Hayat. Mizna, Summer 2023.
I knew the types of plane
By their sound
The class of bomb
By their smoke
The form of fear
By its smell
I went out and came home
I ate and learned and washed
Bathed and loved and gave birth
To the rhythm of breaking news
“Gigi and the White Rabbit,” a short story by Ameer Hamad. Freeman’s, October 2022.
His uncle’s son’s son’s aunt’s daughter? May as well be his sister.
A short story by Adania Shibli. Fictionable, Autumn 2022.
Why, fool? What did I need mushrooms for? I cursed myself all the way home.
“It May Be Paradise, It May Be the Police,” selections from the dream book of Abd al-Ghani al-Nabulsi. Blackbox Manifold, Summer 2021.
Some say that to dream of the cold in its season signifies nothing.
“Psycho,” a poem by Asmaa Azaizeh. Shenandoah, July 2021.
careful
do not think
this is about me
a cheap fiction, this self
a tunnel underground
Two poems by Rania Mamoun. Shenandoah, July 2021.
I would stay up with God
each night
by the moon’s glow
and we’d slip
between galaxies
unobstructed
“Without Rhyme,” a short story by Adania Shibli. We Wrote in Symbols, ed. Selma Dabbagh, Saqi, April 2021.
He went on cheerfully: Icebreaker, Pacemaker, Saltshaker. But she could only think of the sofa, which did not end in ker.
“Badia’s Magic Water,” a short story by Maya Abu Al-Hayat. The Book of Ramallah, ed. Maya Abu al-Hayat, Comma Press, March 2021.
Out of her bag she takes Indian incense, a copper bowl, white cloth, Nablus soap, jasmine cologne, a tape of Abdul Basit reciting the Quran.
“Dreams of the Sea,” an entry from the dream book of Abd al-Ghani al-Nabulsi. ArabLit Quarterly, Winter 2020.
If you dream of urinating in the sea, you will persist in your mistakes.
Three poems by Nabilah al-Zubair. Two Lines Journal, Fall 2019.
I will say that I am your lover (just saying)
You will say to me: my love (just a word)
“Sea-bitterness,” a poem by Jean-Michel Maulpoix. Seedings, Summer 2019.
Here she is sepulchre-grey, with all this emptiness around her, plucking death with a sudden kiss, sucking the stone and spitting out the fruit, lurching like memory, sometimes praying very quietly, breaking after a dream the jug it emptied.
“Personal Hero,” a short story by Abdalmuti Maqboul. Palestine + 100, ed. Basma Ghalayini, Comma Press, 2019.
Slowly the dust rises, and the place fills with sweet, invigorating air, like the first feast served in Paradise.
“An Alternative Guide to Getting Lost,” a short story by Areej Gamal. The Book of Cairo, ed. Raphael Cormack, Comma Press, 2019.
It’s nearly time for the flight, but she has yet to obtain that neat little stamp they press into passports to ease the crossing from one sky to another.
“Rainsong,” a poem by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab. Rialto, November 2018.
I can almost hear Iraq hoarding thunder in the plains
feeding silos like a bride her brittle husbandry of light
so if men were to come and pry the valley open strip the wind
not a word would slip from her hollows of Thamud
I can almost hear the palms swallow rain
the villages quail the fleeing battle oar
and sail against the gulf storms and thunder singing
patter patter patter
“Dragonflies,” a poem by Asmaa Azaizeh. ArabLit Quarterly, Fall 2018.
Every time we stopped in the shade of a tree,
one of us would shout: “Here we are!”
A fantasy mightier than mountains.
Three poems by Qasmuna bint Ismail, the only Jewish woman of the medieval period known to have written in Arabic. The Sultan’s Seal, August 2018.
Doe, forever grazing
On meadows, we are sisters
In wildness, in the contrast
Between eye-white and iris.
A poem by Ulayya bint al-Mahdi. The Sultan’s Seal. June 2018.
To love two people is to have it
coming: body nailed to beams,
dismemberment.
But loving one is like observing
religion.
“On Being Proposed to by a Male Poet,” a poem by Aisha al-Qurtubiyya, who lived around the year 1000 and never married. The Sultan’s Seal, May 2018.
I am a lioness: never will I let
my being be the break
on another’s journey.
“You’re Not There,” a poem by Saadia Mufarreh. The Sultan’s Seal., April 2018.
Memories are
the bruise of not being
there and mine are
not going anywhere.