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December 2020

"Migration" by Marianne Shaker the past / the future / the mind / the word / the breath 1obsessing over return itches our tonsilshe sings farid el atrash to scratch the back of his throatwhen he feels a sickness coming, longing 2single as the hanging uvula of a bell             ululations at the wedding             carry the sounds of pigeons with             swollen necks the prospect of a child             a barrette slipping off her thin hair             in a sandy playground 3a shawl flies off my headI’m snatched back i remember the slow push

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Poetry
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From Arsenic to Prussic Acid Years after Emma Bovary poisoned herself with arsenic, Eleanor Marx – daughter of Karl Marx and one of the first people to translate Madame Bovary into English – took her own life by drinking prussic acid. Shortly after the novel’s translation, the motifs of Emma’s life started appearing in Marx’s: unfaithful men, accumulating debts, and adultery. Many contemporary discussions of Madame Bovary in translation still discuss Eleanor Marx’s version of 1886  and the similarities between her and Flaubert’s protagonist. Distancing myself from such comparisons, I compare Marx’s rendition with Lydia Davis’ 2010 translation in order to

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Review, Translations
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"Haven 5" by Nicole Sayegh Do jasmines live in Berlin?Do they bloom in Oslo, Boston, or London?On an evening stroll in Prenzlauer Berg,will I be intoxicatedby the hedonistic smell of a wild jasmine? What if I take my jasmine tree with mewhen I leave? Googling: How to smuggle trees across international borders?Googling: Prison time for cross-border jasmine smugglers. I want to savor the jasmine flowers bloomingfrom my balcony. I want to chew the tenderwhite buds and digest them. When we were children, the grownups warned usagainst eating watermelon seeds lest they grow into treesin our bellies. If I

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Poetry
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"Plasticity" by Sandra Ghosn if I wrote to you a family story you would want to know how we relate – you and I. are you white? does it interest you that I am a bit white? everyone finds familiarity familial but I – I disappoint everyone I know – expectation is a currency squandered on a crowd  everyone is a bit white. white blood cells are all we have to protect us clear and seminal and cyclical like God growing and growing until cancers appear a joke that google cannot erase though she would like to I am told white cells

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Poetry
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"Tabriz Cemetery 2" by Sajed Haqshenas اختارت روى روكز وسارة صفي الدين، من فريق التحرير في القسم العربي، أربع قصائد للشاعرة لويز غليك التي حازت على جائزة نوبل للآداب. تحوم تلك القصائد حول الغربة، غربة الآباء والأجداد وآثارها على الذاكرة، تحاكي الغياب كما يتجلّى في الموت والهجرة والعزلة، فيما تقف لويز بعيدةً، تراقب شخصيّاتها وتتماهى معها. ترجم القصائد الشاعر سامر أبو هواش في مجموعة شعرية صدرت تحت عنوان "عجلة مشتعلة تمر فوقنا" (منشورات الجمل/الكلمة، ٢٠٠٩).   أسطورة   جاء جدي إلى نيويورك من "دلوا": وتوالت العثرات. في هنغاريا كان أكاديمياً، صاحب امتياز. ثم جاء الفشل: صار مهاجراً يلفّ التبغ في مستودع

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ترجمة, شعر
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"Untitled" by Nour Mouslim i used to share a bed with the clattering city,insulated only by white sheets, window screens awoken daily by a small bird’s voice, listen:isn’t this noise? i’d like to be that bird. i click my tongueuntil it blisters. i’m told this is disruptive. i could be louder,if you like. i could be louder & choose onlyto make myself known. in my home we are surrounded bysilence and so you hear everything. back there, we were surrounded byeverything and so we heard the birds. i’ve said too much. i have onlybeen silent twice, once

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Poetry
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ميليا عياش | ترجمة زينة الحلبي | رسم لينة غيبة   أنت ممثّل. ينبغي لجسدك وصوتك أن يكونا دائماً في جهوزية تامّة، حتى لو لم تكن في صدد التمثيل. فقد تفاجئك فرصةٌ تأتيك من حيث لا تدري. ورغم أنّ فرص التمثيل قليلة ومتباعدة، عليك أن تعمل جاهداً للحفاظ على صحتك الصوتية. لكن، قد تتساءل ما الذي سيحدث لو كنت، ذات ليلة، تشاهد عرضاً في مسرح نخبويّ متداعٍ، فتبدأ هواتف الجمهور بالإضاءة والرنين فيما أصوات الإنذارات والفرقعة تخضّ فورمايكا خشبة المسرح. الثورة انطلقت. لم تكن تتوقّع ثورة هنا، في أقلّ بلد في العالم استعداداً للثورة. ولكن، ها أنت تثور مع آخرين كنت تظنّهم خانعين

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ترجمة, قصص مصورة, نثر
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Photograph by the author Filtered through branches and clouds and greens, the afternoon sun creates a kaleidoscope of rays and shades and flickers and birds.  “It looks refreshing there,” the others say.  It’s those first few minutes of a call, when not everyone is there, when noting things in the background fills the glitching silence. For a moment, I feel that my here—their “there”—doesn’t have to be the here that it is.  I try to respond. But it’s hard to find easy words to describe a depthless picture hovering behind them.  I really want to say something witty—funny—about the image. It’s

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Non-Fiction
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"Where Water Touches Land" by Heather M. O'Brien For all its scarred chaos, crammed slums, the death trap of Sabra and Shatila, Beirut was beautiful: by night, clusters of amber bracelets, yellow diamond necklaces; by day, a jumble of honeycombs, its bisque balconies, dun-gold apartments, climbing the hills in sun-warmed hives I wanted to sink my teeth into, my mouth a cradle for their bees. On the corniche, the black sea glittering beyond the balustrades, I thought the city’s architects, as nowhere else, had understood something about us ‒ our human proportions, desire for shifting symmetry, plant-like thirst for light. In Beirut, had given us

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Poetry
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