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February 2020

"Lisa Luxx" by Robert Norbury I first saw Lisa perform at one of Sidewalks’ poetry readings where she was invited to read as a feature poet. She spoke with calculated agency, her hazel-green eyes—wide and observant—scrutinized the audience carefully. Her voice reverberated through the intimacy of Riwaq's basement, at times low and calming—a pacifying hymn to the child within us. At other times, she was fierce, rough, angry. While reciting “Voice of Earth,” she stepped out of her human suit to deliver a message from our ancient mother. Her words became incantations that shocked her listeners into a state of

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Interview
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"Boat House" by Racha Moussa After Belle Isle, 1949 A stinking summer in Beirut,I am leaving for London soon.  By dusk, your Volkswagen finds itselfby the coastal hamlet & diamond water. We don’t know who Philip Levine is yetbut we, too, are looking to baptize ourselves.  The garbage mountains not in sight whenyour hands hold mine under the inky sea −although if we inhale deeply, Karantinaisn’t too far.  I catch your face reflected in the disc moon,your savannah eyes in the opaque water. You open a palm to show me sunset in Athens,where you first saw light.  We didn’t

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Poetry
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"Beirut River" by Beatriz Morales Imagine a nebulous landscape covered with budding volcanoes See yourself emerge from one of its peaks head heavy with slumber Gasping in the rarefied air you enter a liminal space where unlucky few Forever trapped past conception are condemned to parthenogenesis  See yourself emerge from one of its peaks head heavy with slumber Think of your skin as a primed canvas permeable to imprints Forever trapped past conception condemned to parthenogenesis See how the change of seasons leaves indelible marks all over your body Think of your skin as a primed canvas, permeable to imprints, You yearn for the sight of a veil billowing on

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Poetry
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"2 Against 1" by Omar Khoury Above the gables and the lamps a hunter’s moon this winter, clear as a lightbulb or a polished spoon this winter.    Awake at five, awake at six, awake at seven the light is gone, and not returning soon this winter.    Spit in a cup, hold out your arm for the needle, blow out hard as you can into a balloon this winter.    “To write a sonnet is a fascist act” – Suggest that to the next tyre-burning goon this winter!    The slave girl stole the king’s mare and rode away – write her أبيات, her canticle, her rune, this winter.   After you

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Poetry
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"Waves" by Hatem Imam “A poppa emigranti soriani ballano” G.Ungaretti It is not yet afternoon. The sea air blooms and stings like a man o’war. Summer rays bury the heat in the dunes; deeper in the green-yellow colocynth —a secret. The sand gurgles and exhales. The surf exhausts its reach on its parched flank. Everything shimmers and bakes. The sun does not ask for anything in return. Salt and brine swoop through shuttered windows, with a cackle of gulls. It is always worse after a storm. The sea roils and empties its pockets; a weighted down kleptomaniac, returning the loot. Who knows what came back and what didn’t? Somewhere, on a

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Poetry
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"Untitled" by Nour Mouslim rearview mirrorimagesechoesa small boycroucheson pavementskinnyboxes of Chicletsfor salespillingonto his lapknees pulled uptears windingrivulets downgrimed cheekswedged betweencars and concreteclouds of fumesno glimpse ofthe seabeyond the road homebeyond the mountainsan achea miragetea and biscuitson the balconyhide and seekin the old soukears concussingcat meowingno more milk we keep movingtry to avoidhis big black eyesreminding us—our own sonsour own warsand all the things we have workedhard to forget

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Poetry
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By Amanj Amin, "Whale" "Fish" Along the seaside promenade, the air smelled of diesel and salt water. Beneath it, fishermen cast their lot under the shade of the embankment. Some sat on foldable chairs or stood with a leg up on the ledge for leverage. Others squatted on upturned buckets. Occasionally, a fishing rod tilted up toward the sky, drawing out the odd sardine or sand smelt, twitching long and thin like insectile feelers probing the air over the waters. More often, they dangled empty of catch. Early walkers gazed curiously over the balustrade at the fishermen below.    Around noon, one fisherman was

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Fiction
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"Where Waters Touches Land" by Heather M. O'Brien Do you remember the place with the tall windows and the narrow balcony? One of the hotels along the Corniche, I forget which one. The damp air made the casements swell and crack. That first day we pushed open the shutters and looked out at the sea. It was glassy in the morning and invisible at night. It blew into the room and salted our skin and the fruit we left on the table. I liked the smell—fresh with a whiff of rot. We came armed with wishful

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Non-Fiction
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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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Letter from the Editor | كلمة المحرّرة

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