RR
HomePosts Tagged "web-featured" (Page 4)

web-featured Tag

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

Read More

#1 نداءان   حين عرفتُك، كانَ الله ولدًا صغيرًا يصطادُ ذئابًا ترعى الزّجاج عن ركبتيّ ويعلّمها العواءْ والكونُ مشطَ زجاجٍ كانْ منغرسَ الأسنانْ في جمجمةِ عجوزٍ خرساءْ كسّرهُ صوتُ غناء ذئابٍ ابتلعت حناجرَها الوديانْ فتشظّى، حين عرفتُك، فوق ركبتيّ قلتُ: تعالَ إليّ وكان الوقتُ قِرطَ زمرّدٍ في شحمة أذنٍ صمّاء يَقطُرُ فيها خيطُ بكاء والآن يتخثّر اسمُكَ في فمي قطرةَ دمٍ صفراء.

Read More

"Callisto" by Omar Khouri, 2019, Gouache on 300 gsm rough Arches paper 111x77 cm You wonder, as you contemplate the world’s end,If you had done well, done right, by your unborn children.Your womb is no safe place for a child. You know this.Your womb cannot make life for this life.This you knew all along.You told yourself you can’t bear childrenThat the flesh would not stick for longWith each blood cycle, you told yourselfIs it because you knew, all alongThat you don’t want this life                 that you never didThat somehow you are here, because someone decidedThat the time

Read More

Photograph by Sima Qunsol By Nadim Abdul-Hadi, translated from the Arabic by Madeline Edwards. 1 I remember, and I forget… I’m happy when I sit down again with my Amnesia. He is a dear friend. He is kind and tender. He prefers to listen, rather than speak. He comes to me when I’m feeling nostalgic. Sometimes he dresses up like some sort of court jester. Other times he wears a preacher’s cloak. We sit together in my living room, where he delights simply in stepping out of his silence for a while, and speaking. He has a kind of magic when he talks.    2   The

Read More

Photography by Nour Annan The first time I broke a bone, I was twenty-five years old. I fractured my right hand while exercising. The base of my pinky was cracked open and required immobilization. Otherwise, as my doctor cold-heartedly put it, "I'd have to perform a surgery where I break it further to have it heal in the right position.” This injury reshaped my relationship with the hands of those around me and changed the way I perceive my own. It made me realize the strength my hands had built up over the years, despite all odds. I remember sitting anxiously in

Read More

Part I: War Without Images The title of Mohammed Soudani’s film War Without Images- Algeria, I Know That You Know carries the unintended irony of being as forgotten and inaccessible as its subject matter is supposedly non-existent, given that the existence of the photographs that the film is about are negated by its title. Listed on none of the major film databases, I was very lucky to stumble upon this film while searching YouTube for documentaries about Algerian history. Given the film’s title, it is also hardly surprising that it was one of the first and only relevant results for my

Read More

في حين غادر إيران زملاء له، رفض هو مغادرتها بعد الثورة الإيرانية مفضّلًا البقاء في وطنه، حيث بيته وحارته وذكرياته. ظلّ في داره القديمة شمال طهران، داره المنزوية في ظل مبانٍ عالية وباردة، صامدة كصاحبها في وجه الهدم. ومن هناك، أنجز عباس كيارستمي، شاعر السينما وفيلسوفها، أجمل أفلامه.  في الرابع من شهر تمّوز، ستمرّ سنواتٌ أربع  على غياب هذا الفنان المعلّم (1940-2016) الذي قدّم تعريفًا جديدًا للسينما، وتلمّس، بلغةٍ بصريةٍ متأملةٍ وحساسة، مستوياتٍ عاليةً من المشاعر الإنسانية، لغة سينمائية تقترب من الواقعية الإيطالية الجديدة وسينما المؤلف الفرنسية، وتجد مصادرها في قلب الواقع اليومي والشعر الفارسي، وفي علاقة الإنسان مع

Read More

By Taya Osman October’s stealth light leavens the skin then molts into Nuttall Oaks.  No preamble to a scream interrupts the glistening rub of downward wings  except for the hum of poets acquainted with one another. The one made of bronze  cools the day’s fire from their breaths, so that news of faraway places lifts briefly,  and in this afternoon there are no bodies scraped from deformed fans in Kashmir nor children gushing out of cemented pipes in Gaza. For a small wrinkle,  the women of Tahrir caress dragonflies with their fingertips and flood the tank’s tenuous arm with bracelets of jasmine. The dormant fountain in the garden is only an ode to the sea but not shadows  as we toll through a penultimate line proclaiming the time was neither

Read More

Photograph by Sima Qunsol During late July of last year, I went to my regular café to meet a friend visiting from out of town. He was running late, so I ordered my Americano and sat outside to read. It was one of those summer mornings that held so much promise: I woke up early, had a brief but pleasant exchange with my cab driver, and was greeted by the barista like an old friend when I arrived. This was the kind of coffee shop where everybody knew everybody. It was always packed with young freelancers who headed there under

Read More

Photograph by Nour Annan الحياة كالموج البحر، نادرة بين الصفوف تمضي قدمًا * على عواصم العواطف نتيجة الرياح تهمس إلى الماء، قوم، قوم يا عشيقي وروح، روح من قدري، فتمضي قدمًا * بين وحوش الأعماق و سحر الآفاق تمضي باللّجوء بعيداً عن الحدود وتتجول في الوجود وتمضي قدمًا نحو الشاطئ المتلألئ الذي يحاصر كنز الحق والحب * كُلما تقترب بوجه الضغط تشْمُخ، فوق جاذبيّة الصمت والخضوع لِلصفوف * وكُلما تقترب و تنمو و تتجمع طاقة، صرخة، ضجة تفاجئ الدهر وتجمّد الهواء وتتولع كل خلاياها وتُطْلق خيالها مواجهة وجهًا لوجه الشاطئ في عينيه * ومهما انكسرت وانتشرت تمضي قدمًا فكما انت موجة بحر، يا حياتي

Read More