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November 2018

Midnight city strollsfind me occupying this vacancy,somewhere between aresistance fighter’s wet dreamand a concerned father’s nightmare. In a street decorated with taverns,and the stained picturesof forgotten martyrs,I can smell the rotting corpsesof revolutionarieshidden under the stench of vodka-flavoured vomitof kids who have forgottenwhere they came from,who dance inebriated and unawareon the breast platesof those whohave paved the way,with bullet wounds and dreamer’s eyes,for our degeneration. In the midst of the madness,and all the bottled amnesia,there is a girlwhose smile reads like a Bible verse,as her hips paint the room with temptation,unaware that these streetswill one day watch her bodyget treated

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Poetry
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The salt of the stonesShe is in a universe of wallsA man’s memory in these walls,one with the stone, the air, the earthMy body was aflame with his memory Not guiltyShe treats her child with rough tendernessInfiniteTendernessTerrifying childhood Women behind shutterswatch the enemy walking across the squareIn the ruins, in winter, the wind blowsIn my memory Where I was born is inseparable from myself I meet youI remember youWho are youYou destroy meI was hungryI always have beenI waited for you calmlyWith infinite patienceThe sun will never rise again on anyoneNever, never againYou destroy meYou’re so good We’ll have nothing else to

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Poetry
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National Museum of the American Indian Into the museum of our people, I take you by the hand, through the exhibits. It means something to kiss you here. . By the exhibit on Native skateboarding and surfing, I take your tongue into my mouth; and you, mine. . We are protected. Our art and bodies, for once, protected. People need to go through security to get to us. Perhaps this is where we are most safe: behind glass. People can’t say shit, or there’ll be consequences. . You gonna say something to two queer Native boyz in a Native museum? . Who knew this is where our kiss-ins should be? We come home. At places the general public can’t enter with weapons.

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Poetry
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I saw youKicking cans along Makdissi StreetTurning right andIn a geometry of anglesHurling epithetsat the walls of the Mayflower Hotel: Kiss my arse The chickens will come home to  roost                                       Piss off you taciturn travellers: moon and star But when I look for youamong the nerve nets of my mindI see only remnants of tattered coatsand threadbare shirts Hanging like batsLike the lost orphansof bombed out daysAnd nights Or the hapless fledglingThrust from its nestWho drops, to be greeted by theTrap-jawed felinePreening itself like Leda’s swan. And I think of the sea anemonewhose venomous arms beckonBut whose everything goes insideLike snakes who lie

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Poetry
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Left to Right: Dani Shukri, Khaled Omran, Tarek Khuluki // TANJARET DAGHET // photo credit: Moussa Shabandar Local bands in Lebanon have recently hit mainstream success, playing a spectrum of popular music in rock, alternative, and even metal. Live gigs by local bands have punctured the routine Beirut nightlife of clubbing, pubbing, eating out, and visiting pedestrian areas. One of these bands, Tanjaret Daghet, has played across many stages and on playlists of many Lebanese, Syrian, Egyptian, and other fans of the region since 2010. The band’s success has led to several interviews over the past six years. But to the members’

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Interview
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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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