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February 2020

"House Illustration" by Amanj Amin by Alova, translated from Turkish by BUĞRA GIRITLIOĞLU Every night the child would seek his starsAnd the Moon, which he raised with brand new names:Cut nail, Luminous HammockGrowwalker, Bruised Orange When the wind would start blowingUndulating the water’s curtainAnd a callow frog tire of its own croakAnd jump into the moss-scented sky,He’d lose his starsThe Moon he raised every nightWould shatter When the wind subsidedSo that the stars took their placesAnd the Full Moon recollected its pieces,The child whose eyes grew heavyRested his head one nightAgainst his pillow made of the Milky WayAnd

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Poetry, Translations
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"Built Sea 3" by Lina Hassoun تدور في طیّات جسدي أنامل الوحدة والصبر،فالصبر یأتي في أكواب الخمر واللّبنمع جذور اللّیل الطّویلولمسة یدیكالكاملتین.أما الوحدة فتأتي من أجواف الكھوف فيعینیكومن لفائف السریر المندثرة على الارض. عندما یسول البحر في عنقيوتغرق بوسطن في أمعاءالحیتان،لسوف أعود إلى بیروتلسوف أنطق. فالإنجلیزیة لا تنزلق من فمي بغزارةوالعربیة لا تطقطق أحرفھا في جِلبابيوالفرنسیة لا تسوح في شعري. وما أنا إلا بصائمةٍ صارمةصامتةٍ عن الكلام الغزیرأعلم ما في البحر ولكننيأخشى النطق في حكمة اللّیلأخشى النّور في أمعاء الحیتانوأخاف حوریّات البحرعلىالرّملة البیضاء.

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Poetry
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"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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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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