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February 2020

"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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There is a concept coined by the Lebanese writer Walid Sadek which denotes a present endlessly postponed by the lack of pasts and futures. He calls it “the protracted now.” Since discovering it in his "The Ruin to Come, Essays from a Protracted War" (Motto Books & Taipei Biennial, 2016), I have been carrying it around with me, like an overweight suitcase that I would rather check in at the nearest counter than have with me as the plane flies over fictional borders that harm non-fictional people. During the flight, it is checked in and, in those few hours, past and

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Book Review
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Wonderland IV by Beatriz Morales Last year, my original plan: to come to America,But lack of money for passage stopped me         until early autumn.On the Seventh Day of the Seventh Moon,I boarded the President Lincoln.I ate sea wind and tasted waves for more than twenty days,But luckily, arrived unharmed.I thought a few days and I’d be on the dock,Little did I know of the suffering in the wood house.The barbarians’ harsh treatment really difficult to accept,Thinking of my family finances, a double stream of tears.Yet, I hope to enter San Francisco soon,Avoid living in

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Poetry, Translations
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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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