May is mighty. May is sad. May is relentless. It’s a month of Nakabat (catastrophes); of Massacres; of Mayhem. May is for workers and workers for May. Yesterday, the Columbia Gaza Encampment was dissolved by the NYPD forces, arresting tens of students and throwing away their tents. They think that robbing us of the material tents and set-up libraries, would destroy our spiritis, but they don’t get the laws of physics: the more you oppress us, the stronger we become.Our communities are stronger than that. May is for community. For poetry that strengthens this community. For Refaat reminding us of the power of the story: Never give up the chance to tell your story; to own your death; to wave your voice; to throw your jasmines (by your own choice). Here are poems of everything that April has left in me.
- 24th of April is a day of rememberance of the Armenian genocide that took place in 1917-1919. I found many beatiful Armenian poems, but I’m sharing part of I’m Still Returning by Artem Haroutiunyan and translated by Tatul Sonentz.
I have yet to return to my land;
If I return
I will not find me.
I shall see the silence over the country spread,
the heavy granite padlock of the door,
the green silk of the mulberry trees,
with which the land weaves its
ceremonial garb,
without the cares of those who live.
- Sarkon Bolus is an Iraqi poet with Assyrian origins. His poems are eclectic and vibrant. I loved an Arabic poem called بورتريه للشخص العراقي في اخر الزمن, which means A Portrait of an Iraqi Person at the End of this Time. Luckily, I found it translated by Sinan Antoon on Jadaliyya.
- Finding loquat trees, and picking its fruits while walking or hiking is the anti-thesis of exile for me.
And loquats remind me of home and this poem: pruning loquats and olives.
- Walid Daqqa was killed slowly in prison. He served 38 years in prison. Despite finishing his sentence behind bars and suffering cancer at the time, Israel extended his improsenemnt for 3 more years, and he passed away this 7th of April. Technically he died because of metastasized cells, but really he died because of Israeli policy (approved by the USA). Here’s a google drive link to his writings shared for free. I recommend reading حكاية سر الزيت وصهر الوعي.
- Haidar Al Ghazali is a young poet from Gaza. He mainly writes in Arabic, and this is a translated fragment from his Ig account
our arms that have been amputated,
and that we couldn’t find,
are raised in chants,
and our voices that have been suffocated under rubble
are louder than any time before
as if we’re returning.
- I was in Granada last month, and I got a poetry book from a library in the city center. The book was an anthology of Granadian voices: most important of which is ángela mora, and I’m sharing a poem of hers in Spanish, and a humble translation of mine into English. The poem captured a moment of deep nostalgia: when you find a reflection of your melancholy in the mundane act of ironing your winter shirts.
- Carilda Oliver from Cuba writes a poem offering her heart: éste es mi corazón: the advocate/fan of quiet days and fruits (el partidario/de los días callados y las frutas). And other times, she looks for her heart, but it’s hidden (A veces me lo busco y se ha escondido).
- I see, in me, the old man/who awaiting the return/ of the butterflies. That’s a translation of the Mapuche poem written by Elicura Chihuailaf. All the way from Chile.
April you were rough. May will be even more rough. But I stored many jasmines, Azahars and pomegranate blossoms in the shape of poems; reading Ghassan Kanafani; screaming free Palestine; and in the shape of delicious home-cooked meals.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 