{"product_id":"o-isbn-9780143136897","title":"O","description":"\u003cb\u003eNAMED A BEST BOOK OF 2022 BY \u003ci\u003eLIT HUB \u003c\/i\u003eAND THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eO \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eis so full of music and passion for life . . . Zeina Hashem Beck’s poems unfold the abundance of our world.” —Ilya Kaminsky, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eDeaf Republic\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom a “brilliant, absolutely essential voice” whose “poems feel like whole worlds” (Naomi Shihab Nye), a poetry collection considering the body physical, the body politic, and the body sacred\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZeina Hashem Beck writes at the intersection of the divine and the profane, where she crafts elegant, candid poems that simultaneously exude a boundless curiosity and a deep knowingness. Formally electrifying—from lyrics and triptychs to ghazals and Zeina's own duets, in which English and Arabic echo and contradict each other—\u003ci\u003eO \u003c\/i\u003eexplores the limits of language, notions of home and exile, and stirring visions of motherhood, memory, and faith.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zeina Hashem Beck is graceful in [her] defiance. She embraces the multitudes – mother, citizen, poet, warrior – and presents herself to the reader as one whole.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zeina Hashem Beck’s \u003ci\u003eO \u003c\/i\u003ewas my favorite new book of poetry published this year. Together, the poems read like a dialogue between a single person and the divine: awe-inspiring, infuriating, and filled with unanswerable questions. The word that comes to mind to describe this collection, more than any other, is abundance: from odes to ghazals, Arabic to English, Beck calls upon a multitude of traditions to meet the challenge of navigating a life in language, and the result is something very beautiful to witness.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Corinne Segal, \u003ci\u003eLit Hub\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zeina Hashem Beck’s work is always layered and powerful, interrogating how we envision home, language and identity amid external forces that may be crushing in their impact . . . For a woman who has experienced conflict on a variety of personal and political levels, this quest for a language to describe her life, many lives, is profound, and in Beck’s talented hands, beautiful both sonically and in significance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] warming serenade . . . In \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e, Zeina pulses the nervous system with an electric shock to the heart. She departs from the nostalgic and surpasses the polite and gentle for the truth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tracy Jawad, \u003ci\u003eThe New Arab\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is rare that a poem embodies the exact emotional charge of its speaker’s experience, but through an incredible structural and narrative tension, Beck succeeds by writing fearlessly toward an honesty so stark it leaves us readers feeling exposed . . . Finishing \u003ci\u003eO \u003c\/i\u003efelt like ending a long, much-needed conversation with an old friend.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Maha Ahmed, \u003ci\u003eRusted Radishes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e] is curious and energetic, drifting between the physical and the spiritual and experimenting with the nuances and disconnects of language.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eAlta \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eO \u003c\/i\u003eallows for nuance and ambiguity in a world that seems more and more devoid of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Farah-Silvana Kanaan, \u003ci\u003eL'Orient Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[\u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e] examines issues of faith, family, aging, and mental health using a variety of expertly executed forms . . . endearing . . . Hashem Beck does a brilliant job of blending the personal with larger themes, and readers will find themselves transported by this collection, whether it be to a dermatologist’s office or Babel or an olive tree from the past, with initials carved into its trunk.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e is so full of life, of music and passion for life. In ghazals, odes, revolution songs and invocations of \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e the world comes vividly alive: 'I carry a name \u0026amp; many cities,' writes Hashem Beck, as her poems unfold the abundance of our world. Abundance, yes: so much tenderness, so much passion in these pages: just one language can't contain it all, so the poet gives us 'Duets,' joining Arabic and English in the same stanza. The lyricism is vehicle of emotional impact—'I Beruited East Houston at first sight,' the poet tells us, and we trust this playfulness and nuance because it is driven by a ritual. Because the ritual isn't separated from the necessity of daily life in these pages. Because most daily things still have a wisp of prayer in them. Because Hashem Beck's prayer isn't shy of calling for revolution, of asking 'to occupy the streets, bring the tires, the sofas, the drums, the blaring cars.' Zeina Hashem Beck's prayer isn't afraid of stories, of new music on your balconies. Listen. Her \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e brims with the world.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Ilya Kaminsky, author of \u003ci\u003eDeaf Republic \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eDancing in Odessa\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Western readers often consume books by international authors like perverse anthropologists, scanning for a word or phrase that buttresses their ill-informed preconceptions, cudgeling a writer’s meticulously woven lyric into vapid social generality. Zeina Hashem Beck’s \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e rebukes this tendency explicitly in an early poem: “I’m tired of metaphors about peace. \/\/ I prefer dark chocolate in the morning, \/ \u0026amp; a good window.” And then throughout the collection, she rebukes it with her truly undeniable poems—rhymes braid across multiple languages, intricate forms fracture under the weight of their subjects. In one unforgettable piece, a subtle incantation ends on the name of a flower that looses itself across the page like so many petals. Unforgettable, undeniable—these are the words I keep coming back to with \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e. Anyone who reads it in earnest will emerge better made.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kaveh Akbar, author of \u003ci\u003ePilgrim Bell\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zeina Hashem Beck’s \u003ci\u003eO \u003c\/i\u003ebrims with abundant voice and gleams with generosity of both spirit and insight, rich as it is with large—and large-hearted—poems that make space for whole worlds as they pull you in ever closer. Here’s to a poet who teaches us how to find the praiseworthy in this heartbreaking world.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Carrie Fountain, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Life\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Readers will feel estranged from their received ideas about things, all the while wondrously belonging to the world that Zeina creates. A world of obscured lives, absent people, and memories that slip from our fingers, but a world that nevertheless feels new, unlived. Only poetry is capable of making up for the fact that everything deserts us, and reading \u003ci\u003eO\u003c\/i\u003e reminds us how urgently we need poetry.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Asmaa Azaizeh, author of \u003ci\u003eDon't Believe Me If I Talk to You of War\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for the work of Zeina Hashem Beck:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[A] brilliant, absolutely essential voice [whose] poems feel like whole worlds . . . [Beck's] poems weave two languages into a perfect fabric of presence, with an almost mystical sense of pacing and power . . . There is death, loss, disaster, but more importantly, an exquisite sense of reviving language and poetry—anthems of life, love, respect, abounding. Everything Arabic we treasure comes alive in these poems—readers will feel restored to so many homes, revived, amazed.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Naomi Shihab Nye on \u003ci\u003eLouder than Hearts\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Here, as always in the poetry of Zeina Hashem Beck, the world pliés before us in all of its ruthless beauty and terror.” \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBest American Poetry \u003c\/i\u003eon \u003ci\u003eLouder than Hearts\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Rarely does poetry seem to matter more than while reading the work of Zeina Hashem Beck—a poet of immense talent and passion who is clearly at the beginning of a long and important literary career.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRattle\u003c\/i\u003e Editors on \u003ci\u003e3arabi Song\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eZeina Hashem Beck\u003c\/b\u003e is a Lebanese poet and the author of two previous full-length collections of poetry: \u003ci\u003eLouder than Hearts\u003c\/i\u003e (Bauhan Publishing, 2017) and \u003ci\u003eTo Live in Autumn\u003c\/i\u003e (The Backwaters Press, 2014), as well as two chapbooks: \u003ci\u003e3arabi Song\u003c\/i\u003e (Rattle, 2016) and \u003ci\u003eThere Was and How Much There Was\u003c\/i\u003e (smith|doorstop, 2016). Educated in Arabic, English, and French, Zeina has a BA and an MA in English Literature from the American University of Beirut. Her poem “Maqam” won \u003ci\u003ePoetry\u003c\/i\u003e’s 2017 Frederick Bock Prize, and her work appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times, Ploughshares, Poetry, \u003c\/i\u003eand elsewhere. Zeina is the co-creator and co-host, with poet Farah Chamma, of \u003ci\u003eMaqsouda\u003c\/i\u003e, a podcast about Arabic poetry produced by Sowt. After a lifetime in Lebanon and a decade in Dubai, Zeina recently moved to California with her husband and two daughters.There, There, Grieving\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere are you from?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               There.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere are you headed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               There.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat are you doing?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               Grieving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Rabia al-Adawiyya\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle brother, we are all grieving\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; galaxy \u0026amp; goodbye. Once, I climbed inside\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe old clock tower of my hometown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; found a dead bird, bathed in broken light,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a little christ.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle christ of our hearts, I know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eplanets light years away\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elie under our tongues. We've tasted them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe've climbed staircases saying, There, there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle brother, we are all praying. Every morning,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI read out loud but not loud enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto alarm anyone. Once, my love said, Please\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eopen the door. I can hear you talk. Open the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle christ of our hearts, tell anyone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou've been talking to god \u0026amp; see\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhat happens. Every day,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open the door. I do it by looking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat my daughter on a swing-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeyes closed \u0026amp; crinkled, teeth bared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI say, Good morning good morning you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elittle beating thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle brother, we are all humming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore \u0026amp; more, as I read, I sound\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike my father with his book of prayers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturning pages in his bed-a hymn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor each day of the week, a gift\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom his mother, who taught me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe ten of diamonds is a win, left me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher loose prayer clothes. Bismillah.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle christ of our hearts, forgive me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor I loved eating the birds with lemon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; the sound of their tiny bones. But I couldn't\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estomach the eyes of the fried fish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle brother, we are always hungry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, this watermelon. Here, some salt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor the tomatoes. Here, this song\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor the dead birds in time boxes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; the living. That day in the clock tower,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI saw the city too, below-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               the merchants who call, the blue awnings,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               the corn carts, the clotheslines, the heat,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               the gears that turn, \u0026amp; the remembering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eode to the afternoon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy friend tells me she's been running\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the cemetery in the afternoon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshe calls it just-a-garden-really\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efirst i am afraid \u0026amp; then i am afraid\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeverything is cemetery \u0026amp; garden\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy late uncle's flower shop\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy daughter learning to fold a paper into a boat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esea salt marriage dawn old french music\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis vertical line digging deeper\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto my forehead each morning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat bicycle in the city tied to a street post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith flowers \u0026amp; a note to the girl who rode it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen i was a little girl i wanted to bury the afternoon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen longing was long \u0026amp; my parents slept \u0026amp; slept\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei stood in the corridor \u0026amp; repeated i i i i i until i\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eflickered in \u0026amp; out of myself some days i even\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethreatened to fling my body from the balcony until\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy brother with such calm looked at me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edangling from the railing my head thrown backward\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; explained you don't own your soul\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit belongs to God only He can decide\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei stood in the corridor i stood on the balcony\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei stood in the desolate afternoon \u0026amp; repeated\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause what is repetition\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif not a question the way mom every day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith her hair dryer with her grocery list\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith her buying this shawl \u0026amp; that\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis asking what have i done what have i done\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe book says we will see clearly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen the drunkenness of death descends\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy uncle saw a man \u0026amp; a woman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estanding by his hospital window\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; asked his wife who they were\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy father with his prayer beads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith his cigarette gestured to the driver\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etaking my uncle to his grave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto circle back \u0026amp; pass\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby his flower shop my father\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith his few words said\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone last time so he\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby he my father meant both\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis brother \u0026amp; himself\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy uncle taught me to sing que sera sera\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe said say it what will be will be\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei still dread the afternoon \u0026amp; still ask\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewill i be pretty will i be missed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; i still haven't been\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto his grave but have driven\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast his flower shop again \u0026amp; again \u0026amp; again\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe way on the night he died i drove beneath bridges\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; saw him on each one \u0026amp; waved\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGhazal: Hands\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you pine for photograph-worthy limbs, slender hands?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI asked about the soul \u0026amp; mom said God has tender hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI worried I'd need a ladder to climb up to heaven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr a strong grip. Or an ancestor to send her hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've watched them shatter window glass. I've watched\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethem knead flour, water, grief. Render, hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir earthly veneer tells time \u0026amp; the weather. Show us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow love. How green. How remorse. O calendar hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat medicine for longing? Salt water lifting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe breathing body. Sun, skin. Scent of lavender. Hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe child lets go, charges out to the sea alone. Come\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edark, she drifts to her mother's touch, bends her hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mother recites into the child's palm: O bird how\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto eat you? Tickle. O apple tree leaves. Remember hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you wave goodbye. If you wave come back. If you twirl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenough, will you learn to welcome surrender, hands?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePilgrim\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI see you collect the scatter of houses\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat abandoned you. Friend, I see\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou lick the backs of photographs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike stamps \u0026amp; still they fall from\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour shoulders. In this one you are young-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebefore countries \u0026amp; children. Sit down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike you, I collect what worries me. Fatherlands\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eare ominous \u0026amp; comforting like the eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof those who love us, \u0026amp; my city is a leash\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat suffocates me the farther I stray\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the Mediterranean between the buildings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe swing sings its rust in the wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeither water nor stone will do. I've given up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecigarettes \u0026amp; libations, I separate the jars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the bookshelves-these are for the ash\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; these for the pickled cheap icons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo matter how much vinegar I pour,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe Marys never close their eyes. No matter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow many times dawn is slaughtered,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI cry when the minarets crow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edaily                     \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy little country is not enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehere the rain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis the peasant's god\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; the driver's curse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno remedy but\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eantidepressants \u0026amp; prayer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehere even the atheist prays\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor prayer is a sport\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike smoking in the morning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; prayer is an art\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike singing in mourning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; language without\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egod lacks longing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; everyone knows the only answer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto all difficult questions is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto give thanks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy little country is not enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei abandon it every day \u0026amp; i return\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethen abandon it again\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecarrying, always, bags of pine nuts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; a tin of olive oil in its wooden coffin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso the airport security would let me through\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(put anything in a coffin \u0026amp; they'll let you through)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy little country is not enough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei lose it every day on purpose \u0026amp; weep\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei whisper come back follow the bread scent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efollow the lemon \u0026amp; minefields\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efollow the wailing of the ambulance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efollow the songs of the dead \u0026amp; the living\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ei lose it every century every hour\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; it returns every exile saying remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethese vagabond days are old are new\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike the poet's love for balconies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etriptych: you \u0026amp; my country \u0026amp; i\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   . . .     . . .   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  -\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eunder the kitchen light   have you noticed             my lipstick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour head full of whiskey              we chant  \/ biladi \/ my countries               how 70s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour sweat how you melt             for  \/ baladi \/ my country              how predictable this hurt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow your chin hangs lower          is my country     neither poppy nor earth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eneither young nor old     multitudinous or              just your daily\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eturning turning  it is infinite          this longing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einside this unforgiving    is it a trench        this tongue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003econsider               is  only masculine no       both are possible\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elaughter \u0026amp; the evening   is  feminine because        inside the rib cage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe humming      what woman doesn't know          the burning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the refrigerator           the bodies the bodies     the crying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; all this talk      within    Without\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout what we inherit    the body the body           the bread\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; what land now             i wonder              is just spill\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etake off your shoes          \u0026amp; your toes        \u0026amp; my nails\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003earen't they beautiful       aren't they beautiful       aren't they beautiful\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear white critic,                             \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I told you I do not choose to write\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout war \u0026amp; the children, would you believe me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm tired of knocking on the doors of empires.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I told you these words are\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot in English, would you believe me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough \u0026amp; because it confuses the tongue,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elet me repeat this: the flowers are ours the flowers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eare ours the flowers are ours.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes the earth turns \u0026amp; there is time between us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut my universe is neither corner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enor as dark as you've called it. Do you believe me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e:   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of the boys, I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eclimbed over the school wall \u0026amp; jumped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto the olive grove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.     \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gifted my first love a green pit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm tired of metaphors about peace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI prefer dark chocolate in the morning,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; a good window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e!    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday I got a massage \u0026amp; painted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhite petals on two red nails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you believe me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't know if I envy God his existence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoutside of time, or if he envies my angst\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einside the body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I told you I'm not that other\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArab poet you've read, would you believe me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo I thank you for your interest?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo my names tire you? Good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy cities are cities \u0026amp; my singers are singers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGo google.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is the first \u0026amp; last poem I speak to you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes I believe in bridges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf reading maps didn't bore me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI would have learned it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes I read the horoscopes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause I love my horns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGoodbye now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI banish I banish you from these lines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything Here Is an Absolute\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBar Farouk, Beirut, 2016 perhaps\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook at where this nostalgia has brought us. We go down the stairs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; order frozen margaritas. It's been years since\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe've lived here. The waiter shows us\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour table, hopes we don't mind two American boys\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esitting with us. There's no space for them elsewhere in this\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecabaret called Metro in a capital without metros.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe say we don't mind. We are used to this city of small spaces\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto which everything fits. The foreign students are our age\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout a decade ago. They tell us their names \u0026amp; I decide to call them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAhmad \u0026amp; Faysal. They agree. As the performers go onstage,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas the songs \u0026amp; smoke rise, we raise a toast \u0026amp; Ahmad \u0026amp; Faysal smile\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; clap nonstop. They've even learned the Arab shoulder shimmy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce I've margarita-ed enough I start explaining\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esong lyrics-She's warning him he will regret \u0026amp; it's no disaster\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif he leaves, \u0026amp; yes motor is pronounced motore \u0026amp; suddenly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI discover I don't really know who Zayn al-Abideen is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough I've been singing for him all my life. Yay yay yay\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eneeds no interpretation. Neither do the colorful costumes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; feathers \u0026amp; all this going back in time. I want to shout\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno one eats hummus with carrots, \u0026amp; no one calls this\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epita bread, it's just bread, khobz, because everything here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis an absolute. Faysal says thank you \u0026amp; I remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone expression for thank you is May your hands\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebe safe \u0026amp; sound. Then I ask, Doesn't Beirut\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eremind you of New York? His silence is polite,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto which I argue there are no fire escapes here,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut there could have been. Some cities burn faster than others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI Beiruted East Houston at first sight \u0026amp; my friend\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edisagreed \u0026amp; said streets were making me delirious again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat I mean is if you write your name on a wall \u0026amp; find it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egone, you say, My name has left. Would you feel abandoned?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould you trace it again? What I mean is there are songs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere the fallen don't have rope enough to climb out of wells,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; there are songs where lovers return when the night deepens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRevolution Song\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Lebanon, October 2019\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith raised fists, with floods of fury, with ululation,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith forbidden song, with the 8:00 p.m. clatter of pots and pans,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith heartbreak, with memes, with rapture, with hands, we call this revolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow you laugh, how you march,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow you rest, how you run, how you get caught\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein your dangerous hope. No one can wall this revolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd love is difficult, and love is divine. And if you must\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehave God, let it be love. Let it be love with its toil and terror,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elet it be love with its prophecy and mess,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elet it be love with its rise and fall. This revolution\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis now like our bodies, is eternal like dust. Is on balconies, is on screens,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis in beds, is on streets, is in the mind, is in the mind, is in the mind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis in the breath and the eyeball, this revolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise the candle flames and the tire fumes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the graffiti and the broken glass\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the names of cities and villages\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the old man who leans on his cane and chants\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the young man who pounds on the wall (is he crying?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the detainees who won't be beaten into silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise those who wait for them under the rain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise this October birth, every month be October,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eevery year, every ache and balm be October,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the dancing and the sweat and the tired feet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise the swearing and the red flare and the rage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epraise, praise it all, this revolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClose the roads and open them. Occupy the streets-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebring the tires, the sofas, the drums, the blaring cars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClose the dead palaces of power and resurrect\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe abandoned places, the squares, that infinite\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecountry inside you. Close the roads and open them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClose the classrooms and open the tents,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebring vinegar and cloth, bring your hurt and your tongue,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elet it wreck and awaken and enthrall, this revolution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe name is thawra, and thawra is woman. The woman who kicked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe thug in the gut, the woman they came for with sticks,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe woman they came for with law,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe woman who fed and the woman who prayed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho kissed her lover on the street, who steadied her child on her waist,","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304629129445,"sku":"NP9780143136897","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143136897.jpg?v=1767733981","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/o-isbn-9780143136897","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}