Category: Poetry

No One Buys Flowers During Genocide

Fatihah Quadri When a country hates another country, the  children suffer everyday from the sun. A house falls and the dream shatters to the ground. The first thing my mother taught me about...

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White Theatre Professionals Can Hold Space For Us All

Raya Tuffaha And what if I damn you? If I write the explosion in stageable italics, if I poeticize and profit-size and donate and educate, what if I learn your language and boundaries, then what?...

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the miracle of loaves & fishes

Mandy Shunnarah Nobody  ever asks who  baked the bread, coaxed the yeast &  flour with alchemy, or  beckoned its rise with knuckles  & patience. Nobody asks who smoked  the fish, much...

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zero

Nadine Channaoui just like that thirty-five thousand gone demolished killed starved diseased   one thousand for each year i have circled the sun another thousand for the circle my daughter has made...

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you did your duty

Majida Halaweh to you who look at me with pity in your eyes: i know your love for me makes you ask how i am but it does not extend beyond that.   i know you sit around lamenting my...

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If you were with me in the war

Gawad Elakkad Translated from the Arabic by Hazem Jamjoum & lisa minerva luxx Your fingers plunge into my palm   swaying like gazelles in the forest of the mind   I dream of them         a...

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From Where I Came

Omar Khoury I pressed my nose upon my mother’s sleeve, the incense nestled within it, both welcoming and overwhelming. Her hair whips thin, their curls like cresting waves crashing upon themselves....

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The Eclipse

Yahia Lababidi Where were you during the apocalypse on the other side of the world?   Did you pause to observe a moment of silence?   Did the extermination of the other half interrupt your sleep?...

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In War

Mohammed Abu Lebda One sets traps for doves, Aged at the thresholds of emptiness, Or bakes time slowly on a flame, For patience to ripen within.   Amidst war’s chaos, Love transforms into a...

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Sometimes he calls out for Baby. Sometimes Baby runs

Sara Burge down our street screaming, his voice chasing like a pissy wasp. Sometimes he’s an Apache helicopter. Sometimes Baby’s a mouse on a rug. Sometimes their fights are a riff on last...

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