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4.08 AVERAGE
4.08 AVERAGE
Me doing every reader’s “I rly should read a Palestinian book in solidarity and to get more perspective” amazing poetry btw! Like:
To draw back the blinds and look at the sky
to see the treetops relishing the play of the breeze
to thin you’re a visitor here in a novel
or a melody wasted by the choir….
A soft bed is worth the sky
waking up free is worth a year of your life
Free 🇵🇸 bby
emotional
reflective
sad
fast-paced
“Who Remembers the Armenians?”
I remember them
and I ride the nightmare bus with them
each night
and my coffee, this morning
I’m drinking it with them
You, murderer—
Who remembers you?
I remember them
and I ride the nightmare bus with them
each night
and my coffee, this morning
I’m drinking it with them
You, murderer—
Who remembers you?
I will return to this, but for now someone else wants the library's copy.
challenging
emotional
hopeful
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
N/A
Strong character development:
N/A
Loveable characters:
N/A
Diverse cast of characters:
N/A
Flaws of characters a main focus:
N/A
This poetry collection strikes a wonderful balance between straight forward language and themes, while also exploring contradictions and complexities in the poet's experiences as a Palestinian, Arab, person living under occupation, and as a person in the world. Both deeply personal and universal.
Beautifully heartbreaking, a collection of poems with strong voices and strong emotions. I always find it hard to rare a book of poetry, so I'll leave with this: This is worth the read!
challenging
emotional
hopeful
reflective
medium-paced
IDENTITY CARD
Despite - as my friends joke - the Kurds being famous for their severity, I was gentler than a summer breeze as I embraced my brothers in the four corners of the world.
And I was the Armenian who did not believe the tears beneath the eyelids of history's snow
that covers both the murdered and the murderers.
Is it so much, after all that has happened, to drop my poetry in the mud?
In every case I was a Syrian from Bethlehem raising the words of my Armenian brother, and a Turk from Konya entering the gate of Damascus.
And a little while ago I arrived in Bayadir Wadi al-Sir and was welcomed by the breeze, the breeze that alone knew the meaning of a man coming from the Caucasus Mountains, his only companions his dignity and the bones of his ancestors.
And when my heart first tread on Algerian soil, I did not doubt for a moment that I was an Amazigh.
Everywhere I went they thought I was an Iraqi, and they were not wrong in this.
And often I considered myself an Egyptian living and dying time and again by the Nile with my African forebears.
But above anything I was an Aramaean. It is no wonder that my uncles were Byzantines, and that I was a Hijazi child coddled by Umar and Sophronius when Jerusalem was opened.
There is no place that resisted its invaders except that I was one of its people; there is no free man to whom I am not bound in kinship; and there is no single tree or cloud to which I am not indebted. And my scorn for Zionists will not prevent me from saying that I was a Jew expelled from Andalusia, and that I still weave meaning from the light of that setting sun.
In my house there is a window that opens onto Greece, an icon that points to Russia, a sweet scent forever drifting from Hijaz,
and a mirror: No sooner do I stand before it than I see myself immersed in springtime in the gardens of Shiraz, and Isfahan, and Bukhara.
And by anything less than this, one is not an Arab.
Despite - as my friends joke - the Kurds being famous for their severity, I was gentler than a summer breeze as I embraced my brothers in the four corners of the world.
And I was the Armenian who did not believe the tears beneath the eyelids of history's snow
that covers both the murdered and the murderers.
Is it so much, after all that has happened, to drop my poetry in the mud?
In every case I was a Syrian from Bethlehem raising the words of my Armenian brother, and a Turk from Konya entering the gate of Damascus.
And a little while ago I arrived in Bayadir Wadi al-Sir and was welcomed by the breeze, the breeze that alone knew the meaning of a man coming from the Caucasus Mountains, his only companions his dignity and the bones of his ancestors.
And when my heart first tread on Algerian soil, I did not doubt for a moment that I was an Amazigh.
Everywhere I went they thought I was an Iraqi, and they were not wrong in this.
And often I considered myself an Egyptian living and dying time and again by the Nile with my African forebears.
But above anything I was an Aramaean. It is no wonder that my uncles were Byzantines, and that I was a Hijazi child coddled by Umar and Sophronius when Jerusalem was opened.
There is no place that resisted its invaders except that I was one of its people; there is no free man to whom I am not bound in kinship; and there is no single tree or cloud to which I am not indebted. And my scorn for Zionists will not prevent me from saying that I was a Jew expelled from Andalusia, and that I still weave meaning from the light of that setting sun.
In my house there is a window that opens onto Greece, an icon that points to Russia, a sweet scent forever drifting from Hijaz,
and a mirror: No sooner do I stand before it than I see myself immersed in springtime in the gardens of Shiraz, and Isfahan, and Bukhara.
And by anything less than this, one is not an Arab.
challenging
reflective
Another one of the poetry books I read on the flight back from LA. This is apparently Najwan’s first translation into English, and was recommended by Amal El-Mohtar. There’s lots of black humor in this, but also a deep layer of sorrow and loss and heartbreak and identity, all in the context of the Palestinian struggle. El-Mohtar described it as “a collection of ruins layered between heartbeats” and that description is incredibly accurate. There is a thorough notes section at the end that will give additional context to these poems for those that might not have the context, but it’s still understandable without it I feel. Pocket sized book, perfect for a commute or a flight.