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Home2018August (Page 2)

August 2018

Sewage fills the air even in the early hours of birdsthe donkey’s whipped ass crosses a red lighthow can we blame a slab of land for what it has become?the children grow up too youngtracks of tanks don’t leave their sandand soon, mist rusts their swings  The sea is a ragged studio backgroundsewage fills the stomachs of seagullshow can we blame a flat horizon for what it has become?a city worn on two sidesa rock[et], scissored tunnels, paper ghostsa spoon in a socket, love making in darkening rooms  This is how we can blame this city for what it has

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Poetry
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I Am Cupid’s daughter. Mistake and design begot me. Under the silver sun, I brush away my identity. A few blots here, a few strokes there, And all the men gather round me. The people above, Impeached, Glare down at me, Yet, still I dance And cherish this ineffable circumstance. I spend the nights Swinging between restless arms, Swathed in sordid kisses And garnished with love bites. Beyond this place Of discord and hate, I move my hips And feel the night Gently stroke my face With the long, dark blades of its fingers. I go home, Smelling like a thousand men. My flamboyance Lures natural nonconformists Out of their comfort. I shake their grounds With every coaxing sway, Until I mitigate their pangs Of unjustified guilt. Passersby under the sun Think

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Poetry
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It’s jammed, once again. The iron gate’s lock is get-ting rustier as the days pass. I gather all my strength (what’s left of it) and kick the bottom of the door while pulling the handle towards me. All the while, I am covered with chips of sloughed off white paint that reveal a dark auburn surface. Maintaining pressure on the bottom edge, I push in the key, and turn it around three times before getting the door to open. That worked surprisingly fast today. Alhamdulillah for everything, praise to Allah. All is well. . As I walk through the entré – a

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Fiction
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by Fadwa Suleimane, translated from the arabic by Marilyn Hacker At daybreakA child climbed up out of the rubbleHe looked for his motherHe pushed away the rocks around herHe shook her hard but she didn’t wake upHe called all of his brothers’ and sisters’ namesHe turned back to his mother, and he shoutedI won’t trust you anymore after today, MamaYesterdayYou sang to the dovesThat no one would slit their throats.On his birthdayIn the orphanageHe wrote on the wall with a bird’s feather:I trust my motherShe never learned how grown-ups have funShe never knew how they colored my brothers and sisters,Colored her

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Poetry, Translations
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I would have exhumed you with my fingernails And reclaimed my childhood from your finitude. But nature never mourned you before taking you back This thick blanket of dirt Won’t let me in. There is so little I know of you. I do not know whether the sunlight Can infiltrate your coffin And warm your bones I do not know whether you can stretch in the morning I don’t even know, How many inches of your skin, Are left. It has been around a thousand and ninety five mornings, It only took God three days to Resurrect his son. Note: The title of this poem was borrowed from Sufjan Steven’s eponymous song

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Poetry
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GRAND THEATRO just before reconstruction (1994) • Pierre Maadanjian • Photography Version 3.4 for Two Baritone Narrators and Sound Effects Prelude((I would like to thank Dr Nikolas Kosmatopoulos, Dr. Assaad Kattan and Rima Rantisi.)) In the fall of 2022, a new round of clashes in the outskirts of Beirut erupted between three Lebanese sects. At its margin, Salim Fadel, a 42-year-old seasoned expert in development consulting, pursued his personal interests when the government requested that all of its institutions remain closed until a cease-fire was reached. Salim had been commissioned by both Solidere and the Lebanese government to conduct studies in the framework

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Fiction
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Maqam Bayati = Fortune I walk the hills of Kouravillage after village the winter rain directs me;I walk the remnants of hearts with balconies of scattered voiceslike a century wrinkled on shattered windowsI walk to ask you if you achedbetween two truths I walk to ask whatthese olive trees hid for you And when I reach Amiounyour feet become mine your lean body becomes mineyour vigor becomes mine The sky opens the seaand you tell me how to play this place for you À Fortune Nicolas Matouk Maqam Ajam = Josephine You told me, arrête de pleurerand for years I didn’t understand you were preparing

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Poetry
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I am found hidden, snug among the truffles                                                     Growing under the footsteps of Bedouins. I am found staring down At the Temple of Eshmun. I am found sitting on the oil spills, The rubble, The rotting fruit. Sometimes I have lived a thousand lives. Sometimes I have never breathed Outside of my mother’s suffocating belly. I have lived my mother’s life, My life, And my daughter’s life. I have heard about my mother In her white dress, Smile smeared red, The corners frowning, The bombs bouncing and bursting. I have heard

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Poetry
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He rolled the the tip of the cigarette between his lips, and started to cough as he lit it. It was the same cough she woke up to every night when he’d forget to breathe. She’d get a quiet moment in which she could sleep undisturbed. Deep in her heart, she wished it would last longer, but his calloused hand would sweep against her thighs once again. Now, he lit his cigarette and unwound on the sofa whispering to himself, nodding. Their sixth child sat on the floor by the sofa making planes out of old bills and letters and

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Flash Fiction
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Something always felt foreign to me about the black asphalt streets, which sparkled in the summer sun as if encrusted with diamonds, of my hometown Palo Alto, California. Or maybe the foreign was me, with my black hair and dark brown eyes and skin that tanned easily. My family and I would take trips to Pakistan and Bangladesh so that my mother and stepfather could visit their respective families. Each trip was a two-week suspension of the sense that something was about to go wrong. The simple op-positions to Palo Alto – that car steering was on the right side,

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Non-Fiction
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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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