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"Tabriz Cemetery" by Sajed Haqshenas Last night I heard an owlIn the closed port of a night,my skin crawling andon fire,was its sorrowful songa few lilting stanzas and it was gone.And is it a bad omen,you think?And what of my enjoying it?And you,What's good?   Aws el Iskandarani of LA once old meour own legend of La Llorona,who roams the earth:a shapeshifter motherwho casts away the crown of motherhooda murderessand that in Egypt, the land before time,motherhood murderess wasan owl and awarningto never leave your clothes to dryin the eyes of the nightfor she'd shoot

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Poetry
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"Being, Oman 2015" by Ranya Hajjar knotthere is a place     in the outskirts of the neighborhoodan indian tailor    next to the fawwal-a black cat planted at his door     one abu khalidavoids walking by     reciting quranin fear of possessing him.     keep the money buriedin your palm so he doesn't     raise the priceask him about the jalabiya     & india     & home stitchhe says home     smells like the fawwallike the bread     & the orange peelstucked in the corners of the concrete

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Poetry
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"Liminal Access II" by Farah Azrak Almond blossoms reaching in the night asrudder to your boat filled with ghazals. Beyondthis damask fog of winter, patterned withtenderness on both sides, there are archersaiming for the refrain in your heart. Youcarry in your pocket a citadelof verses, arsenal of tulips, youcarry a candle that will not last thehour but melt into a pool that will stayhot for a century, clotted in desire. 

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Poetry
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"No Turning Back" by Maya Alameddine The trunk of Mama's car is dark, darker than everything, like the only blind spot under the sun. Around it is noise. A school bus clogging the capillary of streets starts a honk hysteria. Three quick whips on a donkey's back and a crazed clop-clop. Angry men come out of cars to start a word war. A boy in a tuk tuk tsk-tsks then snakes through. A siren rattles the jam on the three-lane ahead. The trunk though, the trunk is dead-quiet. I imagine if I come closer, it would suck me

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Fiction
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Photograph by Lujain Jo The sun in Abu Dhabi returns to her pink bed behind the sea;in the background, a song plays: "Gypsy, I'll always be."Above me, the night crops the sky as I stroll the city's Cornicheand recall Oslo's blue sunset, rising behind its wooden pier.How in Vienna the sun retreats behind the Danube;while in London it floats like a ship sailing against the Thames.I remember Sevilla and its orange sunset, the "Great River" in the middle,dividing two cities; one for sunrise and one for sunset.And how many cities does a sunset divide like a river

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Poetry
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"Woods" by Yusra Scott By Haifa Abu Al-Nadi, translated from the Arabic by Madeline Edwards. Umm Muhammad's black abaya speaks of night. Her glittering cigarette lighters kindle the threads embroidered across her plump breasts. Full of breath, her fat chest contains all the noise and memories of old sensuous nights. Her strangled, numbered breaths rattle out, lingering only briefly before translating themselves into three stubborn coughs which pepper the lighters and cigarette cartons displayed in front of her with a mist from her curled lips. Her wheezing falls silent when she sees me passing by, so I wave to

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Fiction, Translations
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By Qubad Jalil-Zada, translated from the Kurdish Sorani by Halo Fariq and Hannah Fox. 1. The cool breeze of autumn is coming but instead of covering herself, the forest is undressing.   کزەی پایز بەڕێوەیە دارستان لەبری خۆی داپۆشێت، خۆی ڕوت دەکاتەوە.       2. In the city, the wind covers her neck and breasts with the clothes on the line.   لە شار، ڕەشەبا سنگ و مەمکی خۆی بە جلی سەر تەنافەکان دادەپۆشێت.       3. While bathing by the riverbank, the moon hangs her silver lingerie on the branches of the breeze.   لە قەراخ ڕووبارێک خۆی دەشوات. دەرپێ زیوینەکەی بە لقی شنەوە هەڵواسیوە _مانگ

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Poetry, Translations
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"Aquamarine" by Matteo Mauro one where the sky is all mine one where baba and i meet in the middle one where corners have bent one where sugarcane fields have lost their green confidence in its truth, almost ugly in broad daylight, worn out, wholesome in memory no space for shoulders- your posture will go bad i think about artists that sing of this city they bring out photographs devoid of color but tell the richest stories will i ever know that richness? i think of attachments i didn't know i had places i carry around my limbs are tree branches that move near the light, the body never forgets i think of this city's streets, the

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Poetry
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الرسم لشادي لويس   في المرة الأولى التي ذهبنا فيها إلى بيت الأخت جنفياف كانت النار هي السبب. الحرائق التي لم تشتعل بعد، بقيت كامنة تحت السطح، نستمع إلى صوت طقطقتها ولا نراها، تتلظّى بهدوء، وفي الانتظار. ليلتها، عدنا أنا وبابا إلى البيت بعد مغامرة الصيد الفاشلة. كان وقت العشاء تقريبًا، والبيت غارق في ظلمة غير معتادة كأنها تخفي شيئًا داخلها. أشعلنا الأضواء، وتوجه بابا إلى المطبخ مباشرة، وهو ينظر حوله بتوجّس، ولم يكن هناك شيء في البيت يستحقّ تلك النظرات. كبَّ معدات الصيد الصغيرة في صفيحة الزبالة، ومعها بعض ممّا تبقّى من اعتزازه بنفسه. لم أكن واثقًا إن كان ينبغي

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arabic, 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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