The poetic tradition is long, especially in Islam. They say the Qu’ran itself is just one long poetic verse, Shakespearean and perfect in its iambic parameter, constructed by the divine.
In many cultures worldwide, poetry is seen as a vessel of the sacred, a channel to something otherworldly, beyond here.
When two poets converge together, their conversations become different pathways to spiritual and emotional heights. There is a long-standing history of this in the Muslim world as well, where poets, writers, and translators alike would speak to themselves and each other about the art of poetry, and what it means to communicate in verse, in the abstract and mercurial, and what different perspectives can be gained from these excavations.
Poetry is also political, and in a time that requires so much from us, poetry allows us to convey the depths of life, decay and genocide in different ways. As
writes in her new poem below:“What is the most American thing about you?
My mouth. My loud. My dollar.
How it goes from pocket to pocket to missile,
lodges itself into a boy’s rib.”
There is no seclusion between us and the realities of the world.
Hala and I wanted to connect and excavate in this form, to bleed ourselves onto the page through poems and learn from our aches and our stutterings about how to move forward in times like this… so for the rest of July, every Friday, we will be doing a call and response to each other, to elucidate and get closer to what’s more, what’s next.
This week, the first week, we start with Hala’s first poem.
I hope you’ll join us for this journey.
Fariha
What is the most American thing about you?
by Hala Alyan
My mouth. My nerves. The six accents in my accent.
The way I cross a street without looking twice.
Fill a suitcase without thinking twice.
Wake at dawn to nothing.
The way I count a slaughter in months.
One, two, three, four.
My mouth. That I still believe it can get me out of trouble.
That when a soldier asked where from I said
Gaza then Texas then nowhere.
That when a soldier touched my hair
and said who knows what you might be hiding
I said yes said sorry said I got it from a woman.
Don’t worry. She’s dead. You flooded her village.
Five, six, seven, eight.
How many months are in a body.
How many cradles are in a bloodline.
A father walks the streets and says:
This is a child. This is a child. This is a child.
My mouth.
The way it makes confessions nobody asked for.
The way it forgets the word for حسرة, خيال, استسلام.
The way it’s always telling a story.
Once there was a man. A ring. A border shredded like paper.
Once an army banned wedding dresses
and apples and pianos and the children became memos
and the land flattened with noise
and Lorca says nor is my house any longer my house
and Darwish says I forgot like you to die
and what do you call a photo op?
What do you call water that nobody can drink?
What is the most American thing about you?
My mouth. My loud. My dollar.
How it goes from pocket to pocket to missile,
lodges itself into a boy’s rib.
My river, my tree, my ring.
How I like to call them mine.
How I still love the moon
even when drone
even when checkpoint
even when children eat what do they eat.
O but the moon.
Once it glowed in Jbail.
Once I wore a dress and walked into a room of music.
Once I gave a ring back.
I’m sorry. Forget the ring. Forget the moon.
A father walks the streets and says:
This is a country. This is a country. This is a country.
In Manhattan it’s a new month
and before she dies, she doesn’t die.
Before she dies, she says now the rest of you have to live.
So we live and live and live.
We gather in a church by a park to listen to the sound of her voice.
We say this is living.
We say right. We say I love, I love, I love.
Once a man said I will burn the English from your mouth
and what he meant was
I am like you
dangerous and pretending not to be.
Forget the man.
I’m saying I want to be remade: in a Belfast terminal, in a ten-thousand-person march,
in a bed in Greenpoint,
I’m saying I want to be touched until I forget my own name.
Lorca says just your hot heart.
Darwish says I want from love only the beginning
so here’s my American memory
short as a song
here’s my grandmother’s sea —
it moves bright as gossip, visible from every window
o land of interruption
o road trip into the past. Forget the past.
I’m trying to say I love a good interrogation.
I’m trying to say
they turned dresses into crimes.
Who remembers the music?
Who breathes through rubble?
Once a place exploded and
my father became fictional.
Don’t talk to me about September.
I forget. Whose husband was that? Mine? Not mine.
Whose birthplace. Whose soldier
pointed a gun and said, Hey pretty, sit down.
What is the most American thing about you?
Was it your hair or your knife?
Your rot or your metaphor?
What do you think I’d do with a missile?
Once I hitchhiked from rooftop to sea, left during the war,
came back, slept on a bench, slept for a year
and the walls were yellow and the
bombs rattled the windows and nobody died.
My knees on the ground.
My god on the line
and I can’t stop dreaming about those dresses
the shovels
the children
the way a man said he’d die and then lived and then left.
Lorca says why was I born among mirrors.
Darwish says if there must be a moon, let it be high.
Once my grandmother left a village
and they put a waterpark in its place.
Once I left my name in a man’s mouth
and I think it might be time to go get it.
Forget the moon. I’m saying I want to live.
I want to hear her voice every morning. I want music. I want wine.
I want the wrong accent, the wrong sea, the wrong hands on my throat, I want what
I want what I want and this
is the most American thing about me.
I’m saying forget my hands. I’m nowhere near a checkpoint.
I’m ten past midnight
a full mile west to the water
and from here this river could be a sea
this country could be a country
and how dare I speak of love?
Where are the dresses now?
Who hems their lace?
Whose hands collect white?
Whose hands count bodies?
Who will remember what was done?
Who will do all this living?
Hauntingly beautiful. So looking forward to this poetic dialogue between 2 of my favorite writers. I had the pleasure of going to one of Hala's readings back in March and hope I can one day hear your spoken words.
How do you say you have tears streaming down your face but not feel almost gratuitous, obvious, saying it? How unspeakably arresting and palpably poetic.