#ghassan zaqtan

[feral-ballad]

Ghassan Zaqtan, tr. by Fady Joudah, from The Silence That Remains: Selected Poems (1982-2003); "If the boy could cry"

[Text ID: “Light your candles, discover my heart”]

[kitchen-light]

Ghassan Zaqtan, "A Pillow", translated by Fady Joudah

[thenewgothictwice]

Ghassan Zaqtan, tr. Fady Joudah.

[arablit]

A Poem from Ghassan Zaqtan's New Collection, 'Strangers in Light Coats'

Editor’s note: The poems in Ghassan Zaqtan’s Strangers in Light Coats, translated by Robin Moger and published by Seagull Books this month, are come from four of Zaqtan’s collections, published in 2014, 2015, 2019, and 2021. The final collection also titled Strangers in Light Coats (“غرباء بمعاطف خفيفة“). Together, the poems selected from these four books build a folkloric landscape that is the…

[mykristeva]

Ghassan Zaqtan

[edwordsmyth]

"Evening didn’t come without its darkness. We slept roofless but with cover and no survivor came in the night to tell us of the death of others. The roads kept whistling and the place was packed with the murdered who came from the neighboring quarter, their screams escaped toward us. We saw and heard the dead walk on air tied by the thread of their shock, their rustle pulling our bodies off our glowing straw mats to see a glistening blade that kept falling over the roads. The women gave birth only to those who passed. And the women will not give birth." -Ghassan Zaqtan, 'Collective Death'

[albertcamusschoolofphilosophy]

I would pluck his death’s flower and eat it

— Ghassan Zaqtan (tr. Fady Joudah)

[burins]

No dead on the streets today is a calm day, traffic is normal, there's ample room for the procession of yesterday's dead, room to add a dream, an idea, a little boy, an extra push for the beloved boat, a nom de guerre for the cell, a rose for a new love, a hand to a comrade

Some room to stay alive for some time, enough time to shake your hands and reach the sun

Today is a calm day, a pedestrian day in Beirut dancing in the streets, obstructing buses and not buying newspapers: the newspapers already went out to offices and the dead are resting on the Pavement of Martyrs at the outskirts of Sabra

A calm day, our neighbor will step out in her nightgown to hang some sleepiness around us, some sluggish waking she's too lethargic to gather letters into words

Where is life on this vast sauntering morning? We won't leave Out of the whiteness of her gown a reason will come to carry us down to the streets dead in her "Good morning"

- "Calm Day" by Ghassan Zaqtan, trans. Fady Joudah

[roselungs]

Everything Knows You Will Rise

Now you are alone

says the wall that comes at night,

there will be no knocks at the door

no pats on the shoulder,

the roads that led to your dreams

lie shattered, splayed

like corpses on the arid ground.

The paths you once crossed

without fear

to meet siblings and neighbors

when seasons were rough,

when life was hard and dry,

are clogged by stone,

unfulfillment, and dark intent.

The bridges that shined

in the memories of your fathers

fell in wadis that dried long ago.

Expect no one from there now.

But everything knows you will rise.

The time is gone

when far off dust

signalled comings and goings,

siblings on the road,

or a letter from your family.

The dust you see now

is the destruction of your houses

and the homes of your family there.

The smoke past the hill

is not caravans

or people returning,

it is the torching

of your uncles’ fields

and the orchards you once exulted in.

No dreams can grow

in these vessels you gathered and kept.

But everything knows you will rise.

You have no siblings left,

only this desert you gained,

where you were thrown,

this desert fed by your endurance,

it advanced

in your silence.

The wall each time brings the past,

the wall in place of the road.

The wall seeps through rooms and windows,

enters bedrooms bearing the scream

that it throws on the lodgings and beds,

on the shrouds of boys and girls:

‘you have no siblings left’

‘now you are alone.’

But everything knows you will rise.

— Ghassan Zaqtan, tr. Samuel Wilder

from https://arablit.org/2023/10/26/new-poetry-in-translation-ghassan-zaqtans-everything-knows-you-will-rise/

[roughghosts]

The vanished railway station: An old carriage with curtains by Ghassan Zaqtan

The vanished railway station: An old carriage with curtains by Ghassan Zaqtan, translated by Samuel Wilder

In the western foothills of the Hebron Mountains, about forty kilometres southwest of Jerusalem, lies what remains of Zakariyya, a village with a history stretching back millennia. It was the birthplace of the parents of Palestinian poet and writer Ghassan Zaqtan. When the community was occupied and depopulated by Israeli forces following the Nakba, they were forced flee to Beit Jala near…

[feral-ballad]

Ghassan Zaqtan, tr. by Fady Joudah, from The Silence That Remains: Selected Poems (1982-2003); "Old reasons"

[Text ID: “The heart’s pomegranate” / “رمّانة القلب”]

[kitchen-light]

Everything Knows You Will Rise by Ghassan Zaqtan translated by Samuel Wilder Now you are alone says the wall that comes at night, there will be no knocks at the door no pats on the shoulder, the roads that led to your dreams lie shattered, splayed like corpses on the arid ground. The paths you once crossed without fear to meet siblings and neighbors when seasons were rough, when life was hard and dry, are clogged by stone, unfulfillment, and dark intent. The bridges that shined in the memories of your fathers fell in wadis that dried long ago. Expect no one from there now. But everything knows you will rise. The time is gone when far off dust signalled comings and goings, siblings on the road, or a letter from your family. The dust you see now is the destruction of your houses and the homes of your family there. The smoke past the hill is not caravans or people returning, it is the torching of your uncles’ fields and the orchards you once exulted in. No dreams can grow in these vessels you gathered and kept. But everything knows you will rise. You have no siblings left, only this desert you gained, where you were thrown, this desert fed by your endurance, it advanced in your silence. The wall each time brings the past, the wall in place of the road. The wall seeps through rooms and windows, enters bedrooms bearing the scream that it throws on the lodgings and beds, on the shrouds of boys and girls: ‘you have no siblings left’ ‘now you are alone.’ But everything knows you will rise.

published at Arab Lit, October 26, 2023

[thenewgothictwice]

Ghassan Zaqtan, "The Stranger's Song," translated from Arabic by Fady Joudah.

"In strange countries dew was crying at the door

and roadsides drove colts to death

The place with its ten attributes was clean,

reward on earth was where each time ends

And lovers and evangelists

and what saints leave behind

of prayers and breads

were with me

What will lure you away from me?

Your morning, that bird of slow talk

tossed it's rituals to dusk,

and some sleep in the heart was heading to its countryside

to sleep

And something of life on the back of the hand

was narrating

forgetting

If only you knew

that the faces that went would remain in threads of air,

if only you knew that the paths would each have a voice,

tobacco would have the taste of a wish

and newcomers would have the mirrors of absence

He saw and desired

and it was done

The secret

was done

so lift your air

your house visitors are a bunch of tempters

their attributes are in the book

Your lover's window

has not slept

or overlooked you."

[arablit]

Forthcoming November 2023: Two Books by Palestinian Poet Ghassan Zaqtan, 'East Jerusalem Noir,' and Sonallah Ibrahim's '1970'

Book publication dates shift, and thus we are supplementing the annual list of forthcoming literature in translation with monthly lists, which we hope are more accurate. If you know of other works forthcoming this month, please add them in the comments or email us at info@arablit.org. An Old Carriage with Curtains, Ghassan Zaqtan, translated by Samuel Wilder (Seagull Books) The final book in a…

[fiercynn]

palestinian poets: fady joudah

fady joudah is a palestinian american physician, poet, and translator. he was born in the united states and grew up in libya and saudi arabia before returning to the united states for college. he attended the university of georgia–athens, the medical college of georgia, and the university of texas, where he completed his studies in internal medicine.

he has published five collections of poetry: the earth in the attic (2008), alight (2013), textu (2014), footnotes in the order of disappearance (2018), and tethered to the stars (2021). in 2014, he was a guggenheim fellow in poetry. joudah is also well-known for his poetry translation: he has translated the works of palestinian poets like mahmoud darwish, ghassan zaqtan, mary abu al-hayyat, and many more. he is based in houston, where he works as a physician of internal medicine.

IF YOU READ JUST ONE POEM BY FADY JOUDAH, MAKE IT THIS ONE: "the tea and sage poem"

OTHER POEMS ONLINE LOVE BY FADY JOUDAH

Scarecrow at poetry magazine

Remove at la review of books (along with a fantastic essay called "My Palestinian Poem that 'The New Yorker' Wouldn't Publish)

Mimesis at poetry magazine

WHO HAS NO LAND HAS NO SEA at poets for living waters

Palestine, Texas at Sappho's Torque

The Mother Between Us at the yale review

House of Mercury at northwest public broadcasting

Things You've Never Seen at poets.org

National Park at poetry magazine

Sleeping Trees at poetry magazine

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🇵🇸 Palestinian Fiction Books for Your TBR 🇵🇸

✨ Fiction stories can make an individual's experience universal and easier to understand from an outsider's perspective. We learn about one another's histories, realities, and cultures through fiction stories, even if we don't realize it. As a way of educating yourself and empathizing, here are a few Palestinian fiction books you can add to your ever-growing TBR for read Palestine Week.

🇵🇸 Please, please help me ensure these books receive the attention they deserve by sharing this post.

🌙 Minor Detail by Adania Shibli 🇵🇸 Salt Houses by Hala Alyan ✨ A Woman is No Man by Etaf Rum 🌙 Against the Loveless World by Susan Abulhawa 🇵🇸 The Sea Cloak: And Other Stories by Nayrouz Qarmout ✨ Wild Thorns by Sahar Khalifeh 🌙 The Parisian by Isabella Hammad 🇵🇸 Palestine +100: Stories from a Century after the Nakba ✨ Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa 🌙 We are All Equally Far from Love by Adania Shibli 🇵🇸 My First and Only Love by Sahar Khalifeh ✨ Where the Bird Disappeared by Ghassan Zaqtan 🌙 Trees for the Absentees by Ahlam Bsharat 🇵🇸 Mother of Strangers by Suad Amiry ✨ You Exist Too Much by Zaina Arafat