HONEY

amman  and ana    i
am seven years old  holding my
tongue out  ready for my second teaspoon
of  عسل   it is always seven in the morning
every morning of this lifetime wa baba
holds the spoon like an heirloom
bein his fingers             each drop
of honey  his holy
oil       baba
was never a man
of much   دين  per se bas
you could say this was his daily
worship  six prayers worth of teaspoons
two for each of us      assem       zein      hamza

amman and ana    i
am twenty one years old in bed
my pillow tasting   purely of salt   this time
sadness stops  only  happening to other
people   outside  of course   it rains
pure emo girl        aesthetic
baba ba3dein comes in
bi his arms      كعك   
sesame seeded fresh
from al suffarah bakery
bi swefieh    with a jar full of  honey
wallah  i  am sorry baba   i   know  you
hate to see me cry   water wasted in a water
poor country you say   handing me an old  spoon


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TEXT:
ZEIN SA’DEDIN
UNITED KINGDOM

ROASTING GREEN CHICKPEAS WITH FAIROUZ OUTSIDE OF AMMAN, JORDAN

after Safia Elhillo


before al westness fairouz
i        held my mama’s hand under
a pomegranate tree a self-enforced
silence carving  our  palms  into  bark
between  ana wa her always an economy
of language habeebti here it is always
this grey wa ana  always this  sad
before al westness fairouz 
i           would drain honeysuckles
of their nectar    you know
 my mouth will always be 
where i go to die habeebti
 it is hard to think of other
things                sometimes

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TEXT:
ZEIN SA’DEDIN
UNITED KINGDOM

في مدينتي

2030

2030


في مدينتي
محرومةٌ هي الجدران
تبقى دون آذان
وما نفعها بالأصل إن كنّا مجمتعين على الدوام وعلى سمعٍ تامّ؟
لا لا
امحِ ذاك الجزء
فلا جدران في مدينتي
ما من جدرانٍ تسوّرها
أو تجول شوارعها وبيوتها
وما من نوافذ تحملها
ما من ستائر
مدينتي متقشّفة
مدينتي دون قيود
مدينتي حرّة
حرّةٌ هي تفعل ما تشاء متى تشاء وما من أحدٍ يواجه بالإباء
فالأبناء هم الآباء وعلى الدنيا الرثاء

مدينتي حرّة
يغسّل المطر أوساخها مرّة في الشهر
وتعتقدُ أنّ ذاك يكفي
كالطمث معلناً أنّ حياةً جديدة لن تأتي
لا أعيشُ في مدينتي إلّا مرّة في الشهر
وعدا عن ذاك أموتُ وأُرثي
فمدينتي لا تُشفي
لا أعيشُ في مدينتي
رؤوني عندما رحلت فلا ستائر لتستر
لاجدران لتحجب
الناس تصطفُ في الشارع وتنظر
ينظرون إليّ تحت أضواء الشارع الغير مضاءة
ينظرون إليّ وأنا أرحل فمدينتي حرّة دون قيود
فهي ألبستني إيّاهم وأرحلُ كلّ بضعة أشهر

وفي كلّ مرةٍ حقائبي تكثر
ومعها رهبتي وقيودي وأصفادي تكبر
تكبرُ بما فيه الكفاية لتنسلّ يديّ منها
ولكن أعود لأُذكّر أنّ عليّ أن أرحل
وأعود لأرحل
وأعود وأرحل.

______
TEXT:
SAMI ABDELBAKI
SYRIA

ART:
KINZY AL SAHEAL
SAUDI ARABIA

DEAR BOGEYMAN

Samy_Sfoggia_ọrẹ_kekere_mi_2019_-_Fotografia_20x28_cm.jpg

Dear bogeyman,

I know you know I am terrified of the bogeyman under my bed, the one living on our rooftop and the one inside my head. I know you know I am terrified of you; I can never breathe with you near, I can never dream, I can never sleep. You broke my heart when I was seven, you've been breaking my heart for twelve years, you never stopped, dear bogeyman, I do not know what it is like to not have a broken heart.

I know I take up more space than you originally planned; more than you originally allowed, I know my loud voice angers the wolves inside you, I know you think I am stealing your glory, your years, your pride; and I wish I could shrink, shrink all the way to the ground and rid you of the shame of having me living, living, living, occupying your space, taking up too much space for someone so insignificant.

I lay in bed all day- hiding from you- as my body purges itself of itself, trying to make itself smaller and smaller, trying to fit the space you left for me on your trophy stand.

Once, when I was five, I told you I loved you, it seems you thought it wise to reward me by stealing my soul, hiding it in your pocket, it seems you thought it wise to deceive me, lie about my soul's whereabouts and make me believe I was a crossroads demon; soulless, just like you.

Dearest bogeyman, there is a line in "the hand that rocks the cradle" by the smiths that haunts me;

"My life down I shall lie                                                                                                                          
If the bogeyman should try                                                                                                                  
To play tricks on your sacred mind                                                                                                       
To tease, torment, and tantalize."

I think of all the people who did not have the man who was supposed to protect them from bogeymen turn into a bogeyman himself.

Dearest bogeyman, I wonder, I always wonder, I wonder if the burden of protecting me turned you into this monster.

______
TEXT:
M. S. LUNE
UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

ART:
SAMY SFOGGIA
BRAZIL

SUMMER, UNSPENT, PT 1

lantern-lit leisure at 3 a.m.
sleepswim        chlorine tang like chloroform
energy dissipates in water waves
(marco polo marco polo)
diffraction / refraction
God swears by time      of day
and dusk and dawn and night
of eras, ages, aeons
the taste of attr forever heavy on my tongue
cloying; the sweetness of verse
in motion
honeydew, quarter-moon, and cannon
desert-sullen skies and sunbeam –
silky-sticky heat: the kind you gulp down
fruit bat hunger hidden in headlights
and the carcass of palm dates
and my shoes sinking in with
the broken bulb in the forest trail                     the only light
the hazy orange glancing at skin                     the only sound
the screech of the shopping trolley
i pushed you in
and we walk on.

______
TEXT:
TASNEEM MAHER
JORDAN

ARCHAEOLOGY IN THE MODERN DAY

Twinkle_twinkle_little_Bat_Fotografia_e_técnica_mista_40x60cm_-_2017.jpg

THE PAST POURED INTO TODAY: my grandmother has branches digging into the skin of / her palm -- she’s a little like an aging tree: / built like it, all ringed bark and / a gnarled wind-whistling laugh that welcomes you / into the haven of her shade / and I could trace conflict in her veins / but I’d rather trace comfort, the way it settles / over her every time she cooks or weaves back / the tapestry of this country / untangling threads with history in her deft hands, dough-knuckled / and she’s half foreign but no one’s ever worn the flag so well //

 

THE PRESENT SINKING IN: I’ve molded myself into a new shape in this house / flattened myself like the land here / the only spot in Amman steady enough to keep me / standing and sunset is always more russet / flecked, blush blooming at the horizon / on any of the mountains cresting the city / but there, it’s never made me feel safe like I could / sink into the dirk and hear the river churning underneath / the sounds spilling into my spine, pulsing to my fingertips / my body burrowed tightly enough that I’ve let myself shed skin here / and let you gather it up so you know the history etched in it //

THE FUTURE WHERE IT FLOWS: the river gurgles up a laugh / and blooms sunlight beneath its skin / its ephemeral mouth has drained out into / grandmother’s kitchen where life gathers: / cats keep hanging around  no matter / how many times we get rid of them / so I know they get it / they’re scruffy strays like my little cousins / who’ve got my eyes and nose and / the shade of my hair and they’ve  got / little green buds sprouting in the gaps between their fingers / brazen and bold and loud as they are / where I, dam-mouthed and bursting to break, never had / and the river -- the river will take care to water them //

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TEXT:
TASNEEM MAHER
JORDAN

ART:
SAMY SFOGGIA
BRAZIL

AMARG

‘Amarg’ is the Amazigh (Berber) word for nostalgia, though it is also used to signify a hybrid form of musical poetry found in Southern Morocco. Southeastern Morocco presents a strange combination of different kinds of empty spaces, huge and desolated, ranging from the Atlas Mountains to the Sahara desert.

Life is seldom found in these lands, which impart an almost metaphysical feeling, forcing one to conjure meanings or answers to their questions that will continue to remain as elusive as the very nature of these places themselves. As the famous Berber poet and writer, Mohammed Khair-Eddine once said, ‘Deserts and mountains take us closer to the cosmos, to its mysterious genesis, to the very little glimpse of everything’s beginning’.

The djellaba is a typical outfit worn throughout North Africa, particularly in Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia. There has always been a particular aura associated with the garment, and this series focuses on the pairing of a sort of mystical figure wearing the djellaba with the vast and boundless terrain over which he traverses daily. Ultimately, the aim of the photographs is to impart a deep and fundamental understanding of the desert’s ability to spur the type of introspection and enlightenment that writers such as Saint-Exupéry wrote about with such passion.

The extreme nothingness of these landscapes casts a spell upon those who visit them. Anyone who has known life in these silent realms is familiar with the feelings of solitude and desolation they bring; yet, they regard them with a certain happiness nonetheless. In this context, this feeling of happiness / nostalgia (or, wanderlust) relates to a sentimentality not for the past, but rather for those rare moments in which one can contemplate their pure self.

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PHOTOGRAPHY:
ZAKARIA WAKRIM
MOROCCO

CLOSE MY EYES AND THINK OF HOME

Memoir Sketches

An ongoing project, that draws on the memory of home and all things familiar. The sketches are by individuals who have been living and working away from their home.

The project divulges with the idea of nostalgia, memory and familiar places. Bringing to light aspects of human nature and psychology, with the one question, what is the first thing that you visualize when you "Close your eyes and think of Home"? 

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VISUALS:
SAVIOLA D MELLO
INDIA/UNITED ARAB EMIRATES