Heat by Denis Johnson

Heat

Here in the electric dusk your naked lover

tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.

It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,

Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,

streaming with hatred in the heat

as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin

to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,

and such a last light—full of spheres and zones.

August,

              you're just an erotic hallucination,

just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,

are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night,

this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,

the bogus moon of tenderness and magic

you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?

 

 

For My Own Protection by Essex Hemphill

For My Own Protection

 

I want to start 

an organization

to save my life.

If whales, snails,

dogs, cats

Chrysler and Nixon

can be saved,

the lives of Black men 

are priceless

and can be saved.

We should be able

to save each other.

I don’t want to wait 

for the Heritage Foundation

to release a study

stating Black men 

are almost extinct.

I don’t want to be

the living dead

pacified with drugs

and sex.

 

If a human chain

can be formed

around missile sites,

then surely Black men

can form human chains

around Anacostia, Harlem,

South Africa, Wall Street, 

Hollywood, each other.

 

If we have to take tomorrow 

with our blood are we ready?

Do our s curls,

dreadlocks, and Phillies

make us any more ready

than a bush or a conkaline?

I’m not concerned

about the attire of a soldier.

All I want to know

for my own protection

is are we capable

of whatever

whenever?

Think of Others by Mahmoud Darwish

Think of Others  

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others 

(do not forget the pigeon's food).  

As you conduct your wars, think of others 

(do not forget those who seek peace).  

As you pay your water bill, think of others 

(those who are nursed by clouds).  

As you return home, to your home, think of others 

(do not forget the people of the camps).  

As you sleep and count the stars, think of others 

(those who have nowhere to sleep).  

As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others 

(those who have lost the right to speak).  

As you think of others far away, think of yourself 

(say: "If only I were a candle in the dark"). 

(Translated by Mohammed Shaheen)

Most Days I Want to Live by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Most Days I Want to Live 

Not all days. But most days

I do. Most days the garden’s

almost enough: little pink flowers

on the sage, even though

the man said we couldn’t eat

it. Not this kind. And I said,

Then, gosh. What’s the point?

The flowers themselves,

I suppose. The rain came

and then the hail came and my love

brought them in. Even tipped

over they look optimistic.

I know it’s too late to envy

the flowers. That century’s

over and done. And hope?

That’s a jinx. But I did set them

right. I patted them a little.

And prayed for myself, which

is embarrassing to admit

in this day and age. But I did it.

Because no one was looking

or listening anyway.

My Grandfather Was a Terrorist by Mosab Abu Toha

My Grandfather Was a Terrorist

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He tended to his field,

watered the roses in the courtyard,

smoked cigarettes with grandmother

on the yellow beach, lying there

like a prayer rug.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He picked oranges and lemons,

went fishing with brothers until noon,

sang a comforting song en route

to the farrier’s with his piebald horse.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He made a cup of tea with milk,

sat on his verdant land, as soft as silk.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He departed his house, leaving it for the coming guests,

left some water on the table, his best,

lest the guests die of thirst after their conquest.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He walked to the closest safe town,

empty as the sullen sky,

vacant as a deserted tent,

dark as a starless night.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

My grandfather was a man,

a breadwinner for ten,

whose luxury was to have a tent,

with a blue UN flag set on the rusting pole,

on the beach next to a cemetery.

 

600 days in the genocide by Omar Sakr

600 days in the genocide

The hour is late as I usher my sons to bed.

My family is watching a game called State

Of Origin where men from all over the world 

Claim tribal heritage to land not their own.

I can't stop thinking of Ward, who survived 

And of Shaaban al-Dalou, who did not.

My babies, strangers to hardship, whimper

In the dark as if they, too, can feel the heat

Licking at their hands and feet. When we

Dream, scientists say we enter paralysis:

A safety mechanism to keep us from rolling

Into the campfire, or off a cliff. Some of us

are blessed with broken mechanisms,

Some of us walk even in our sleep.

I watch, God forgive me not, I keep watch

When I should be running towards the blaze.

Your Name by Silvina Ocampo

Your Name

No one can pronounce your name.

I alone know the perfect inflection.

They lack the tenderness in which it flows

and the sweetness in the consonants.

They don't know how to distinguish the color

of the exact musical note.

That's why each day I respond

by inventing a name:

blue, bird, breeze, light.

Common words

that can be said simply

even without knowing you, without loving you.

(Translated by Jason Weiss)