Audio – Seventh Wave

Poems and Soundings

Meg Sykes — Mon, 15 Jan 2024 10:48:40 +0000

Saidiya Hartman writes that Abolition is a synonym for the end of the world. When it comes to the carceral systems we live in, it’s clear that so much of how-things-are-now has to be shed; and so much of how-things-could-be must be nurtured. Why do I fear the same process of change inside myself? Each of the past ten years has held: self-harm, suicidality, heartbreak, healing, fear, family, practice, persistence. Looking back, the map draws itself, and I can tell that I was growing all along.

This call, “On Tending”, speaks directly to all those punitive, fearful, protected parts of me that have worked so hard to keep me safe—through dissociation, anger turned inward, depression, people-pleasing. Perhaps, in order for them to let go of their strategies, they just need to know that some alternative exists, and that there is community to be found in that shared tending. For so much of my life, I couldn’t—didn’t want to—imagine myself in any future. And now that I can, and do, that future is threaded through with climate grief and anxiety. Shedding self-doubt. No longer fearing decay. Perhaps when I laugh with a friend, despite everything. When I pick a single tiny strawberry from the garden patch. When I allow myself, for once, to feel worthy of this existence, time collapses: future, present, and past. Maybe caring for myself is simply giving myself time to orient to a changed landscape, both inside and out.

To ask: What structures and systems of notation affirm our queer, trans, disabled lives and deaths and futurities? What amplifies the sound of our kinships, echoing forward and backward in time? What does it mean to imagine survival, to make a life, amidst the reverberations of suicidality, climate change, and familial violence?

These two pieces, “stage directions for the future garden” and “cento with the waters rising”, wave a relational web: referencing, moving with, composed of lines by other queer, trans, BIPOC, and disabled writers. My writing and my life are informed by lineages of collective responsibility and radical struggle. During Hong Kong’s 2019 uprisings, protestors adapted the slogan, “Be water”, referencing the way water flows, transforms, decentralizes, moves collectively. To me, this evokes a deeply disability justice sensibility. As my work considers these connections, it brings forth modes of knowing, doing, and being that are non-verbal and communal. I approach crip aesthetics as relational, as merging beauty and practicality (to borrow the words of Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha), as multi-sensory by design. Crip queer world-building requires languages other than English, languages that echo differently in our bodies, our communities, our relationships. These works were created to exist on a page or a screen, and also to be performed live.

STAGE DIRECTIONS FOR THE FUTURE GARDEN

/wp-content/uploads/JodyChan1.mp3

enter drone. enter dry

blue glow. a stage, emptied of
shadow. drummers

fade in, each facing a drum overhead.
our trajectories grow slow, over-
lapping. hollow the first strike of wood

against earth. hollow the din of mourning.

how, synchronized, it yields
to improvisation, like all grief.

at the midpoint, what’s gone
stretches out in both directions.

I am done with words, and my words

are done with me. a loss the rhythm
fills in. measures in counts of even
four. sound precedes meaning, then

the mind follows. then draws from
the theatre a long low hum. then

in the wings, bells. their ringing
blows like smoke, or snow, and

following, we

till the silence of our years. sheer
mystery, that memory forms out of
shared movement. or: we have before

and will again. by the time the shoulders
fall, we have sung what amounts to
a garden bed, waiting. together? enter

backbend. enter exhaustion. a few bars
linger, as if, at our most weary, we are
no longer alone. somewhere

in the soil-dark hush, a baby cries.
it reminds us of tomorrow.

CENTO WITH THE WATERS RISING

/wp-content/uploads/JodyChan2.mp3

at the end of the world, let there be you
saint of the blue peaks by the ocean where we began

a trail of hands
narrating in the context of ache, or, tomorrow
crowned with August & salt

I wake in a puddle of ghosts
I hunt the wilderness in myself

these ever-blooming wounds
the damp & swelling mud, blue hyacinths
rustle nude inside the blue water
the way old grief is gentle

to answer your question: I refuse

history is a song
new name for a myth already lived in

the thought of losing sight of shore
you know, no one can prepare for

hair falling in torrents, roses
of lips, the plummeted paper
planes, the angry weather

there is no prayer or pill for this

Ocean, don’t be afraid

alive means you swallow
each day like a stone

I, too, am built out of a question about the sky

if language can hybrida, anemone, ever be enough
to repair, begin again

where everything you’ve lost is washed ashore
I’m building the boat— I believe
I exist, a historian of my own silence

think of a needle dropped into the sea
the moon, a wound

on the lake, our footprints
to not follow

if you don’t have blood on your hands
by the end of this you weren’t listening

inside every world there is another
world trying to get out—

warm & blood-close
sun-glass breaking

like the light I am scattered
& what is left is only water

Author's note: “cento with the waters rising” is composed of lines from the works of Danez Smith, Jess Rizkallah, Ladan Osman, Eunice Andrada, Noor Hindi, Franny Choi, francine j. harris, Vanessa Angélica Villareal, Natalie Diaz, Aria Aber, Yanyi, Zaina Alsous, Billy-Ray Belcourt, Safia Elhillo, torrin a. greathouse, Esther Lee, Adeeba Shahid Talukder, Gillian Sze, Rachel McKibbens, Sandra Lim, Victoria Chang, Ocean Vuong, Donika Kelly, Aracelis Girmay, Cameron Awkward-Rich, Taylor Johnson, Kyla Jamieson, Shira Erlichman, and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha.

Jody Chan is a writer, drummer, community organizer, and care worker based in Toronto/Tkaronto. They are the author of sick (Black Lawrence Press), finalist for the Lambda Literary and Pat Lowther Memorial Awards, and winner of the 2018 St. Lawrence Book Award and 2021 Trillium Award for Poetry. Jody is also a performing and teaching member with RAW Taiko Drummers, and an editorial board member of Midnight Sun Magazine.

Edited by Bianca Ng.

Header image created by Bianca Ng.

I Know my Life Matters but How do I Translate That into Japanese?

The Seventh Wave Admin — Sun, 15 Nov 2020 23:36:28 +0000

My students & co-workers worry
if I return to America, I’ll catch COVID
or a bullet in my back. I run
along the Asano river & above me
carpenter bees raid the chinaberry tree. Crows
patrol the power lines. Mosquitoes
swarm the bank & hum
for blood. I swat but I’m tailed
by nothing but night. June 1st
across Japan, festival fireworks are shot
beneath the ripening strawberry moon. Meanwhile
fire works its way through cars in downtown Rochester
& my mother says she can’t watch the news anymore.
I wish I could be that kind to myself.
I spend hours thumbing Twitter wondering
how does God manage being
in more than two places at once?
I know I’m safe, here, but that’s not
how racism works. I’m still amazed
no one follows me
in the convenience stores. I wish
it was as simple as saying America
is the problem, black folks have it better
elsewhere. But there’s black face
on national television. Children
whispering scary as I turn
into the ice cream aisle. I know n---a
does not exist in the Japanese language. I know
at least here, I’ll never be shot
seven times. And yet, on my way home
from church, a police car slams its breaks
officers dart across the street
tripping over concrete to ask, do you live
here? Do you have any abunaimono,
naifu, doraggu? Can we see
inside your bag? Do you understand?
I understand that the longest lasting pandemic
is man-made, spreads
from culture-to-culture, has no cure
you can buy with money.
My students ask, in America, why do police
hate black people? Does everyone
protest? Does everyone
have a gun? Are you

homesick?

Michael Frazier is a poet & educator. He graduated from NYU, where he was the 2017 poet commencement speaker & a co-champion of CUPSI. He’s performed at Nuyorican Poets Café, Lincoln Center, & Gallatin Arts Festival, among other venues. His poems appear, or are forthcoming, in Cream City Review, Tokyo Poetry Journal, COUNTERCLOCK, Construction, Visible Poetry Project, and elsewhere. His writing has been supported by Callaloo and a Brooklyn Poets Fellowship. Currently, he is a staff reader for The Adroit Journal, curator for Button Poetry, and a Seventh Wave Editorial Resident. He recently won Tinderbox’s 2020 Brett Elizabeth Jenkins Poetry Prize. Based in central Japan, he’s working on a poetry collection about his mother and can talk for days about anime, poetry, and how Christ has changed his life. Follow @fraziermichael.

Edited by Bretty Rawson and Christina Shideler.

The featured artwork was created specifically for this piece by our Art Director, Meg Sykes.

ISOPROPYL (JESUS ENTERS THE MATRIX)

The Seventh Wave Admin — Tue, 28 Mar 2017 20:45:46 +0000

Joe McCarthy studied philosophy and comparative literature in New York and Paris. He currently lives in Brooklyn, where he is working on a novel and a collection of short stories. His fiction has appeared in Soon Quarterly and The Extraterrestrial Anthology. He is steadfastly against the actions of and ideologies espoused by the late Wisconsin senator of the same name.

Edited by Zeina Abi Assy.

The featured image is a screenshot from "The Social Network."

Crash Landing and Flight of the Unrequited

The Seventh Wave Admin — Tue, 13 Dec 2016 18:35:03 +0000

Katie Reigner is an artist and graffiti art instructor living in Westchester, NY. She has worked with companies like Peter Alexander of Australia to create a pajama line and Pepsi. She is the creator and instructor for a class called “Urban Illustration” that has hosted over 700 students. You can find her on instagram @Rarigrafix.

Edited by Bretty Rawson.

Featured art provided by artist.

Brooklyn — Beirut

The Seventh Wave Admin — Wed, 30 Mar 2016 23:49:00 +0000

Introduction by Editor, Zeina Abi Assy

Brooklyn – Beirut is a reflection on leaving Beirut, the city and the state of mind, which is trapped somewhere between the Mediterranean and several nations set ablaze. Mohamad Hodeib examines the city from the inside and, as he sets forth to leave to Brooklyn, contemplates it from the outside. Brooklyn becomes an archetype for all that is non-Beirut. In the process, he toggles himself between both cities and reevaluates the notion of labels from one place, and their transformative nature as a reaction to another.

In Brooklyn – Beirut, he addresses immigration, its inevitability in relation to the situation in Lebanon, and, as a result, the continued displacement of an entire generation. Through his journey back and forth between Brooklyn and Beirut, he composes a collage in which the distance between Beirut and the memory of Beirut disappears. As he remembers his city, he transforms his surroundings, and though he is in Brooklyn, he continues to exist in Beirut. He refuses to consider the act of leaving as a defeat; rather, he chooses to view it as a strategic maneuver, part of a long-term plan to change a country that has been stagnant for decades. Brooklyn – Beirut is a farewell poem that reads as an ode and a promise to Beirut that his fight will endure, come what may.

“From Beirut to Brooklyn and back, this is not a retreat but a reformation.”

Mohamad performed this piece at the launch of our second issue at Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe:

بروكلين — بيروت

صرلي ثلاث أيّام منّي نايم —
ومش قصّة، ما كثير بتفرق بقى بهاللحظة — اختفيت عن الواقع كما نعرفه
عالموجة — سارد — عم حاول إتخطّى هجمات وهميّة على الأفكار ما بتوقف ولا بتكلّ
آلف هالوضع — مألوف الشعور، لمّا تمشي بين ألوف الوجوه وكل الملامح مألوفة بس مش عارف مين مين بنص العجقة

سارد — أصابعي مثل الخشب بتّتكتك على الأحرف بس ما بتنتج كلام
منّيش من البلاغة آية ولا بالتعبير الكتابي ملاقي غاية للتعبير — وبعتذر عن دنائة تعابيري لأنّو آخر كتاب كتبتو مثل آخر كتاب قرأتو واثنيناتهن كانوا دون المستوى المطلوب — حرقتهن مع الباقي أنا وعم
شطّب وصلات شرايني — أنا وعم بقطش آخر صلة مع اصلي لمّا قرّرت امشي — بس ما كانت تنقطش هالوصلة

هاي أكبر من الفكرة وأصغر من إحتمال الوطن — هاي بيروت، مش العاصمة بل الذّاكرة — العواصم وصمة عار عالخريطة، خطوط وأنهار وزّعوا الادوار وانتجوا الدول اللّقيطة — بس بيروت مش عاصمة،
بيروت علقة الناس التابعة تحت القبضات الحاكمة وعجقة الناس الطالعة بسم الفئات الحالمة
بالمختصر، بيروت جنّة مين ما إنتصر
وبيروت ظالمة
اذ بكيت ما بترجعلك — لحظة، تعا نعيد النظر دقيقة: مين عم يبكي؟
بكينا كثير وخلصوا الدّموع، ألفنا الجوع، قرفنا الصبر، وقفنا نحكي، شفنا النتايج مش لصلاحنا قمنا مشينا، قالوا هربنا — لا يا حبيبي، روق: نحنا رحنا بس ما رحنا، مطارحنا بعدها ومنها ما زحنا — بيروت فكرة والفكرة ما
بتموت، وع فكرة، مش الفكرة انّك تكون بيروتي، الفكرة انّو رأسك يكون من راس بيروت

بس معشّ بدّي اتغزّل بهالمدينة — طلعت من نظامي، من قلبي، من احساسي، طلعت من راسي، شلتها بلحظة ما إستوعت انّها منّها ملكي، بيروت ملك عام
لأنّو يوم ما فلّيت ما بكي غير إمّي وكم صديق — طلعت المدينة مجمع ذكريات وألبوم صور
وفعلاً ما حدا رح يبكي لمّا تترك إلا انت، بقى مشّي ندعس على قلبونا الطيّبة، أصلاً ما حدا رح يلاحظ الغيبة —
كلّو مشغول عم يفتش ع شغل
كلّو سارد على نفس جوز الفخاذ
كلّو واردة يقتلك كرمال مجد خمس دقائق انّو (يابا) هو عقلو خرا

كنّا انا واياها والموج ثالثنا وأجسادنا عم تحفّ وعم نتجروح من الرملات
قلتلها “بحبّك” — سكتِت، جمدِت، برمِت رأسها وسردِت بالابراج ورانا — أصابعي مثل
الخشب ع جلدها، يمكن عم إجرحها أنا وعم جرّب بنعومة زكزكها (أو يمكن
كان البرغش، فصارت تحكّ اجرها) وانا سارد عليها، عيوني مثل البومة مركّزين عليها،
عيونها بغير بُعد مركّزين ع نقطة بالخيال — عم تهرب من اللحظة حتى ما
تقلّي إنّي عم علّق آمال عالفاضي — وانا برأسي عم اكتب قصيدة وداع

عالمطار—
سألني: “جايي دغري من لبنان؟ قبل بيروت، وين كنت؟”
— رايح جايي عالطريق، وصرلي فترة ما نمت ملو عيوني، المقعد عالطيارة مش مريح وجزء من
احلامي عالمدرج تركوني، حتّى هنّي خوّنوني، حتّي هني…

بس مش قصّة، كل شي وارد، ورغم كل شي صار
بعدو حبري صارم، خطّي جالس، ماشي من اليمين — عاليسار

سارد — بعيد عن قهوة امّي ودخاناتها الدافيدوف وعجقة عكس السير والمدارس والزعران والفانات والألوف

مرحبا يا عمّو الغول!مرحبا يا عمو سام
– وين كنتوا؟– وين كنتوا؟
– بالبستان– بلبنان
– شو أكلتوا؟– شو أكلتوا؟
– خوخ ورمّان– كفّ حرزان…

إكتب note عندك:
“يا رفيقي، فاقت الدنيا علينا ونحنا بين الصحوة والسّرود، لازمنا صرخة تفيّقنا من زوغة العيون بساعة خيال إنطلق صوب الـ بلا جدوى — ونحنا بمطارحنا عم نحكي إنّنا مرابطون ونحنا كل يوم عن يوم بيقطع صوب الرحيل سائرون”
— رسالة

بين أبراج المدينة وحنيني لأبراج المدينة فيه سفينة لقيطة بين أمواج البحر وعم تتهدّى فيني وأنا أنجق عندي قدرة هدّي حالي
والحروف بنورها سطعت على عيوني، عمتني، وكمّلت طريقها –
والبحور يلّي طافت غرّقت معانيها الدفينة، تركتني قرصان على شواطيها
عم غوص بالمعجم بحثاً عن معاني مجرّدة لزيّن فيها رمادي الكلام

من بيروت إلى بروكلين، ورجعة —
عم غوص بالمعجم ابحث عن الترياق، وعيوني زاغت عن الواقع
عم واجه كل مشكل ولا الثاني، كل علقة ولا الزلقة — ومش عم اتخطّاها لانّي شجاع، بل لأني أتقنت فنّ الإنفصال عن الواقع

هاي، تفرّج كيف إتغيّرت أحوالي — بدل الفان رقم ٤ صرت إركب القطار رقم ٤، بس بعدني
عالأربعة، وبعدني عم إزحف…

مشّي معي مشوار صوب الغرب دقيقة، ومنرجع نتشرّق —
أصلاً ما رح تفهم حقيقة وحجم الفجوة بثقافتك الا لمّا تتعرّف على مستشرق وتلاقي حالك عم
تضحكلو وسادد بوزك كرمال رفيقتو طيبة وعيونها عم تآكلك بعيونها

مشّي معي مشوار ع شوارع بروكلين، لما رصاصة بعدو حقّك، بس هون رصاصة بتفرق—

وياما، الحرارة تحت الصفر وانت إيديك عم تفرك ببطنك، مش فهمان اذا بطنك بردان أكثر او إيديك — وبطنك عم يفرك ومش عارف إذا المشكلة بالـ one dollar pizza، وصرلك أسبوعين عايش عالبيتزا، أو كرمال صرلك شهر ما عم تآكل غير هالبيتزا

مشّي معي نغرق بنقعة ميّ ثلج دايب وما نفهم، مشّي معي

ومشّي نتشرّق — مشي معي مشوار بالذاكرة لحوار مع الأزرق — إعتراف بغمق المأزق — بركي
منفهم شي أو إثنين، لأنّو شايفلك هالأيام مثل البزقة بوجّ المنطق، العالم لقدّام ونحنا عم نغمّق
بالجورة، والوضع بيزداد خطورة

بدّك تعرف شو صار؟

كانت الجيوش عم تزحف عالعواصم والعواصم عم تزحف صوب الزوايا بحثاً عن حماية من
العواصف، أولمبيّات الرماية وغيرة المتاحف —وثوّار الرّبيع عم يزحفوا صوب بيوتهن صوب الساعة 4
الصبح محلولين ومجرّدين إلّا من الرومنطقية، وع مدى صوتهن عم يهتفوا “يا اهالي الشام، عنّا بالمكحول سقط النظام”
والزحف متواصل — بحثا عن بر الأمان، هرباً من القنابل، كَرّ وفَرّ وبرمة عالدّاير، بحثاً عن إحتمال، عن وفكرة، عن وطن، عن إجابة للمسائل، أو بحثاً عن السّوائل

طوابير — كنت الصّبح واقف بطابور الإعاشة والعصر واقف بطابور الكحول، عم إصرف معاشي وأنجق حاسس بمفعول —

كنت عم إشرب عرق بالحمرا مع الرفاق وعم نسكر ونسبح ببحر ثورات ونرفرف أعلام وندبك ونحيّي
فلسطين ونحلم بالزحف وآخرتها نصفّي حساباتنا الشخصيّة ونطبش بشي زاوية، نزحف
ع شي فرشة، وبس نوعى نركض عالشغل
هونيك ما كنّا نشرب لننسى — كنّا نشرب لنتذكّر، بس كلّ ما نتذكّر الأسباب والخيانة منرجع نغرق
بالإنهزام وإحساس متجدّد بالشلل — صرنا نشرب لنحارب الملل

كنت بنفس المطرح، سارد وعم إسبح بين كأس العرق والمحيط الهادي حولي — وحدة شعوب المنطقة
إتجلّت كإعصار ببار بالحمرا، وخلصِت ع زعل لمّا إبراهيم سرق من إدوار صاحبته القبرصيّة، وبلّشت
الكراسي تتطاير

عم إتأمل أناملي — قدرها تربى على مفاتيح العاج عالبيانو، وهلّق أنجق قادرة تهدّي قلم — أصابع خشنة وجلد ميّت حول الضّفير من رمي الحجار على الدرك بالذكرى السنوية لمّا المجلس سكّر أبوابو وإفتتح جلسة تثبيت حكم الظلام — وقتها ما كان فيه كهربا، كان في جبران، وكان فيه “أبو صلحة” يلي بيشرب شاي مع الاخوان — وكان فيه هيداك تبع الشاي مع “الجيران” وتبع أهل الضيافة الكرام وتبع حرق المخيمات وتبع حرق الكنايس وتبع حرق الجبل وإقطاع اليسار وتبع حرب التصفيات وتبع حرب الإلغاء وطبعاً كان فيه ممثّل عن مندوب عن وكيل خدّام محتلّ البيت الحرام

كهربتنا إنقطعت وغرقنا بعتمتنا فجأة، لقينا العار محاصر قلعتنا، مسكنا لغتنا، لهجتنا، وفيها فتنا بحرب الحضارة، إفتعلنا معمعة مع كم حاجز تصدّي للتجدّد وأفندي بدّو تمرّد داخل حدود الأدب محصور — بدّو تحدّي مع مودّة، وقال “تردّي الحال يؤكّد الجاحة للوحدة” — والوحدة إنّك تزيح من درب دبابّة قمع، أو تمشي معها — عزيزي، يلي إتّبع نهج التحرّر ما بيوقف على أبواب الطواغيت — بيخلعها

كسر العَلم، انتج عِلم، ركّز قلم ع أشلاء مدرّعة — ملامع القاتل واضحة كالشمس وتعابير وجوهنا
خلف الأسماء المستعارة مقنّعة (؟)

العتاد ع ظهري إنضبّ والحرف إنرصّ — يوم الذهاب، عتابا الحب، كلام أ ونَصّ، ما فيه فرق، لما الأمن انخرق تقنيّات الشوارع (كانت) زخّات رصاص عالورق — وبرضه، ما في إجابة للسرساب والأرق

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من بيروت إلى بروكلين ورجعة — مش إنسحاب بل إعادة تشكيل
والسؤال، ليش هيك كانت حزينة لمّا رجعت شفتها؟ مش فاهم وأنا سارد عم إقرأ بعيونها الأسباب وهي ساكتة، وبعدها الحالة فالتة

كلهن عندهن رشاشات، وجدّي عندو ميركافا
سرقها بحرب تمّوز، وبدو يسوقها ع يافا
بس شكلو ضيّع بالعنوان، وعم يسوقها بالمقلوب
شفتو رايح صوب الشام، مع إنّو الطريق جنوب

آخ يمّي — لو بدّهن او ما بدهن، أنا منّك وإنتي منّي…

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من بيروت إلى بروكلين إلى بيروت، ورجعة —
سبعين ألف سنة بتمرق، ما بيتغيّر شي
سبعين ألف جنّة تنفتح، إذا بابل بلدنا رح نحكي سبعين ألف لغة
سبعين ألف دكتاتور يوصل وينهار، ما بتفرق —
قل يا من آمنت بقوّة الأفكار
قل يا من آمنت بالنّصر — قل ربّي ذا نصري، بيومٍ دمّرتُ به قصري،
واجهت ذا القصريّ بسيف من حروف النار
قل يا من ركعت من فجر الى عصرِ،
قل نحن تحت القصف — لا ناصر ولا مناصر —
نصرنا في الموت احياء
ذنبنا في الجوع غرقى
حلمنا بالنفس إنتصارات على المتبقّي من ضعف، على المتردّد، على المستاء

نعتذر يا أمّاه — لم نمت، لسّه، لم يأتنا يقين آخر

(بيروت، حزيران 2015)
(عدّلت. نيو يورك، آذار 2016)

Bolded sections of the poem above are translated here by Zeina Abi Assy, with special thanks to Khaled Al Hilli and Hanna Abi Assy.

Entranced — my fingers like wood tapping at the letters without producing meaning
I’m neither the epitome of eloquence, nor have I in writing found a reason to express— excuse my foul language because the last book I read, like the last book I wrote, both were subpar — I burned them with the rest as I was cutting my veins —as I was cutting the last ties with my roots when I decided to leave — but this tie wouldn’t detach

This is greater than an idea and less than a possibility of a nation — this is Beirut, not the capital but the memory — capitals are marks of shame on the map, lines and rivers assigned the roles to create corrupt nations — but Beirut is not a capital, Beirut is a state of mind

Beirut is a trap for those who are followers under the grip of power, and for those who are rising in the name of the few dreamers
In brief, Beirut is the victor’s heaven
And Beirut is cruel
If you cry, she won’t come back to you — but who’s crying anyway?
We cried until there were no more tears, we grew accustomed to hunger, disgusted with patience, we stood up to speak, and found the odds stacked against us, we got up and left, and they said we ran away — no ya habibi, hold up: we left without leaving, our places remain and from them we have not moved— Beirut is an idea, and ideas never die, and by the way, the idea is not to be Beiruti, it’s about your mind being in mind with Beirut.

“My comrade, the world woke up on us while we are between wakefulness and dreaming, we need a loud enough scream to shake us from the blurriness of our vision at a time when our imagination took flight toward futility— and we are standing still claiming to be holding ground, while day after day towards departure we march” — Letter

Do you want to know what happened?
The armies were marching on capitals, the capitals cowering in the corners seeking protection from raging storms, sharpshooter-Olympics, and the chivalry of ravenous museums — the spring revolutionaries were marching towards their houses at 4 AM, drained, stripped of everything but romanticism, and chanting as loudly as they could: “People of Sham! People of Sham! Here in Makhoul Street, the regime has fallen!”

And the marching continues — searching for safety, fleeing from bombs, Attack! Retreat! Repeat! , searching for a possibility, an idea, a nation, for justifications to the problems, or just searching for spirits

Queues — In the morning I was standing in line for food, and in the afternoon, in line for alcohol, spending all my salary and barely noticing the effect

I was having Arak in Hamra with the comrades, intoxicated, we were swimming in the sea of revolutions, waving flags, and dancing the dabkeh, saluting Palestine, dreaming of the march, and in the end just settling our bills, crashing into a corner, and crawling toward some bed. And when we wake up, we run to work.
There we didn’t drink to forget — we drank to remember, but whenever we remembered the reasons and the treachery we sank back into defeat, and a newfound sensation of paralysis — we began to drink to fight off boredom

From Beirut to Brooklyn to Beirut, and back
70 thousand years pass, nothing changes
70 thousand heavens open up, if Babel is our country, we will speak 70 thousand languages
70 thousand dictators, rise and fall, it doesn’t make a difference
Say: you who believe in the power of ideas
Say: you who believe in victory — say: my God, here is my victory, the day I destroyed my fort,
I faced the inevitable with swords of burning letters
Say: you who have knelt in prayer, through daybreaks and sundowns
Say: we are under shelling — no victor and no supporter —
Our victory is life in death
Our sin: immersed in Hunger
Our dream: internal triumph over what remains of weakness, over the hesitant, over the downhearted

Mother, we apologize — we are not dead, not yet, no other certainty has come to us

Mohamad J Hodeib (el-Walad) is the last surviving Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. He is a writer, researcher, and cultural activist, born and raised in Beirut. His work encompasses sociopolitical narratives and multidisciplinary art experimentation. He came out to the world as frontman, lyricist, and rhythm guitarist of Lebanese Rock band Wled el-Balad, but he soon put the guitar down, came to terms with his epic failure as a singer, and took to MC-ing, slamming, and occasionally emitting incomprehensible expressions of noise. Affiliated with several art circles in Beirut & abroad, he founded el-Yafta literary community in Beirut (2011) through which he hosted & organized numerous poetry/performance sessions, events, and workshops. He was a featured speaker in forums like TEDxLAU, TEDxAUB, & AltCity in Beirut and featured twice as The Poet In New York at Bowery Poetry Club, New York. Hodeib staged two shows, Mahrajan al-Shob (Heat Parade, 2012) & B’intithar al-Harb al-Qadima (Waiting for the Next War, 2013), and published Al-Shaware’ (the streets) a collection of Arabic colloquial poems in 2013. He is currently based in New York, where he is completing an MA in Middle East Studies at the Graduate Center (CUNY). He continues to perform and organize art-projects and events, including Dialect-ics @ Bowery Poetry Club. He does not claim to be a revolutionary, but never misses a good chance for some rabble rousing.

Edited by Zeina Abi Assy.

The featured image is an illustration by Rawane Khalil.