9780143136897: O (Penguin Poets)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0143136895 ISBN 13: 9780143136897
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

NAMED A BEST BOOK OF 2022 BY LIT HUB AND THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY 

“O is so full of music and passion for life . . . Zeina Hashem Beck’s poems unfold the abundance of our world.” —Ilya Kaminsky, author of Deaf Republic
 
From a “brilliant, absolutely essential voice” whose “poems feel like whole worlds” (Naomi Shihab Nye), a poetry collection considering the body physical, the body politic, and the body sacred

Zeina Hashem Beck writes at the intersection of the divine and the profane, where she crafts elegant, candid poems that simultaneously exude a boundless curiosity and a deep knowingness. Formally electrifying—from lyrics and triptychs to ghazals and Zeina's own duets, in which English and Arabic echo and contradict each other—O explores the limits of language, notions of home and exile, and stirring visions of motherhood, memory, and faith.

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Zeina Hashem Beck is a Lebanese poet and the author of two previous full-length collections of poetry: Louder than Hearts (Bauhan Publishing, 2017) and To Live in Autumn (The Backwaters Press, 2014), as well as two chapbooks: 3arabi Song (Rattle, 2016) and There Was and How Much There Was (smith|doorstop, 2016). Educated in Arabic, English, and French, Zeina has a BA and an MA in English Literature from the American University of Beirut. Her poem “Maqam” won Poetry’s 2017 Frederick Bock Prize, and her work appeared in The New York Times, Ploughshares, Poetry, and elsewhere. Zeina is the co-creator and co-host, with poet Farah Chamma, of Maqsouda, a podcast about Arabic poetry produced by Sowt. After a lifetime in Lebanon and a decade in Dubai, Zeina recently moved to California with her husband and two daughters.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

There, There, Grieving

Where are you from?

               There.

Where are you headed?

               There.

What are you doing?

               Grieving.

-Rabia al-Adawiyya

Little brother, we are all grieving

& galaxy & goodbye. Once, I climbed inside

the old clock tower of my hometown

& found a dead bird, bathed in broken light,

like a little christ.

Little christ of our hearts, I know

planets light years away

lie under our tongues. We've tasted them.

We've climbed staircases saying, There, there.

Little brother, we are all praying. Every morning,

I read out loud but not loud enough

to alarm anyone. Once, my love said, Please

open the door. I can hear you talk. Open the door.

Little christ of our hearts, tell anyone

you've been talking to god & see

what happens. Every day,

I open the door. I do it by looking

at my daughter on a swing-

eyes closed & crinkled, teeth bared.

I say, Good morning good morning you

little beating thing.

Little brother, we are all humming.

More & more, as I read, I sound

like my father with his book of prayers,

turning pages in his bed-a hymn

for each day of the week, a gift

from his mother, who taught me

the ten of diamonds is a win, left me

her loose prayer clothes. Bismillah.

Little christ of our hearts, forgive me,

for I loved eating the birds with lemon,

& the sound of their tiny bones. But I couldn't

stomach the eyes of the fried fish.

Little brother, we are always hungry.

Here, this watermelon. Here, some salt

for the tomatoes. Here, this song

for the dead birds in time boxes,

& the living. That day in the clock tower,

I saw the city too, below-

               the merchants who call, the blue awnings,

               the corn carts, the clotheslines, the heat,

               the gears that turn, & the remembering.

ode to the afternoon

my friend tells me she's been running

in the cemetery in the afternoon

she calls it just-a-garden-really

first i am afraid & then i am afraid

everything is cemetery & garden

my late uncle's flower shop

my daughter learning to fold a paper into a boat

sea salt marriage dawn old french music

this vertical line digging deeper

into my forehead each morning

that bicycle in the city tied to a street post

with flowers & a note to the girl who rode it

when i was a little girl i wanted to bury the afternoon

when longing was long & my parents slept & slept

i stood in the corridor & repeated i i i i i until i

flickered in & out of myself some days i even

threatened to fling my body from the balcony until

my brother with such calm looked at me

dangling from the railing my head thrown backward

& explained you don't own your soul

it belongs to God only He can decide

i stood in the corridor i stood on the balcony

i stood in the desolate afternoon & repeated

because what is repetition

if not a question the way mom every day

with her hair dryer with her grocery list

with her buying this shawl & that

is asking what have i done what have i done

the book says we will see clearly

when the drunkenness of death descends

my uncle saw a man & a woman

standing by his hospital window

& asked his wife who they were

my father with his prayer beads

with his cigarette gestured to the driver

taking my uncle to his grave

to circle back & pass

by his flower shop my father

with his few words said

one last time so he

by he my father meant both

his brother & himself

my uncle taught me to sing que sera sera

he said say it what will be will be

i still dread the afternoon & still ask

will i be pretty will i be missed

& i still haven't been

to his grave but have driven

past his flower shop again & again & again

the way on the night he died i drove beneath bridges

& saw him on each one & waved

Ghazal: Hands

Do you pine for photograph-worthy limbs, slender hands?

I asked about the soul & mom said God has tender hands.

I worried I'd need a ladder to climb up to heaven.

Or a strong grip. Or an ancestor to send her hands.

I've watched them shatter window glass. I've watched

them knead flour, water, grief. Render, hands.

Their earthly veneer tells time & the weather. Show us

how love. How green. How remorse. O calendar hands.

What medicine for longing? Salt water lifting

the breathing body. Sun, skin. Scent of lavender. Hands.

The child lets go, charges out to the sea alone. Come

dark, she drifts to her mother's touch, bends her hands.

The mother recites into the child's palm: O bird how

to eat you? Tickle. O apple tree leaves. Remember hands.

If you wave goodbye. If you wave come back. If you twirl

enough, will you learn to welcome surrender, hands?

Pilgrim

I see you collect the scatter of houses

that abandoned you. Friend, I see

you lick the backs of photographs

like stamps & still they fall from

your shoulders. In this one you are young-

before countries & children. Sit down.

Like you, I collect what worries me. Fatherlands

are ominous & comforting like the eyes

of those who love us, & my city is a leash

that suffocates me the farther I stray

from the Mediterranean between the buildings.

The swing sings its rust in the wind.

Neither water nor stone will do. I've given up

cigarettes & libations, I separate the jars

on the bookshelves-these are for the ash

& these for the pickled cheap icons.

No matter how much vinegar I pour,

the Marys never close their eyes. No matter

how many times dawn is slaughtered,

I cry when the minarets crow.

daily                     

my little country is not enough



here the rain

is the peasant's god

& the driver's curse







no remedy but

antidepressants & prayer





here even the atheist prays

for prayer is a sport

like smoking in the morning

& prayer is an art

like singing in mourning



& language without

god lacks longing

& everyone knows the only answer

to all difficult questions is

to give thanks



my little country is not enough



i abandon it every day & i return

then abandon it again

carrying, always, bags of pine nuts









& a tin of olive oil in its wooden coffin

so the airport security would let me through

(put anything in a coffin & they'll let you...

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2022
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0143136895
ISBN 13 
9780143136897
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
112
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Terminal Video
n.pederzini@terminaldistribuzione.com

Via Bruno Buozzi, 24/26,
Granarolo dell'Emilia BO,
Italien