I’m all for a Jewish state
stretching from Zimbabwe to the Islets of Capricorn.
Its rulers are from a divine line
proved to be above all races by the writing
on autumn leaves.
Their blood is pure white
as Damascene silk gently flowing
over a piece of lace.
They have feelings
that gouge out the eye of the heart
so deep the humanity in them,
but not in me.
What’s inside me is mine — I know perfectly well
my reproductive cells are useless
I arrived here by mistake
and bear the adultery of my people on my shoulders
and on the backs of the Bedouin of the south I arrived
from the fringes of the Philistines.
I am a non-entity
from the pedigree of nothing enriched with wheat-hued blood.
What’s inside me is mine
I know perfectly well;
I’m a guest on a reality collapsing on itself
from it knows not where, but I know
that I am worthy of coastal cities like Acre.
I make them whatever fast-food I can
at the entrance to the old souk
in the hope that they’ll eat my delicacies
and my exclusion which
to the beat of a song massacres arranged
in a key of bitter sadness
and the south.
I am the guest who will leave
on tiptoe sometime soon
in the hope of not awakening the future inhabitants
when I relieve them of the burden of the long trek
from Russia to Beersheba.
I am the Arab, at once righteous and stupid
as skilful as could be
at cooking no more
and no less than not slipping poison into the meal
of the man who employed me, grudgingly.
I am who I am
honest, modest, meek, happy, taciturn, reticent.
Content to walk in his own footsteps
no one else’s.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where I can praise the Prophet Muhammad
I can pray as I please, just not too loud.
I muffle the sura of the Night Journey in my five daily prayers
I pray and petition for their good with all my broken heart
whenever the silence roars
to the east of a river whose waters have died.
I am here ...
abandoned like the old buildings
on the outskirts of Haifa by the sea.
I only benefit doves seeking their nests
in my silence, like a spider
or a foreigner.
I have a half job in Nazareth
and my sister gets a quarter
so she can assuage her fear for herself
and make chains of gold for their wrists
like those she makes for my jailer, but
those are iron. She might gladden the heart that lacks a heart.
I roam the country, their country of course.
I sweep up the Arabic language from the avenues of history
and do not sully the shoes of civilisation that have entered the capital.
Fool that I am I even laugh heartily at myself
and my tanned skin that’s turning white
so I won’t embarrass my family after me and won’t fear
or frighten anyone who sees me.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where we have the remains of dust
fit for sowing confidence in our Upper Galilee,
and grapes.
If by chance I should live, no matter to me
I’ll leave at my own expense
and not burden their pockets with my travel costs
I might make do with a new convoy
to take me to my modern camp, rather than the donkey
that we exhausted on the highways of the Nakba.
I promise in the name of the sheep like me
not to complain about our loss
so they not be sad.
Remaining ...
here or there, is no different
though I fear for their losing
our strong brown arms
that build them sky-scrapers
that resemble stakes to impale
those who fall from infinity.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where the floor-tiler is from Wadi Ara
and the decorator is dark-skinned.
The hummus maker is a son of Yaffo
who’s learned the story of the Ascent by heart
not to ward off the evil of this world
but to learn how to ascend to a Heaven
that needs a clever chef like me
at least until mother dies.
To those intended by this poem,
please do not fear my death
for when I die, I end
and if I live, you need not worry.
I will castrate myself to procreate
in the vacuum of this age.
Your wish is my command.
The hummus is delicious!
Tasty as the lesson of history which has a benevolent ruler
who rules us, not in order to rule us,
but for us to melt over a low flame
like the one in Gaza that made toast of a thousand Hashims
who passed out from so much gas in the body.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where Silwan is a very generous whore
open to the settlers encroaching from Hebron
as if an unparalleled good omen, and who never
says, I am replete.
What’s theirs is theirs
and what’s ours is theirs too.
So we don’t forget:
I won’t forget Sakhnin
that from the west is lit up by the army post
while to the north is nothing
except a beautiful rubbish dump.
So that we don’t forget that we forget everything
I say to Arraba Batuf
stop being a miser
fling open your doors to those flocking from your west
be a good neighbour, Sakhnin is your sister.
I’m all for not being all for anything anymore.
Sleep my spoiled Shabbat wherever you wish
even stick you long finger
up Sunday’s backside.
So up with the country.
*
For the wild thyme growing despite the rock face — shukran.
For Mount Carmel stretching on my breath to Marj Ibn Amir — shukran.
For the best flatbread with the wisdom of wheat baptised in the Galilee — shukran.
For my grandfather’s brow where age has inscribed lines about a tomorrow with no night before — shukran.
For the roof above a just-crawling child... and for what slips through the breaks in my weakness, I am content to be an ever-vivid dreamer — so shukran.
For those beyond the heights of truth, even for those who belong... for those who end at the beginning of joys or those who defend our loss of sixty years in echoes... for my feelings and emotions in manifold sadness — shukran.
For the sunset, content I am with its rise to come, the meaning only changes with higher intention and over and above my fall I am stronger that my sadness and finer than my visions — shukran.
For the student as fragrant as wild mint when planted at a university on the outskirts of the city who loves to take a nap between the science class and the strike so that the flag of defiance billows in his hand until it replaces the banner of intimidation — shukran.
For a drawing on a concrete wall put up by the besieger himself that I might die in my prison and my existence, morally, might surprise him on both sides — shukran.
For my father and mother, trying to save me from the clutches of the occupier when I rise up. This body has no meaning without its revelation in wounds, I say in apology after my refusal, then I leave a sentence to my soul which says to me: shukran.
stretching from Zimbabwe to the Islets of Capricorn.
Its rulers are from a divine line
proved to be above all races by the writing
on autumn leaves.
Their blood is pure white
as Damascene silk gently flowing
over a piece of lace.
They have feelings
that gouge out the eye of the heart
so deep the humanity in them,
but not in me.
What’s inside me is mine — I know perfectly well
my reproductive cells are useless
I arrived here by mistake
and bear the adultery of my people on my shoulders
and on the backs of the Bedouin of the south I arrived
from the fringes of the Philistines.
I am a non-entity
from the pedigree of nothing enriched with wheat-hued blood.
What’s inside me is mine
I know perfectly well;
I’m a guest on a reality collapsing on itself
from it knows not where, but I know
that I am worthy of coastal cities like Acre.
I make them whatever fast-food I can
at the entrance to the old souk
in the hope that they’ll eat my delicacies
and my exclusion which
to the beat of a song massacres arranged
in a key of bitter sadness
and the south.
I am the guest who will leave
on tiptoe sometime soon
in the hope of not awakening the future inhabitants
when I relieve them of the burden of the long trek
from Russia to Beersheba.
I am the Arab, at once righteous and stupid
as skilful as could be
at cooking no more
and no less than not slipping poison into the meal
of the man who employed me, grudgingly.
I am who I am
honest, modest, meek, happy, taciturn, reticent.
Content to walk in his own footsteps
no one else’s.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where I can praise the Prophet Muhammad
I can pray as I please, just not too loud.
I muffle the sura of the Night Journey in my five daily prayers
I pray and petition for their good with all my broken heart
whenever the silence roars
to the east of a river whose waters have died.
I am here ...
abandoned like the old buildings
on the outskirts of Haifa by the sea.
I only benefit doves seeking their nests
in my silence, like a spider
or a foreigner.
I have a half job in Nazareth
and my sister gets a quarter
so she can assuage her fear for herself
and make chains of gold for their wrists
like those she makes for my jailer, but
those are iron. She might gladden the heart that lacks a heart.
I roam the country, their country of course.
I sweep up the Arabic language from the avenues of history
and do not sully the shoes of civilisation that have entered the capital.
Fool that I am I even laugh heartily at myself
and my tanned skin that’s turning white
so I won’t embarrass my family after me and won’t fear
or frighten anyone who sees me.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where we have the remains of dust
fit for sowing confidence in our Upper Galilee,
and grapes.
If by chance I should live, no matter to me
I’ll leave at my own expense
and not burden their pockets with my travel costs
I might make do with a new convoy
to take me to my modern camp, rather than the donkey
that we exhausted on the highways of the Nakba.
I promise in the name of the sheep like me
not to complain about our loss
so they not be sad.
Remaining ...
here or there, is no different
though I fear for their losing
our strong brown arms
that build them sky-scrapers
that resemble stakes to impale
those who fall from infinity.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where the floor-tiler is from Wadi Ara
and the decorator is dark-skinned.
The hummus maker is a son of Yaffo
who’s learned the story of the Ascent by heart
not to ward off the evil of this world
but to learn how to ascend to a Heaven
that needs a clever chef like me
at least until mother dies.
To those intended by this poem,
please do not fear my death
for when I die, I end
and if I live, you need not worry.
I will castrate myself to procreate
in the vacuum of this age.
Your wish is my command.
The hummus is delicious!
Tasty as the lesson of history which has a benevolent ruler
who rules us, not in order to rule us,
but for us to melt over a low flame
like the one in Gaza that made toast of a thousand Hashims
who passed out from so much gas in the body.
Long live the country.
*
I’m all for a Jewish state
where Silwan is a very generous whore
open to the settlers encroaching from Hebron
as if an unparalleled good omen, and who never
says, I am replete.
What’s theirs is theirs
and what’s ours is theirs too.
So we don’t forget:
I won’t forget Sakhnin
that from the west is lit up by the army post
while to the north is nothing
except a beautiful rubbish dump.
So that we don’t forget that we forget everything
I say to Arraba Batuf
stop being a miser
fling open your doors to those flocking from your west
be a good neighbour, Sakhnin is your sister.
I’m all for not being all for anything anymore.
Sleep my spoiled Shabbat wherever you wish
even stick you long finger
up Sunday’s backside.
So up with the country.
*
For the wild thyme growing despite the rock face — shukran.
For Mount Carmel stretching on my breath to Marj Ibn Amir — shukran.
For the best flatbread with the wisdom of wheat baptised in the Galilee — shukran.
For my grandfather’s brow where age has inscribed lines about a tomorrow with no night before — shukran.
For the roof above a just-crawling child... and for what slips through the breaks in my weakness, I am content to be an ever-vivid dreamer — so shukran.
For those beyond the heights of truth, even for those who belong... for those who end at the beginning of joys or those who defend our loss of sixty years in echoes... for my feelings and emotions in manifold sadness — shukran.
For the sunset, content I am with its rise to come, the meaning only changes with higher intention and over and above my fall I am stronger that my sadness and finer than my visions — shukran.
For the student as fragrant as wild mint when planted at a university on the outskirts of the city who loves to take a nap between the science class and the strike so that the flag of defiance billows in his hand until it replaces the banner of intimidation — shukran.
For a drawing on a concrete wall put up by the besieger himself that I might die in my prison and my existence, morally, might surprise him on both sides — shukran.
For my father and mother, trying to save me from the clutches of the occupier when I rise up. This body has no meaning without its revelation in wounds, I say in apology after my refusal, then I leave a sentence to my soul which says to me: shukran.