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More Posts from Stargazer-forever and Others

1 year ago
Palestinian

Ibrahim Nasrallah
(trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

I was silent and nothing came of it.
I spoke and nothing came of it.
I cursed, I apologized, and nothing came of it.
I was busy, I pretended to be busy…and nothing.
I sat, I walked, I ran.
I shivered and I warmed up. Nothing.
I was parched until I cracked. I drank until I drowned, and nothing came of it.
I crumbled like a fetus, like the father, the siblings, and the mother.
I was then gathered in a shroud made of old curtains,
and nothing came of it.
I stumbled more than I could stand but then I stood up,
and nothing came of it.
I prayed until, like a prophet, I became a verse in a holy book,
I rowed until I reached hell,
I beseeched and begged …and nothing.
I raged, I calmed, I remembered what was once distant,
and I forgot what was always close.
I befriended a monster, and I fought a monster.
I died young and sometimes survived.
In both times, I grew old from all that I had seen,
but nothing came of it.
I charged, I withdrew,
I fought the wind when it blew,
And reconciled with the waves when I rose and raged.
Among the horses my heart was a horse,
in the night my heart was a night,
and nothing came of it.
I ate, I hungered, I vomited, and nothing came of it.
I embraced my shadow, and I chastised it and then I chastised myself.
I greeted a woman lost in the streets.
I fought with a man and his smile nearby,
and with a bird that sang briefly in the garden,
and nothing came of it.
I closed all the windows in my house and opened them.
I wrote words on death when it is merciful,
death when it is futile,
death when it is hell,
death when it is the only way…at last,
death when it is gentle and light,
death when it is heavy and dark,
and nothing came of it.
I wrote about the river and the sea, about tomorrow and the sun,
and nothing came of it.
I wrote about oppression and depravity – purity too.
I slept without a bite of bread.
I dreamt without dreams.
I woke up not missing my hands or feet or reflection in the mirror
or the thing I call my soul.
I died and lived. I lit myself on fire. I put myself out with my own ashes,
and nothing came of it.

I am all these elements, O God: fire, earth, wind, and water.
Their fifth is a pain that blind songs can’t see, their sixth is this immense
loneliness, and their seventh, since my slaughter, is blood.
When I burned, I inhabited the letters of my free name like a butterfly:
P         A         L         E          S        T        I         N         E
When my roof was suddenly blown off into the sky and with it a wall, a window,
and the youngest of my children,
I gathered myself in the G and the A and the Z and the A.
I became GAZA.
A thousand warplanes circled and hit me. I collapsed and collapsed again,
and then rose in a scream. I called out, but nothing came of it.
Nothing came of it.
Nothing came of it.
I lost faith and believed, lost faith and believed again,
and lost faith and believed and…
nothing came of it,
nothing came of it.

And the filthy world asks me:
All this…what of it?

Ibrahim Nasrallah, “Palestinian,” trans. Huda Fakhreddine

2 years ago

"Doomed by the narrative" is sexy and all but i think the narrative wanting to save a character who is utterly set on dooming themselves isnt as much of a thing and it's so good as a concept

2 months ago

i like to pretend i already died and asked god to send me back to earth so i can swim in lakes again and see mountains and get my heart broken and love my friends and cry so hard in the bathroom and go grocery shopping 1,000 more times. and that i promised i would never forget the miracle of being here

6 months ago
Chema Mendez Aka Mendez Mendez (Dominican, B. Dominican Republic, Based Bavaro, Punta Cana, Dominican

Chema Mendez aka Mendez Mendez (Dominican, b. Dominican Republic, based Bavaro, Punta Cana, Dominican Republic) - Growing, Digital Art

1 year ago

who are you when you are not watching tv or movies? when you aren't playing video games or reading a book or fanfiction or listening to music or whatever other kind of media that you engage with? who are you when your mind isn't in another world or story, when you are forced to sit with yourself and the only experience you have is your own sensorial life? can you define yourself outside of what you consume? who is that person? do you like them? can you bear it? can you bear it?

1 year ago
Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, From You Can Be The Last Leaf: Selected Poems, Trans. Fady Joudah.
Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, From You Can Be The Last Leaf: Selected Poems, Trans. Fady Joudah.

Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, from You Can Be the Last Leaf: Selected Poems, trans. Fady Joudah.

1 year ago
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter
Tweeted Excerpts From A Field Guide To Getting Lost, Via Rebecca Solnit's Twitter

tweeted excerpts from A Field Guide to Getting Lost, via Rebecca Solnit's twitter

1 year ago

a poem I wrote for Gaza :

How do you speak of a sacred earth beneath your feet,

Then sow seeds of sorrow where prayers meet?

Tell me, how does holiness reign in the land,

When mosques and churches crumble by your hand?

Where is the sanctity in smoldering skies,

In ancient trees set ablaze before our very eyes?

These silent sentinels, older than your lineage, burn—

How can you claim this holy ground, yet spurn

Its very essence with fire and fury unleashed,

Turning sanctuaries into battlegrounds, peace deceased?

How can you belong to a land you scar,

And still stand before it, claiming to bear its star?

ن -

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