Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Samia Salibagolden shovel after karl marx, walter benjamin, richard siken, & zaina alsous
“the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living”
- karl marx
in american cemeteries the dead overlap, the
hillside ostentatious in the catholic tradition.
By Jaz SufiBORDER, from the Middle English bordure, meaning “the decorative band
surrounding a shield,” a heraldic device intended to identify
possession — this flag flies over that land, & so this land belongs
to…
By Dujie TahatPops bought a ‘78 Pontiac,
a firebird-stamped gold bar
on wheels, spontaneously,
after a conversation with
an aunt’s friend—so it went.
By Hazem FahmyWhen I say “a Free Palestine in our lifetime” I mean it
is your moral duty to believe the last shekel has already been printed,
its destiny a glass frame in a museum next to a dollar,
By Mandy ShunnarahWe might have told them, if they’d asked,
the poppies wouldn’t make it to their melancholy
island, no matter how swift their sails snapped
across the sea. Then again, we love our land more
than they love theirs; we long to return, not flee.
That’s why you don’t see us boarding clippers
to claim to ground not ours. With our bountiful
fertile crescent, who needs more plenty?
By Kat AbdallahMy teachers ask me
after seven months of genocide
if I’m holding up alright.
By Issam ZinehThe grammarians are up
in arms, and the war over
the semicolon has been reignited.
Today, the legislator notes his preference
for certain kinds of killers. Those,
one might say, with a European sensibility.
By Edward SalemI’d planned a sculpture called
Getting Home, built from
my land in Palestine—
soil, shrubbery, stones,
an entire olive tree
chopped and dissected
into shippable parts
and air mailed in boxes
to my home in Detroit.
By A.D. Lauren-AbunassarMy godson wanted to go look at fish but I told him, today, beauty is canceled. We cried. I felt bad. I counted the unbeautiful like broken ribs. Shrapnel in the olive tree. Child-sized tourniquet. Saint Porphyrius’ watching and weeping. My father phones to tell me they’re down to vinegar; they pour into open wounds.
By Aiya SakrOn the day of the first flour massacre,
nothing I have ever said has been untrue.
Fourteen thousand and three hundred white
PVC flags flutter in the early spring morning.
By the time I cross the lawn, the IDF have killed
another child, and another flag springs up
Like a poppy.
This simile is too easy.