The Poem Said Its Piece
Nasser Rabah
Translated from the Arabic by Ammiel Alcalay, Emna Zghal, and Khaled al-Hilli
Prophet of the Lost Way
I am the prophet who lost his prophecy. I put my book
on the sidewalk and sat on it. Everyday I dry the River of
Misdirection along the streets of town, and when I get back
home, I hang it on the Wall of Certainty and dream of a dead
country that smells of an old suitcase, of women made of
stone who hurl their breasts at me like shoes, and of black
flowers that come out of my flute to light up my nightmares
with sleeplessness. Die a little, O Speech, so I can sleep and
dream of the mute, walking like trees and chanting like wind.
Die a little, O Speech, so I can trade my tattered poems for
vacant stares and light clouds to cast them like a feather
into my heart. Die a little, and give me my first kiss: a star
to lean on and herd my pain with. I want the prophet
that I was. I want the prophet I betrayed.
Gaza . . . Gaza
The gifts I didn’t send you on war’s birthday, the poem’s
wave to me as I close the book, like it was dying of gangrene,
the bridges between my mouth and what I would say about
anything shut down, the barracks next to the tall fence of
my life, the time spent with old neighbors before they
were scattered by the shell of absence, my dreams
walking along with their old cane to a sea that
couldn’t care less, last pill in the cabinet
of hope, the beads in my rosary are
endless, and I’m delirious: Gaza . . . Gaza.
Like flags of a country that defeated itself,
from the heart to the heart they came back staring
into the void, looking for old addresses in the salty mail.
As for the songs embroidered on the dress of sand,
the heart flows like a river of purified regret,
whirling like a sunflower, like a name
dead to the lover, inventing doves.
Back to the heart, they came back, stripped of their longing,
nervous about how to open the suitcase of absence
and let the snakes pour out, I am delirious: Gaza . . . Gaza.
Angels of Old
Little girls go to bed early so their hair flows over the pillows,
wetting the feet of barefoot angels filling urns all night with
songs for the day-worn to drink. Little girls don’t sweep
the doorstep after sunset where the chuckles of the barefoot
fall one by one slowly turning their house into a tiny
momentary paradise. Little girls don’t knit their sweaters
at night, because a stray needle can poke the angel’s urn
and imbecilic boys rain down from the sky. Little girls
before the break of dawn were angels of old.
Translated from the Arabic by Ammiel Alcalay, Emna Zghal, and Khaled al-Hilli
Copyright ©2025 by City Lights Books
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Nasser Rabah was born in Gaza in 1963. He got his BA in Agricultural Science in 1985, before going on to work as Director of the Communication Department in the Agriculture Ministry. He is a member of the Palestinian Writers and Authors Union and has published five collections of poetry, Running After Dead Gazelles (2003); One of Nobody (2011); Passersby with Light Clothes (2014); Water Thirsty for Water (2017); Eulogy for the Robin (2021), and two novels, Since approximately an hour (2018), and The Enclosure of the Gazelle (2024). Some of his poems have been translated into English, French and Hebrew. He lives in Gaza.
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Posted: June 17, 2025 at 10:47 pm
