In my dream,
unknown fingers tugged at my teeth,
then I heard, the clamor of their fall, 
tooth by tooth.

Old Arab wisdom says
that teeth falling out in a dream means death:
if only your front teeth fall out,
you will be rendered, unable to speak,
if all fall out, death will befall your kin,
and you will be left behind. 

I woke to find my mouth a cave, 
I howled but infinity swallowed my scream,
I spoke, but my words were lost in stone,
I told myself I wouldn’t care, 
I’d go around, with an empty mouth, 
but a full heart.

I left the house, to see my name,
drowning and calling for help.
I gave it my hand, but the wind scolded:
“A new era demands a new name, 
where every book’s pages are white, 
and our rivers are dyed by our thoughts”. 
Revolution is a large shoe, 
and yet, our feet are small.

My family float on their backs, 
waving, on their way to oblivion.

My father hangs on the peg of absence,
history extinguished in his gold tooth, 
smiling, as if life were a joke. 
Our laughs fall, the joke sours, 
and I set out to write lamentations,
but eloquence leaps
onto fear’s boat, 
followed by the blind chicks of meaning. 

I set about to say one word, 
no, half a word: if only… 
If only my father was alive.
But my father continued to die upon his death.

I became a tree at the riverbank,
my roots hacked, my memories blue.
I dreamt that my dreams fell out of my mouth, 
and turned to fossils in the riverbed. 
The Old Arabs have left,
leaving me neither
language nor interpretations. 

Old wars left,
as did others that never happened,
their teeth also fell out,
and they were told:
there’s no bread for you here, nor blood,
the first was eaten, the latter clotted.

This is the world whose sky was lifted,
whose mountains were raised,
whose children revolted for justice. 
Look at it, 
dragging itself
across bridges built in its head,
its mountains face-down,
its children crumbling, like cork.  

Only I remain on the bank,
a tree, cut from a tree.
Untold generations have passed me, 
the drawings on the walls of my mouth have risen.

I remember a word from the ancient past, 
and I almost utter it… 
no… I almost utter a third of it. 

Perhaps I never uttered it, 
perhaps I only thought it. 

The world turns its head, 
giant bodies make as to rise, 
and my wet name rears its big head. 

Since that moment, 
thousands of years ago, 
I’ve been hearing a long creak, 
and the clamor of the world’s teeth falling.

© Translation: 2024, Mariam Hijjawi

ثورةٌ على جدران فمي

رأيتُ في المنام إصبعًا مجهولةً تزلزل أسناني
فسمعتُ دويّ سقوطها
سنًّا سنًّا

قالت العرب
إن رأيتِها سقطتْ إلى الأرض فهي الموت
إن سقطتْ مقاديمها منعتكِ من الفعل والكلام
وإن سقطتْ كلّها هلك أهلكِ وبقيتِ بعدهم

استيقظتُ فوجدتُ فمي مُغُرًا
صحتُ فامتصّ اللانهائيّ صيحتي المشروخة 
نطقتُ فغابتْ لغتي في الحجر
قلتُ ما يهمّني 
سأخرج بفمٍ فارغ
لكن بقلبٍ ملآن

خرجتُ فرأيتُ اسمي يستغيث من الغرق
مددتُ له يدي فنهرتني الريح
لا بدّ من اسمٍ جديدٍ للزمن الجديد
حيث صفحات الكتب جميعها بيضاء
أنهرنا مصبوغةٌ بأفكارنا
الثورة حذاءٌ واسعٌ
وأقدامنا صغيرة

أهلي طُفاةٌ على ظهورهم 
يلوّحون في طريقهم إلى النسيان

معلّقٌ أبي فوق مشجب الغياب
التاريخ مطفأٌ في ضرسه الذهبيّ 
يبتسم كأنّ الحياة كانت مجرّد نكتة
سقطتْ ضحكاتنا وصارت النكتة ثقيلة دم
هممتُ في رثائه
فقفزتِ الفصاحة في قارب الخوف
ثمّ لحقتْها فراخ المعاني المغمضة

هممتُ بقول كلمةٍ واحدة
لا بل نصف كلمةٍ مثل: لو أنّ
« لو أنّ أبي حيًَّا 
لكنّ أبي ظلّ يموت فوق موته

صرتُ شجرةً على ضفّة النهر
جُزَّتْ جذوري وازرقّتْ ذكرياتي
حلمتُ بأحلامي تسقط من فمي   
وتصير في قعر النهر أحفورة
رحل العرب ولم يتركوا لي اللغة ولا التفاسير

رحلتْ حروبٌ قديمةٌ وأخرى لم تحدث
رحلتْ بعد أن سقطتْ أسنانها هي الأخرى
وقيل لها لا خبز لكِ هنا ولا دم
أُكِلَ هذا وتخثّر ذاك

هذا هو العالم الّذي رُفِعَتْ سماؤه
ونُصِبَتْ جباله وثار أبناؤه من أجل العدالة
انظروا إليه
ها هو يمشي مكلومًا فوق جسورٍ لم تُبْنَ سوى في خياله
تنبطح جباله على بطونها
ويهرهر أبناؤه مثل فلّينٍ منشور

لم يبقَ غيري على الضفّة
شجرةً مقطوعةً من شجرة
مرّتْ عنّي أجيالٌ لا تُحْصى 
حتّى نهضتْ الرسوم من جدران فمي

تذكّرتُ كلمةً من الماضي الآسن
وكدتُ أنطقها

بل كدتُ أنطق ثلثها

لعلّي لم أنطقها

لعلّي فكّرتُ بها

فأدار العالم عنقه
همّتْ أجسادٌ عملاقةٌ بالنهوض
وأطلّ اسمي المبلول برأسه الكبير

منذها
منذ آلاف السنين 
وأنا أسمع صريرًا طويلًا
ودويّ أسنان العالم الساقطة

© 2022, Asmaa Azaizeh
From: The body I once climbed
Publisher: Dar Alahliya, Jordan

Asmaa Azaizeh

Asmaa Azaizeh

(Palestine, 1985) © Dirk Skiba

Biography

“I do not have an account in the bank of wars, but a Hourani woman reassured me that my cheques are valid.”  
_{from: Don’t believe me if I talked to you of war} 

Asmaa Azaizeh is a Palestinian poet and interdisciplinary artist, who was appointed the first director of the Mahmoud Darwish Museum in Ramallah in 2012. 

In her poetry she does not shy away from raising heavy topics such as war, grief and memory as well as depicting the dire and inhumane circumstances in Palestine, not allowing the reader to look away. Her poems express a disillusionment with those in power and are fiercely outspoken against oppression. Her poems are clear-cut and powerful, and despite the painful present and the ominous future, she defiantly searches for glimmers of hope and beauty in her poems. 

Asmaa Azaizeh has published four poetry collections. The Al Qattan Foundation recognized her with the Debutant Writer Award for her debut Liwa (2011). Her collection Don’t Believe Me If I Talk To You Of War (2019) was translated into Dutch and Swedish. Azaizeh’s poetry has also been translated into German, Spanish, Farsi, Italian, Greek and Hebrew, among others. 

Furthermore, she has worked as a cultural editor for several leading Palestinian and Arabic newspapers, and as a presenter for television and radio. Azaizeh currently runs Shahrur, an online bookstore for children’s books. 

Works  

– 2011. Liwa. Jordan: Al-Ahlia
– 2015. As The Woman from Lod Bore me. Jordan: Al-Ahlia 
– 2018. Don’t Believe me If I Talk to you of War. Milan: Almutawassit  
– 2017. Unturned Stone (Poetry Anthology). Jordan: Al-Ahlia  
– 2022. The Body I Once Climbed. Jordan: Al-Ahlia  

Translated Works  

– 2019. Don’t Believe me If I Talk to you of War. Netherlands:  
Uitgeverij Jurgen Maas. Translated by Nisrine Mbarki 
– 2019. Don’t Believe me If I Talk to you of War. Sweden: Ramus.  
Translated by: Jasim Mohammad 
– Don’t Believe me If I Talk to you of War. France.
Will be published by Zoème and translated by Chakib Ararou in 2024 
– The Body I Once Climbed. France.
Will be published by Zoème and translated by Lotfi Nia in 2024 

Prizes 

– Al-Qattan Foundation award, 2010