Featuring Palestinian Voices: 2025 National Poetry Month Feature

On April 9, Palestinian journalist Ahmad Mansour was burned alive by the Zionist entity in an airstrike. He joins a infuriatingly long list of Palestinian writers, artists, cultural workers and journalists made martyrs by this latest iteration of “Israel’s” relentless assault. As Fargo Nissim Tbakhi wrote in Protean Magazine, “Palestine demands that all of us, as writers and artists, consider ourselves in principled solidarity with the long cultural Intifada that is built alongside and in collaboration with the material Intifada. We are writing amidst its long middle; the page is a weapon.”

As the Zionist entity continues its ongoing genocide against the Palestinian people, we honour and stand alongside Palestinians, who resist apartheid, genocide, and the ongoing colonization of their lands perpetuated by “Israel”. This National Poetry Month, we continue to devote our attention to the writings of Palestinian poets, both alive and martyred, opening with (now and always) the words of the late Refaat Alareer.

 


 

“If I must die,” by Refaat Alareer

If I must die,

you must live 

to tell my story 

to sell my things 

to buy a piece of cloth 

and some strings, 

(make it white with a long tail) 

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza 

while looking heaven in the eye 

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze— 

and bid no one farewell 

not even to his flesh 

not even to himself— 

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above

and thinks for a moment an angel is there 

bringing back love 

If I must die 

let it bring hope

let it be a tale

 

[Refaat Alareer was martyred on Dec 7, 2023.]

 

From “Ash and Air,” by Nadine Murtaja, translated by Fatema Alhashemi, via Mizna

Let us 

reinvent 

war 

as a lie.

 

 

From “Habibi Yamma,” by Fady Joudah, via Protean Magazine

No, Yamma, the school bus did not crash. Yes, the field trip was a blast. Habibti Yamma, I lived. Habibi Yaba, I’m alive. I drank from the only well in the only garden of the only heart I have.

 

 

From “Drawing Class,” by Salim Al-Nafar, translated by Danielle Linehhan Kiedaisch and Lorna MacBean, via Arab Lit

At drawing class 

time is mapped onto the contours of our homeland 

and on takes of knights who kick time with their souls. 

Our teacher tells us the story 

And colours our minds. 

Putting place into heart into the question: 

What happened to our teachers?

 

[Saleem Al-Naffar and his family were martyred on December 7, 2023]

 

From “Leaving Childhood Behind,” by Mosab Abu Toha, via Poets.org

When I left, I left my childhood in the drawer

and on the kitchen table. I left my toy horse

in its plastic bag. 

I left without looking at the clock. 

I forget whether it was noon or evening. 

 

 

From “A Road for Loss,” by Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, translated by Fady Joudah, via Poets.org

Directions confuse me:

there’s no forest in this city,

no desert either.

Do you know a road for loss

that doesn’t end

in a settlement?

 

 

From “The Question of War,” by Mayar Nateel, via Palestine Festival of Literature

Where can time be deleted from the war machine?

 

From “She tripped in beauty (…) ,” by Mohammad Saleh, via Literary Hub

She tripped in beauty 

and a shining splendor burned me. 

And hers is a beauty that does what it may.

 

[Mohammad Saleh was martyred on October 10, 2023]

 

 

From “On the Thirtieth Friday We Consider Plurals,” by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, via Mizna

At the border, a flock of journalists.

A sacrifice of tires burned behind us.

Beneath the picnic tents, a funeral of families.

What else will we become in Gaza if we gather,

if we carry our voices to the razored edge?

 

 

From “For the Dead Among Us,” by Lisa Suhair Majaj, via Adi Magazine

We will open the day for you,

and the night. We know

that you are beneath the earth,

or ash on the wind. But in

some space or time you still

live.

 

 

From “A Small Eternity,” by Mourid Barghouti, translated by Zeina Hashem Beck, via The Baffler 

Can I change death’s mind and convince it of its failure?

Can death believe I’m walking with my departed’s feet?

Because my steps are their steps,

and my eyes are their eyes,

and this poem is their listening.

 

 

From “Our Loneliness,” by Hiba Abu Nada, translated by Salma Harland, via Arab Lit 

Only you were left behind,

naked,

before this loneliness.

Darwish,

no poetry could ever bring it back:

what the lonely one has lost.

 

[Hiba Abu Nada was martyred by Israel on October 20, 2023]

 

 

From “Untitled Poem IV,” by Zakaria Mohammed, translated by Lena Tuffaha, via The Baffler 

It is not poetry’s job to wipe away tears.

Poetry should dig a trench where they can overflow and drown the universe.

 

 

“Everything Knows You Will Rise,” by Ghassan Zaqtan, translated by Samuel Wilder, via Arab Lit

The bridges that shined

in the memories of your fathers

fell in wadis that dried long ago.

Expect no one from there now.

But everything knows you will rise.

 

From “Palestinian,” by Ibrahim Nasrallah, translated by Huda Fakhreddine, via Protean Magazine 

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.

 

 


 

“…what the long middle of revolution requires,” writes Fargo Nissim Tbakhi, “…what Palestine requires, is an approach to writing whose primary purpose is to gather others up with us, to generate within them an energy which their bodies cannot translate into anything but revolutionary movement.” 

How will you gather your energies and people today? How will you fight against genocide?

 


 

Take action:

For further reading, we recommend:

Let us be steadfast as we call for an end to the occupation and learn about actions to take in solidarity with Palestine

 


 

Header image:  “From the river to the sea,” by Ceyza Amera, via Artists Against Apartheid

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