Next month will mark the tenth anniversary of the bombing of Baghdad’s al-Mutanabbi Street, the city’s historic bookselling corridor.
They came away until they came
to water, wearied
while overhead the sun searched for a needle
to reattach them to the shadows.
She doesn’t shy away from addressing the big issues, she said, but she wants to place the individual at the heart of her social commentary.
In an obscure crowd, an obscene clarity dawns on me.
In the midst of the exquisite engineering of geography’s tumult, a bullet quietly passes through me, at my lower back,
According to organizers, the award exists “to honour the courage of writers committed to freedom of expression despite facing countless challenges and risks.”
“At that outcast and lonely hour,
that hour of night when choices narrow”
You gnaw at sleep’s pear
and lie on a pile of ruses, dangers, and debacles
then rest on yesterday’s train
while your phantoms keep on pulsating, powerful, alive
“Submissions of full-length (60 pp. minimum) poetry collections in English translation are accepted year-round.”
“In a journey that continues to be marked by uncertainty and marred by individual and collective losses, Dima has no idea where life will take her next.”
“Nobody knows where the red line is any more.”
“See, prison is for lovers.”
“[A]nd what can I do from where I am except raise my voice against this somehow.”