Poem

irabotee Literature: Four Poems by Nathalie Handal

October 6, 2021 by Nathalie Handal

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Ways of Rebelling

Who needs to be at peace in the world? It helps to be between wars, to die

a few times each day to understand your father’s sky, as you take it apart

piece by piece and can’t feel anything, can’t feel the tree growing under

your feet, the eyes poking night only to find another night to compare it to.

Whoever heard of turning pain into hummingbirds or red birds—

haven’t we grown? What does it mean to be older? Maybe a house with-

out doors can still survive a storm. Maybe I can’t find the proper way to

rebel or damn it, I can’t leave. I want to, but you grow inside of me. And

as I watch you, before I know it, I’m too heavy, too full of you to move.

Maybe that’s what they meant when they said you shouldn’t love a country

too much.

The Moor

This is what I see:

a grain of wheat in the hand of a small boy

barefoot on the unnamed roads,

sleeping in the dream another is having.

An oud, a violin, a guitar,

a mirror of dew,

a man about to undress,

a woman staring.

A traveler

returning

everywhere

and forgetfulness

stealing from itself.

Maktoub, the Moor says,

we hold clouds in our mouth

and imagine God in our breath.

Love Letter

I’d like to be a shrine, so I can learn from peoples’ prayers the story of hearts. I’d like to be a scarf so I can place it over my hair and understand other worlds. I’d like to be the voice of a soprano singer so I can move through all borders and see them vanish with every spell-binding note. I’d like to be light so I illuminate the dark. I’d like to be water to fill bodies so we can gently float together indefinitely. I’d like to be a lemon, to be zest all the time, or an olive tree to shimmer silver on the earth. Most of all, I’d like to be a poem, to reach your heart and stay.

The Thing about Feathers

We kept only the keys,
letters, and photos —
everything else stayed behind
when we left the house.
That can happen when
a nation changes overnight,
when those you know
turn into
a gate of feathers —
and the thing about feathers is,
they know what’s been missed.
For years I watch
my neighbor’s house
from others’ windows—
different countries,
various homes,
some of brick, some of stone.
Some never imagine
what a home can mean
when an unfinished tune
traps the ceiling.
I pretend
never to have
seen a body midair,
a father’s hands
planted on the ground—
after all
what we don’t admit to
never happened.
But I couldn’t
change that day in Murcia,
when water brought light
to the door:
I am seven
it is the day before our departure,
the day my father
gives me a notebook,
and I tell him,
this is where I’ll keep my country.

Source: Poetry (March 2021)

irabotee Literature: Four Poems by Nathalie Handal

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