Ghazal with a radif taken from Charles Bernstein . . ., and: Makdisi Street Calligraphies

Abstract

Ghazal with a radif taken from Charles Bernstein . . ., and: Makdisi Street Calligraphies Marilyn Hacker (bio) Ghazal with a radif taken from Charles Bernstein . . I was up at dawn reading the Graun on election day.My airmailed vote was back in my home town on election day. People preferred a modest man to lead them.The autocrat would have preferred a crown on election day. Often enough, you have to show your papersto cast a ballot if your skin is brown on election day Wasn’t there a horror film, where childrentake poisoned candy from an evil clown on election day? Six hundred children in detention centersor foster homes, whose parents can’t be found on election day. A Kurd from Ilam dove into the churningwaves while his boat sank. He drowned on election day. The autocrat loosened his tight red necktie.His wife drank vodka in her dressing gown on election day. Protestors marched to the golden tower, turnedtheir backs to it, and pulled their trousers down on election day. Alone in quarantine I’m a bad witness.Was “Change” a verb, or static abstract noun on election day? [End Page 19] Makdisi Street Calligraphies For Fady Joudah Wine fucked up my sleep,one glass of white Obeidywith dinner for one, the pile of dictionariespushed aside on the oilcloth. Alone or not, Isometimes drink that wine, sleep well.The oud-playing wine merchant on Souraty Streetsmiled, small wry affirmation. * Three small beggar girlsdanced and clowned in front of thehotel manager having a smoke on the steps.He joked with them, had them guess which hand held some coins.One dashed into the lobby,and was chased out. Two ran in again. He took offhis belt, lashed. They fled, laughing. * [End Page 20] Rain lashed the terrace,generator ziggurats,air ducts, washing lines one kitchen window lit up.Clouds scudded past a half-moon. Awakened by dropson the panes, Februarystorm that might bring spring, I looked at my watch in thepenumbra, four-thirty, day. *The hundredth day ofthe intifada, awakehours before too stressed to be resisting.No revolution, only ginger-cinnamontea by the window, curtainspushed aside to watch five street girls run past, shouting“The people want the fall of . . .” * People linger onthe Corniche, kids ride rentedbikes, Sunday fishers [End Page 21] on the rocks. Februarysunlight already feels like spring, could recedeback to rain and riots.Now, garrulous light. Sea behind her, a womanin niqab takes a selfie * Borderline self,outside a revolutionseason that’s changing no one knows yet into what.It’s late for more rain. The boy on the roof acrossthe street—autistic, maybe—there daily, pulls his sweatshirt hood over his head,stares down at the puddling street. * Down Makdisi Streetthe revolutionariesare banging on pans and chanting. Monday morning,maybe the banks will open [End Page 22] and students will getto school, despite roadblocksor being locked in their rooms so they won’t jointhe street cortege banging pans . . . * Wash the frying pan,all the coffee cups, plastictakeout containers, decide what to pack in theswift-departure duffel bag what to leave behind,thinking of Fadwa: “our inkwill be attar and laurel.” Never returned. Wager inthe fridge: half bottle of wine. [End Page 23] Marilyn Hacker Marilyn Hacker is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Blazons (Carcanet) and A Stranger’s Mirror (Norton), a book of essays, Unauthorized Voices, and eighteen books of translations of French and Francophone poets, most recently Samira Negrouche’s The Olive Trees’ Jazz (Pleaides Press). A Different Distance, a collaboration with Karthika Naïr, is forthcoming from Milk-weed Editions in December. Copyright © 2021 University of Nebraska Press