'Not purely oriental, or occidental, but accidental'

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Suheir Hammad

Palestinian-American poet Suheir Hammad (b 1973) gave two readings in Cairo last week, at the invitation of Al-Mawred Al-Thaqafi Cultural Fund. Born in Jordan, Hammad moved to Brooklyn, New York, with her family as a child. One of the most compelling Arab-American poets to have emerged in recent years, Hammad has three books to her name -- Born Palestinian, Born Black (1996), Drops of this Story (1996) and ZaatarDiva (2005) -- as well as poems published in a host of journals and anthologies (see www.suheirhammad.com ). She also served as co-writer and cast member of the Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry Jam on Broadway, which won a Tony Award.

At the American University in Cairo last Sunday, Hammad read/performed some 10 poems of hers, of which we reproduce five below. The poems chosen reflect a whole range of themes and preoccupations both personal and political, from the Palestinian predicament and racial profiling in the US via growing up with Um Kulthoum's voice to a brother's accident. Interacting with the audience between poems, Hammad explained that every poem she wrote was in some sense a Palestinian poem -- whether overtly, as in "jerusalem sunday", metaphorically, as in "rocks off", which is about Palestine, or in her own response to the subject matter, as in a poem that resulted from her experience serving in shelters and fund-raising in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Asked about the multiple audiences she addresses and her hybrid identity as an Arab-American, Hammad elaborated on how she strove, especially in her latest poetry collection, ZaatarDiva, to forge an Arabic-English slang, a "language that would fit over this grey matter, language that is not purely oriental, or occidental, but accidental."

The poems below, from Hammad's ZaatarDiva (Rattapallax Press, New York), are reproduced by kind permission of the poet.

Poems by Suheir Hammad

bint il neel

I

no surprise it was your father

started it taught you allah's

word and said sing daughter

sing

a bird you sang

from your belly to soar over

all of egypt

in the delta's villages

muwlads weddings

ramadan breakfasts you flew your voice

no surprise

it was god started it

put a burning

in your mouth and said

open up and sing

you were young and a novelty

voice so big baba dressed you

a boy and you traveled

to the ears

of rich men learned men

men of leisure with shillings and servants

entrances for you to shadow

II

i did not like you

how could i my mother

would turn off the radio

playing assimilation and press

tape play always you

first the applause

then the men yelling always the men

ya aaallaaaahh ! praising

your voice a gift

from paradise

the music always

a long intro

then your voice flying

through the roach speakers of a cheap

plastic radio into brooklyn with

a wailing

a whale of a voice

with words

i

did

not

understand

this was all your voice

my mother had to remind her

of herself and i

hated you you

made mommy cry

III

you loved

poetry and god's word

stressed sang juiced a line

until it rang perfect

listen

ya naceeni

oh you who have forgotten

it has never crossed your mind to ask after me

oh you who

have forgotten me

oh

you who have forgotten me

oh you

who have forgotten me

oh

you

who

have

forgotten

me

IV

and now i have made

mama cry i who

love poetry and

god's good word

i who stress a line

until it sounds

like a note

wa inti ala bali

you are on my mind

i have not forgotten

and though it was men and

their gods started it

you sang for women

for my mother and her daughters

your voice a bird

under her wings

tears not shed

made her heavy flew low

a breeze from the nile

rocks off

she has hoarded

the stones you've thrown

collected them as jewels

polished with earnest

cut them on her

teeth into museum worth

each with a story

a particular force behind

and each she excused

as it hit forgave in mid air

labeled accident

the aim

but the truth is your target

was specific

under her breast left

her temple right

below her navel

she is marked still

traces of mineral under

lashes on her back

in her belly

she has stored away

the stones cast

and while you were

digging up the earth

for the next

rock to heavy her

eyes look

she has polished cut

she has built a pyramid

of diamonds

a testament

her strength

What I will

I will not

dance to your war

drum. I will

not lend my soul nor

my bones to your war

drum. I will

not dance to your

beating. I know that beat.

It is lifeless. I know

intimately that skin

you are hitting. It

was alive once

hunted stolen

stretched. I will

not dance to your drummed

up war. I will not pop

spin beak for you. I

will not hate for you or

even hate you. I will

not kill for you. Especially

I will not die

for you. I will not mourn

the dead with murder nor

suicide. I will not side

with you nor dance to bombs

because everyone else is

dancing. Everyone can be

wrong. Life is a right not

collateral or casual. I

will not forget where

I come from. I

will craft my own drum. Gather my beloved

near and our chanting

will be dancing. Our

humming will be drumming. I

will not be played. I

will not lend my name

nor my rhythm to your

beat. I will dance

and resist and dance and

persist and dance. This heartbeat is louder than

death. Your war drum ain't

louder than this breath.

jerusalem sunday

jeru

salem

sun

day

three muezzins call idan

where one's allah begins another's

akbar ends inviting the last

to witness mohammad's prophecies

church bells ring the sky

an ocean shade of blue above

christ's tomb and the stones

of this city witness man's weakness

boys run by the torah

strapped to their third eye

ready to rock their prayers

the roofs of this city busy as the streets

the gods of this city crowded and proud

two blind and graying

arab men lead each other through

the old city surer of step than sight

tourists pick olives from the cracks

in the faces of young and graying

women selling mint onions and this

year's oil slicking the ground

this city is wind

breathe it

sharp

this history is blood

swallow it

warm

this sunday is holy

be it

god

brooklyn

sometimes we pose you loud like

a cheap trophy posturing look at me

from the planet of illest mcs and brickest cheese

sometimes quietly we know the streets

is watching our actions recorded

we secret you from those who patrol

our thoughts and study our styles

we leave you in

order to see your beauty from a distance

back home in instants we drop baggage

and settle into our selves

your children travel far and wherever

we are we hear bk represent

always the loud-asset

we say if you can make it here

you got nothing to fear

true every hood fashion fly shit

but they come to your streets to make it legit

you got as many stories as streets

as each of us shaped by

your concrete and green

you became the safe jerusalem

for us not chosen

yet did not shelter yusef

hawkins running from hate

if we tell the truth here

we got nothing to fear

you molded heroes

and sent them out on record tours

brooklyn i could write you

forever on every corner

on the backs of handball players

with the exhaust of your buildings

for your exhausted masses i could

write you forever for the absences

and abundances of the childhoods

you gifted us

listen to the way you gallop from my mouth

make folks smile just to hear me talk

cause they trace my cadence

back to you

we always return

like love and heartbreak are one coin two sides

you are your daughters' currency in foreign cities

we always come home

and you always make room

like expandable apartments

filled with immigrants and their labors

you always make room

for our sins and our saviors

you always make room for prodigal daughters

who sometimes talk out loud to our selves

just to hear your stories come out our mouths