"There, There, Grieving" by Zeina Hashem Beck

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend January 3, 2018   There, There, Grieving   Zeina Hashem Beck

Where are you from?                     There.                Where are you headed?                     There.                What are you doing?                     Grieving.                                            —Rabia Al-Adawiyya     Little brother, we are all grieving & galaxy & goodbye. Once, I climbed inside the old clock tower of my hometown & found a dead bird, bathed in broken light, like a little christ.   Little christ of our hearts, I know planets light-years away are under our tongues. We've tasted them. We've climbed the staircases saying, There, there.   Little brother, we are all praying. Every morning, I read out loud but not loud enough to alarm anyone. Once, my love said, Please open the door. I can hear you talk. Open the door.   Little christ of our hearts, tell anyone you've been talking to god & see what happens. Every day, I open the door. I do it by looking at my daughter on a swing— eyes closed & crinkled, teeth bare. I say, Good morning good morning you little beating thing.   Little brother, we are all humming. More & more, as I read, I sound like my father with his book of prayers, turning pages in his bed—a hymn for each day of the week, a gift from his mother, who taught me the ten of diamonds is a win, left me her loose prayer clothes. Bismillah.   Little christ of our hearts, forgive me, for I loved eating the birds with lemon, & the sound of their tiny bones. But I couldn't stomach the eyes of the fried fish.   Little brother, we are always hungry. Here, this watermelon. Here, some salt for the tomatoes. Here, this song for the dead birds in time boxes, & the living. That day in the clock tower, I saw the city too, below—                the merchants who call, the blue awnings,              the corn carts, the clotheslines, the heat,              the gears that turn, & the remembering.            Copyright © 2018 Zeina Hashem Beck. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   "I initially wanted to write a poem about the Sufi mystic Rabia Al-Adawiyya and was researching her life. A while later, after a period of silence and listening, the images in this poem somehow came together. Though this poem is not about Rabia, it explores faith and prayer beyond traditional religious practices and definitions. It also explores how love, loss, sadness, and gratitude can exist simultaneously. You know how you're sometimes overcome with the urge to weep at the hurt, beauty, and impermanence of this world?" —Zeina Hashem Beck   Zeina Hashem Beck is the author of Louder than Hearts (Bauhan Publishing, 2017), which won the 2016 May Sarton New Hampshire Poetry Prize. She is Lebanese and currently lives in Dubai. Poetry by Beck   Louder Than Hearts (Bauhan Publishing, 2017) "Persistence of Vision: Televised Confession" by Solmaz Sharif "Were They Hands Would They Flower" by Rob Schlegel "Embodies" by Jorie Graham January Guest Editor: Kaveh Akbar   Thanks to Kaveh Akbar, author of Calling a Wolf a Wolf (Alice James Books, 2017), who curated Poem-a-Day this month. Read more about Akbar and our other guest editors for the year. Help Support Poem-a-Day   If you value Poem-a-Day, please consider a monthly donation or one-time gift to help make it possible. Poem-a-Day is the only digital series publishing new, previously unpublished work by today's poets each weekday morning. The free series, which also features a curated selection of classic poems on weekends, reaches 450,000+ readers daily. Thank you! Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038

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