Reviewed by Anne Britting Oleson When the unthinkable happens, what do we tell our children? When they are born to us, we have ideas about what kind of people we wish them to grow into, but after the nuclear apocalypse, how do we revise our plans? This is the emotional core of Sarah Lang’s For Tamara, a book-length poem narrated by an unnamed woman who, it transpires, is both incredibly strong and incredibly vulnerable. Having watched on television the annihilation of major U.S. cities—until there were no longer any broadcasts nor any electricity to watch with—she finds herself desperately trying…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Alana Ruben Free and Akilah Mosley, Co-editors “Stretch Marks” – “Stretch Marks” is collection of poetry by a group of English language writers who have, temporarily or permanently, made their home in Israel. Whether born speaking English, Dutch, German, Hebrew or Arabic, each of us has had to stretch to adapt to a new tongue, new culture, and/or new religion. The pleasures and pains of birthing ourselves into this ancient-young country have marked our body-souls. This collection is influenced as much by the desert’s spoken words and the Galilee’s mystical prayers as by our individual pilgrimages…
At the end of the world, you turn left, not a complete left, more like a 45°. Now, this is not something you want to get wrong, because if you take a wrong turn, you might just end up back in the middle of your world again… and think about how long it has taken you to get to the end… So you take a 45° left turn, the clock tower will be behind you. Don’t turn to check, trust that. What other indicators can I give you of what’s in front of you to show you’re going the right…
Every night when you go to bed a lonely old man is sitting in the corner counting the stars. A widow is living her life as if it is on hold. A homeless child is playing with poverty and hunger. A refugee is publishing his “dirty” story on his grave. An oppressed woman is catching the sky by her prayers. A mom is calling death to meet her vanished son or daughter. An orphan is looking for a who to dry his pain. A prisoner is drawing freedom and peace on the blind walls. A and a and a, till…
my sister and I got them just from growing our thighs and breasts marked as if by tiger claws first they were bright red then with years faded to silver moonlight someone said it was because we were fed too much soy and milk with hormones it made us grow too fast and not enough vitamins to flex the skin but I knew either way becoming a woman daughters of a woman who couldn’t teach us how to use a menstrual pad because she was too afraid of her own blood now in a rice field I hear women humming…
I want to share with you my story. But none of the sentences make it to the page. You see, I have fled from my mother tongue— abandoned my voice. I have fallen in love with a new vocabulary, words I am yet to understand. Gutteral, unpronounceable words. In English, this new story would lack authenticity, my love sound shallow. Hebrew is the language of my heart. I long for each word that I cannot say. I put on the radio, and whether I understand or not, I feel revived by its rhythm. New worlds and languages, even after all…
As for Hannah, she was speaking in her heart, only her lips were moving. So Eli thought she was drunk. — Samuel 1:13 In synagogue I pray, my body separated from the men, a glass screen between us: they still see me swaying to and fro to the rhythm of supplication. My Lord slides in psalms over my tongue, I am undone by my wanting. My lips keep parting & I’m mumbling like a mad woman— pouring out the juices of my soul, down my legs, down the screen. The men who see me think I’m drunk, but they are…
It was the absent one that kept her awake at night while the others slept peacefully, tucked up in their beds after another story, another sip of water, another kiss dropped on their little heads. Years later, it is the absent one that enters her dreams uninvited, calling voicelessly from another room, painting clumsily over the darkness with more darkness, unformed hands stretching out beyond her grasp. Joanna Chen’s poetry, essays and literary translations have been published most recently by Guernica, Narratively, Poetry International, Asymptote, Poet Lore and Mantis, among others. Less Like a Dove was published by Shearsman Books in 2016. She writes a…
When El-Natan was born the room swelled like a balloon and filled Jerusalem, my wailing knocking on the walls, my open legs the valleys of the souk and he between them, the rope of our dual history unfurling him. At night his cradle was a lake and I was God and he a Noah’s ark of wild things he’d become— puppy, monkey, eagle, wolf, gazelle. His nails were all the necklaces I’d ever worn, his skin a pale reflection of God’s dreaming. And in the creases of his ears the Jordan river flowed with messages of war. The rustle of…
born not in a hospital not in a bedroom not a manger not ark and wicker not an alley not the backseat not a clinic not the White House born a Sabra— tender, tough in a porcelain bowl welcome home Akilah Mosley received a Master’s Degree from the Shaindy Rudoff Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Bar-Ilan University in Israel. She also attended Howard University in Washington, D.C. where she earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) Degree in Theater. Currently, Akilah lives in Israel and conducts ‘Performance Poetry’ workshops alongside writing and directing plays. She takes pleasure in telling…