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At times … I wish
I could meet in a duel
the man who killed my father
and razed our home,
expelling me into a narrow country.
And if he killed me,
I’d rest at last
and if I were ready –
I would take my revenge!
But if it came to light,
when my rival appeared,
that he had a mother
waiting for him,
or a father who’d put
his right hand over
the heart’s place in his chest
whenever his son was late
even by just a quarter-hour
for a meeting they’d set –
then I would not kill him,
even if I could.
Likewise … I
would not murder him
if it were made clear
that he had a brother or sisters
who loved him and constantly longed to see him.
Or if he had a wife to greet him
and children who
couldn’t bear his absence
and who his presents thrilled.
Or if he had
friends or companions,
neighbors he knew
or allies from prison
or a hospital room,
or classmates from his school…
asking about him
and sending him regards.
But if he turned
out to be on his own –
cut off like a branch from a tree –
without mother or father,
with neither a brother nor sister,
wifeless, without a child,
and without kin or neighbors or friends,
colleagues or companions,
then I’d add not a thing to his pain
within that aloneness –
nor the torment of death,
and not the sorrow of passing away.
Instead I’d be content
to ignore him when I passed him by
on the street – as I
convinced myself
that paying him no attention
in itself was a kind of revenge.
~ Taha Muhammad Ali

Taha Muhammad Ali fled to Lebanon with his family when he was seventeen after their village came under heavy bombardment during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. The following year, he returned to Nazareth, where he lived till his death. In the 1950s and 1960s, he sold souvenirs during the day to Christian pilgrims and studied poetry at night. His formal education ended after fourth grade. He was owner of a small souvenir shop near the Church of the Annunciation which he operated with his sons, Muhammad Ali wrote vividly of his childhood in Saffuriyya and the political upheavals he survived.

Muhammad Ali’s style has been described in the introduction to his English collection as “forceful” and written “in short lines of varying beats with a minimum of fuss and a rich array of images drawn primarily from his village life.”

Jerusalem Report

Taha Muhammad Ali 1931-2011


The work of Israeli-Arab poet Taha Muhammad Ali has an almost unparalleled way of infecting his readers with feeling and shared experience.

Taha Muhamm ad Ali was a poet and person of exceptional powers, so it shouldn’t surprise that news of the October 2 death of this most local of Palestinian writers traveled rapidly around the globe. Within hours, readers, friends, artists, and critics – famous and fledgling, British, and Polish, Libyan, German, Russian, Indian, and American – wrote from far and wide to convey their sadness at his death, and to express their gratitude for his life and work.

He came by neither easily. Born in 1931 in the Galilee village of Saffuriyya, Taha Muhammad Ali was his parents’ fifth child – and the first to live past infancy. He was raised in this pre-industrial, traditional setting, and left school after just four years in order to support his family.

In 1948, during Israel’s War of Independence, Saffuriyya’s villagers were forced to flee when the fledgling Israeli air force dropped primitive bombs on the town. After nine months in Lebanon, Muhammad Ali returned, but by then the village had been destroyed by the army. He eventually settled in Nazareth, and opened a shop – selling first falafel, then groceries, and finally souvenirs – near the Church of the Annunciation. (The shop still exists and is now a thriving enterprise run by his sons and festooned with a large, bright sign announcing it as “The Prominent Souvenir Center of Nazareth.”) It was then that he began the long, slow process of schooling himself in standard Arabic, the classical Arabic canon, and much of modern Arabic literature. He also taught himself English, which he read avidly and eclectically, with an autodidact’s hunger.

Muhammad Ali turned to writing poetry relatively late. He published his first book in Arabic when he was 52 years old, and he remained a mostly underground figure in the Arab literary world – where, it should be said, poetry has always been a highly public medium. But with the years, word of his work spread, and an international reputation soon followed. By the time his selected poems were published in English translation (between 2000 and 2007 in Israel, the United States, and the UK), poet Edward Hirsch would declare in the “Washington Post” that Muhammad Ali’s work “ought to be required reading” in the US capital. And National Book Critics Circle Award-winner Eliot Weinberger wrote that Muhammad Ali was “perhaps the most accessible and delightful poet alive today.”

A Hebrew edition of selected poems would later emerge – French and German editions are currently in progress – and a steady stream of invitations to appear at literary festivals from China to Slovenia to India started arriving. (Although he loved few things more than to read his poems in front of an audience, by that point, Muhammad Ali was too weak for such trips to be possible.) A few months before his death, an Arabic gathering of his complete works was at long last published in Haifa.

Cunningly combining a plainspoken register with an idiosyncratic – sometimes biting, sometimes mournful – storytelling sense, Muhammad Ali’s poems are quietly sophisticated and often wryly funny.

They’re engaged and political in the deepest sense, though they eschew the direct approach to the so-called “conflict” that is the hallmark of the “poetry of resistance” written by many of his peers. Muhammad Ali often likened his own poetic method to what he called in English “bill-i-ar-des” – the word had four syllables when he said it. “You aim over here – ” a long, gnarled, delicately mottled finger would point to the right—“to strike over there.” The finger would bend sharply to the left.

In the years following the publication of Muhammad Ali’s work in English, the three of us traveled together a good deal, by plane, train, golf cart, car, and van, giving readings throughout the United States, Europe, and Israel.

Muhammad Ali’s company was much like his poetry: his approach to people and prices, buildings and streets – to meals, engines, tension, napkins, and occasions of diverse sorts – was transformative. (So much so that we came to think of him as the Thelonious Monk of Palestinian literature.) His window on the world was a joy to sit by, and response to his work was often overwhelming, cutting across lines of literary alliance, ethnicity, and religion.

And this because Muhammad Ali’s work has an almost unparalleled way of infecting his readers with feeling and shared experience that ranged widely – from catastrophe to splendor. Among the many things it does, his art makes us remember that the conflict in Israel/Palestine involves not only a clash of ideologies, as the pundits would have it, or a battle of competing national prides, narratives, or claims to property, as others might see it, but, above all, a struggle to preserve an essential dignity. For in taking us back to the root of our most profound sense of belonging and being, Taha Muhammad Ali’s poetry is neither innocent nor naïve – it is radical in the extreme: radically human.


Lovers of hunting, and beginners seeking your prey: Don’t aim your rifles at my happiness, which isn’t worth the price of the bullet (you’d waste on it). What seems to you so nimble and fine, like a fawn, and flees every which way, like a partridge, isn’t happiness. Trust me: my happiness bears no relation to happiness.


In his life he neither wrote nor read.  In his life he didn’t cut down a single tree, didn’t slit the throat of a single calf.  In his life he did not speak of the New York Times behind its back, didn’t raise his voice to a soul except in his saying: “Come in, please, by God, you can’t refuse.”

Nevertheless— his case is hopeless, his situation desperate.  His God-given rights are a grain of salt tossed into the sea. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: about his enemies my client knows not a thing.  And I can assure you, were he to encounter the entire crew of the aircraft carrier Enterprise, he’d serve them eggs sunny-side up, and labneh fresh from the bag.


And so it has taken me all of sixty years to understand that water is the finest drink, and bread the most delicious food, and that art is worthless unless it plants a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.

After we die, and the weary heart has lowered its final eyelid on all that we’ve done, and on all that we’ve longed for, on all that we’ve dreamt of, all we’ve desired or felt, hate will be the first thing to putrefy within us.


If, over this world, there’s a ruler who holds in his hand bestowal and seizure, at whose command seeds are sown, as with his will the harvest ripens, i turn in prayer, asking him to decree for the hour of my demise, when my days draw to an end, that i’ll be sitting and taking a sip of weak tea with a little sugar from my favorite glass in the gentlest shade of the late afternoon during the summer. And if not tea and afternoon, then let it be the hour of my sweet sleep just after dawn.

And may my compensation be— if in fact I see compensation— I who during my time in this world didn’t split open an ant’s belly, and never deprived an orphan of money, didn’t cheat on measures of oil or violate a swallow’s veil; who always lit a lamp at the shrine of our lord, Shihab a-Din, on Friday evenings, and never sought to beat my friends or neighbors at games, or even those i simply knew; i who stole neither wheat nor grain and did not pilfer tools would ask— that now, for me, it be ordained that once a month, or every other, i be allowed to see the one my vision has been denied— since that day i parted from her when we were young.

But as for the pleasures of the world to come, all I’ll ask of them will be— the bliss of sleep, and tea.

Translated by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin.

with thanks to The Beauty We Love


THE mellow year is hasting to its close:
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows;
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.

Hartley Coleridge

My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Robert Frost

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Joan of Arc

I know this now. Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes. Sometimes people believe in little or nothing yet they give their lives to that little or nothing. One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. And then it is gone. But to sacrifice what you are and live without belief, that's more terrible than dying.--

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November 2012



On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

John O'Donohue, Echoes of Memory