Magazine

Dusk at the Tangier SeaEvery evening, on his way home from work in the coastal city of Tangier, Morocco, Arman always saw them. A middle-aged couple, sitting silently at the edge of the pier, facing the vast Mediterranean Sea that stretched endlessly before them. The woman wore a faded headscarf, blown gently by the evening breeze. It was once sky…

What Could Happen NextText within this block will maintain its original spacing when published1. The kitchen will sketch out the price of food. 2. The universe will wrap its skin in bay leaves, risking itself. 3. Doubt will keep chiming inside the clock. 4. Tiny provinces will survive on parasitic weather. 5. The fireplace chapter will pour more coal into…

Introductory NoteIn keeping with Asemana Books’ commitment to publishing progressive, experimental, and underrepresented literature from West Asia and North Africa, we are delighted to share a new landmark publication: Prism of Wounded Light by Amin Haddadi, translated into English and French by Dariush Shahinrad, and accompanied by twenty-one striking artworks by Fatemeh Shakoori.This volume is not only a trilingual collection…

ODYSSEYText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedOn the walls of my Ontario public school, the Queen stared down, commanding us to do our duty, whatever that was, and a world map flaunted in pink all countries of the Commonwealth and former British Empire. I knew nothing of our Indigenous people, less about the Middle East’s history…

Wine MoonText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedBallymoon Castle draped in wine moon light, beams deep ruby, drip down crumbling stone walls, like legs of swirled red wine, luminous Venetian goblet. I reminisce… years of moon and sun, pink cherry blossoms long dismissed from branches. Days young Horace ran, laughter chasing blond waves, Queen’s prestige pristine.…

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published1 L’étirement de quel flanc pratiqua-t-il le désert Que ton étreinte plus sublime que passion Mes paumes, de par tes yeux Podium de la monnaie De ton prodigue aimable Largeur de la lune Transmuée 2 De rythme mes tempes S’empourprent Et chaque crépuscule où frappe le vent À mes tempes…

SilenceAUTHOR’S NOTE:This visual poem is a variation on the famous concrete poem “Silencio” by Eugene Gomringer but engaging with ideas of redaction and suppression of voice, reality and experience in the contemporary moment, particularly with regards Palestine. I turned to the Gomringer original in considering how sometimes we can only determine what is happening on the larger systemic scale by…

I Only Love Herby Armenida Qyqja****Everything was going so perfect this June morning that she almost forgot her husband’s illness. “Mental illness, Alzheimer’s.” The doctor’s words had fallen on her like thunder in the cloudless sky. Who could have thought that this could happen to him, to such an active, vibrant man, so early in life, in his early sixties!It…

Iran-Are you the cradle of courage and purity,or the bearer of darkness’ many weights?What are you but the red stains of bloodscattered across the tablet of history,or the throats overflowing with pain, bound in silence?Iran, what are you but the sour, rustedtaste of home, lingering forever in my mouth,The tears shed in vain,the regrets, the endless defiance of standing tall?What…

Hail The British!(1902, Arochukwu)(Inspired by Min Eddie )**********************We were the evil onesAnd the British were the good peopleNdi ọma who wanted to end slaverySo they could enslave us.-We were the evil onesAnd the British were the good peopleNdị ọma who left their landCame to other people’s landsTo stipulate how they should live.Ndị ọma who wanted to save us from evilWe…

Am I really a poet?-Stones are slower than water in heat transfer.And water is too formless to make shelter.Am I solid enough to make shelter?Yet conductive like water?Conductive enough to pass all warmth?And formless enough to shelter fish?Am I really a poet?-Am I sensible enough to feel others and not myself?And help others to see each other without being seen?Am…

Google-We are a mass.Data is the new oil.-When we wear brandsEthnicity is irrelevant.-There are no borders.Countries are passé.-There is no skin. No psychic boundaries.Anyone can hack anyone anytime anywhere.-And why not? The apps are not illegal.After all, there is no “I” in team.-And what’s good for the team is good for the gander?So, let them walk through your brain and…

She BearFor Ursula Franklin (1921-2016)-Feet on terra-firma, eyes on demilitarized cloudsat twenty-eight, Ursula Franklin exitedGermany’s post-war, Nazi mindsetembarked for Canada to pursue justiceand unlock stony secrets remnant in history’smineral veins and threaded rockto merge geology as genealogymetallurgy as liturgy.-The University of Toronto’sfirst woman metallurgistshe nixed binary division, fusedfeminist and Quakermatter and metaphysicsolive branch and cornucopiadecoded patriarchy’s tell-tale languageand Janus-faced antics.-Her…

A Wounded Wolf-Beside youthere was a wounded wolf in my silhouette—sniffing the scent of his she-wolf.A wounded wolf—who had abandoned his mate—was tangled in the wind’s dragging howl.And on the porch, battered by autumn,something was endlessly building and breakingan invisible blueprint of a flowerpot.The wounded wolfrubs her scent onto the pines of the steppe.And his share of the pine forest?To…

Three poems from a series called Al-‘alaam Az-Zahiir (The World of Appearances)*******************************ش – ر – فF — R – SH.Farasha. Moth, butterfly.-Will even the farasha fear the heated calamity to come?Yawm yakun an-nas ka-al-faraashi al-mabthoothiA day when mankind shall be like scattered moths[1] .Farfetched monarch colonies in Mexico: vibrating ash-bark.Errata of perception: the moths vibrate against the bark.The butterflies also…

Orange Slices**********Sunlight slants through the windowsStripped shadows of the Venetian curtainOn the gold-brown stone floorHouse silent-Contentment is a solitary roomA quiet forgotten train station not far from hereNear a vast field where the sun shines in uneven patchesOn the sea and sea gulls glide above the lemon treesDrift up with the sudden drafts-Watch over the invisible generosity of the world.-This…

Asemana Magazine’s Call for SubmissionsWhat We’re Looking For:We invite contributions in English, French and Middle Eastern languages that reflect the values of:Diasporic and migrant experienceMultilingual storytellingPolitical resistance and historical memoryDecolonial thought and cultural preservationLiterary experimentation, hybridity, and radical voiceHuman Rights and Freedom of ExpressionWe especially welcome work by racialized, immigrant, queer, and working-class writers whose voices are often marginalized in…

Dream’s Epitaph(for Yadollah Royaʾi)-It comes from the dampOf a mind,Dripping still, From seasCascaded inDeserts;Where wind etchesAn arcacross theScorched spreadof sand.Yet, it is cloudAnd open:Its shadowwave-atop A-void-ant; A petalIts memory;Its bodyAn infantRose-rolled,In scorchedAsphodel hollows.Words slip AwayFrom him,While lingersOn theSeventy-first grave – A “word all alone” Nesting on the gravestone.********************On Toronto-But how to write of a city you are inBut not part…

The Dreamers-My friend, Aram is disheartenedby the political state of the world,finds no comfort in the rhetoric of leaderswho preach of peacewith the armaments of war.-One day, my people will be free, he says,they will eat and dance andspeak of dreamsthey dared not share before.-They will rise like a great windfunneling up the side of a mountainto lift their voicesto…

Author’s Note: I take no political position. This was hard to write but I felt I had to write it. I object to the killing of innocent souls. There is no excuse. *Strong language.*************this is not a holy war-this is not a holy warthis sanctionless massacreby evil-altered mindsschooled in hate and greedtutored in violenceled by monstersand genocidal maniacswho will supporteven…

My Snowwoman-Snow falls all day,ceaselessly. I stay inside,scrolling the news, fearcoiling through me.Out there, my snowwomanmelts with each moment.-A chill grips me as I readof unrest—not here,in this quiet whiteness,but far away, where womenfill streets, shed veils,ignite fires of defiance.-Does my snowwoman sense it?Feel the tremor of storiesflashing on my screen?Does she know the unrestbeyond her stillness,the weight that wraps…

From My Bubble To Yours-mind control made easy-It has become the custom these past few decades to express the notion, in conversation or careful prose, that we are as a society, at least in the relatively free democratic west, quite able to hold opinions contrary to others in our community. Of course,vigorous disagreements abound, and indeed, make up the tenor…

Chainsaw massacre-On the blinding stageamid applause and bowsthey hand him the chainsaw,red, gleaming—he grips itlike a ravenous beast.-Steel teeth tear downforests of law,trunks of rightssplinter and fall,institutions turn into sawdust.-The blade glistens the engine screechesancient democratic woodstumble to the ground in rows-And then, silence.Spreading over a barren fieldof splintered trunks,fragile bodies lie in the dust,a dry wind blows the prophecyof…

Note on TranslationsOf the four poems originally written in Persian, Line has been translated into English by Vahiz Paeez. The remaining three poems have been translated by the author himself.-The Line-The “Save Way” line awaits the spelling of my nameCalamities that these coupons are upon meHow irritated I getWhen that good-looking, blue-eyed blondAsks about my last name.-I spell it: R…