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Metres, Philip

 
9781556595639: Shrapnel Maps

Sinopsis

Writing into the wounds and reverberations of the Israel/Palestine conflict, Philip Metres’ fourth book of poems, Shrapnel Maps, is at once elegiac and activist, an exploratory surgery to extract the slivers of cartography through palimpsest and erasure. A wedding in Toura, a suicide bombing in Jerusalem, uneasy interactions between Arab and Jewish neighbors in University Heights, the expulsion of Palestinians in Jaffa, another bombing in Gaza: Shrapnel Maps traces the hurt and tender places, where political noise turns into the voices of Palestinians and Israelis. Working with documentary flyers, vintage postcards, travelogues, cartographic language, and first person testimonies, Shrapnel Maps ranges from monologue sonnets to prose vignettes, polyphonics to blackouts, indices to simultaneities, as Palestinians and Israelis long for justice and peace, for understanding and survival.

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Acerca del autor

Philip Metres is the author and translator of eleven books and chapbooks, including The Sound of Listening: Poetry as Refuge and Resistance (University of Michigan 2018); Pictures at an Exhibition (University of Akron 2016); Sand Opera (Alice James 2015); and I Burned at the Feast: Selected Poems of Arseny Tarkovsky (Cleveland State Poetry Center, 2015). Recipient of two NEA fellowships, the Lannan Fellowship, and , two Arab American Book Awards, he is a professor of English and the director of the Peace, Justice, and Human Rights Program at John Carroll University in Cleveland.

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One TreeThey wanted to tear down the tulip tree, our neighbors, last year. It throws a shadow over their vegetable patch, the only tree in our backyard. We said no. Now they’ve hired someone to chainsaw an arm—the crux on our side of the fence—and my wife, in tousled hair and morning sweat, marches to stop the carnage, mid-limb. It reminds her of her childhood home, a shady place to hide. She recites her litany of no’s, returns. Minutes later, the neighbors emerge. The worker points to our unblinded window. I want to say, it’s not me, slide out of view behind a wall of cupboards, ominous breakfast table, steam of tea, our two young daughters now alone. I want no trouble. Must I fight for my wife’s desire for yellow blooms when my neighbors’ tomatoes will stunt and blight in shade? Always the same story: two people, one tree, not enough land or light or love. Like the baby brought to Solomon, someone must give. Dear neighbor, it’s not me. Bloom-shadowed, light-deprived, they lower the chainsaw again.excerpt from When It Rains in Gazafor Deema ShehabiVIII. When it rains in Gaza, children run outof noise, lift their open lips to heaven. IX. White PhosphorusA jellyfish of smoke,you say aloud, look!—the beautiful photo’swhite tentacles and headswim the skybefore they fall. A privacyof glass. Ripples of division. Fleshfrom flesh, true godfrom true god, madein the walled island of unforgivennot not forgotten, dreaming where the past will lead.X.When it rained in Gaza, the ancient gravesof Beit Hanoun revealed themselves again.??? ( of barbed wire I clear a linesharp enough to ribbon the flesh(& the village, where Omar nestsin his palm a bird whose wing is broken(he strokes & holds to his lipscoffee with cardamom & the circle of men:(all day, nearby, some machine putts as if trying to set the whole village to(motion: it won’t startbut something is happening, or will:

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