Written by : Hashem
Translated from arabic by : Tamara Qiblawi
Hashem Hashem is a queer poet and performer based in Beirut, Lebanon. He has been part of feminist and queer organizing in Lebanon and the MENA region since 2009. Hashem holds a BA in Media Studies, and an MA in Gender & Sexuality Studies from SOAS, University of London. He has performed his poetry at different venues in Lebanon, Belfast, Mexico City and Kathmandu. In 2018, together with Baladi dancer Alexandre Paulikevitch, Hashem wrote and performed The Last Distance, a performance about queer embodiment and language. Currently, Hashem hosts a weekly poetry section, Bouyout, on Hammam Radio. His first poetry collection, Class Hatred, will be published in September 2020.
Blog: https://hashembeirut.wordpress.com
Instagram: @hashem.beirut
My comrade, my lover
We practice love
We practice anger
And I can’t decide which is more beautiful
You scream at me with love
You scream at them with anger
And I can’t decide
When you’re more beautiful
***
My comrade, my lover
The day they beat us with sticks
And sprayed us with gas
Our tears streamed
Armed only with bitterness
And poverty,
We laughed together
And you wouldn’t let go of my hand
In the face of corrupt bullets
And it was all I needed
To know that we were one woman.
***
My comrade, my lover
Their banks fall
Their taxes fall
Their rifles fall
At your feet
As the heart falls
At the sight of your dimples
***
My comrade, my lover
I wish for a free country
I wish for a free body
So hold on to my senses
Hold on to my breath
And we’ll build a city
That mirrors the seasons
That resembles love
That does not apologize before being
***
My comrade, my lover
They wish to slaughter us
To hurt us
So be my blood
Be my flesh
Be my name
Let us bind
A tender wound
A powerful wound
That opens to nothing but love
***
My comrade, my city
Insane and cursed
Buried in trash and rot
Baked in screams and sorrow
Falling on my neck like a guillotine
Like a tomb
But then it rises and rumbles
Like a throat
Enchanting
Like a jewel
***
My lover, my lover
To be a pervert is to accept
This reality
To abandon the streets
To accept this truth
To call you – after all we’ve been through – a friend.
Perversion is to write banners thanking those who slaughter us
To write romantic verses for those who oppress us
Perversion, my love,
Is the smell of a sea we can no longer see
The smell of a palace
That muzzles our mouths
The smell of poverty
On the ports of fishermen
In the houses of workers
In the tents of refugees
The smell of deceit
In the vaults of banks
In half-hearted stances
The smell of defeat
In the eyes of a woman
burned, crushed
well before the crime
The smell of a lifetime
Crumbling in front of us
Like Beirut’s old houses.
***
My companion, my lucky charm,
Would you heal my poetry that conquers me?
My people who ail me?
Would you become for me
A sun
A whisper, a cup, a dance,
That diffuses all bombs?
Become
An axe
That brings down all temples
Be my memory
Be my enchantress
That burns all chains.
Be an earth that I can plant myself in
And rain, so I might grow into vines, and figs and roses.
Be a street I can chant in,
Revolt in
To be victorious
Or broken.
Be a tongue for me,
Rebellious and vagrant
It says everything
And apologizes for nothing.
Become home, become oil
My daily bread
Become a drop of water
That rewards my fast
Would you become those things?
Because I would be
Everything you want me to be.
***
My lover, my lover
If two roads were to lead to you
I would take the longer one,
Does patience not make things more beautiful?
***
My comrade, my lover
Let us stand at the edge of this world
And celebrate, celebrate, celebrate
A love that will certainly happen,
A sweet world that will one day come.
My lover, my lover
Stand on my shoulder,
Feed the world’s hungry
With the sweetness of your palm.
