Zaqtan was born in 1954 near Bethlehem. He obtained a teachers' training degree from Jordan and worked as a physical education teacher. Zaqtan worked with the Palestinian resistance movement and was editor of Bayader literary magazine of the PLO. He is the editor of the literary page of the Al-Ayyam daily newspaper in Ramallah, and the editor of the new poetry quarterly Al-Shou’ara. He has published a number of poetry collections, and his first novel in 1995. His poetry abounds with luminous imagery, ranging in topics from life and death to the particular themes running through contemporary life. He has participated in countless international poetry festivals, and his works have also been translated into French. He lives in Ramallah.
Guide
He pointed for us . . .
this way.
And disappeared
in the wreckage of houses
after the explosion
his fingers in the wall-gap
still pointing:
this way . . .
this way.
Pillow
Is there still time
to tell her,
Mother,
good evening,
I've come back
with a bullet in my heart
There is my pillow
I want to lie down
and rest.
If the war
ever comes knocking,
tell them: he's taking
his rest.
Four sisters from Zakaria
Four sisters
climb the hill alone
in black clothes.
Four sisters sigh
facing the thicket.
Four sisters in the dark
read wet letters.
A train coming
from Artouf* passed
behind the picture.
A horse carrying
a girl from Zakaria*
neighs on the ridge
across the plain.
In the gorge
clouds slowly pass.
Four sisters
from Zakaria, alone
in black clothes
on the hill.
* Zakaria and Artouf are two Palestinian villages in the Khalil (Hebron)
area whose occupants were forced to leave in 1948.
The above poems were translated by Sargon Boulus from the author's selected poems 'Tarteeb al-wasf', ['Putting description in Order'], Ramallah, 1998. Reprinted here from Banipal No 12.
Darkness
Darkness has a hole,
with space for a hand,
black, with five fingers and an arm
Darkness owns a house,
haunted by the dead,
reburying their secrets in the bricks
Darkness kills the voices
mouthing from the stones,
choking in nettles at the bottom of the well
And a cry,
a harsh yell of protest,
rises from the dark heart of the wood
Family heirlooms
The cart:
still lurches on since grandfather fled
the boggy fields
The family:
still bang our heads on the rocks
from those fields
And the seven dead:
summon up
a jet of blood --
it churns
through the fields
soaking through dust,
through pebbles,
through feathers,
and through pollen
The dynasty:
is built
on seven just hyenas --
hordes have followed them,
pursued
by faithful ghosts,
the family commandments
like clumsy heirlooms
heavy round their necks,
charm bracelets strung
with the cart, and the family
and the red jet of blood,
while the dynasty
the heirlooms and the ghosts
all turn to dust
The two poems above were translated by Sarah Maguire with Kate Daniels
from the poet's collection 'Tarteeb al-Wasf' ['Putting Descriptions in
Order'], Ramallah, 1998.
Reprinted here from Banipal No 15/16
© Translation copyright Banipal and translator. All rights reserved.
A Mirror
Two faces loom in the catastrophe -
my father and his horse ; a little moon
that we will capture sails above our house.
If only we could regain our childhood ,
we'd imprison that moon a while between our hands
and when our hearts opined , let it fly away .
An Incident
I saw a hand waving from the river ,
it quivered before it disappeared ,
wiped off something - a luminous trace of air,
scent of carnation .
The fingers continued to play , wavered ,
drew desperate words on the surface ,
grew tired , and went under .
How we rejoice alone,
while beneath the water ,
there are sunken forests of desires-
the province of the losers .