Nasrallah was born in Ilwihdat refugee camp in Jordan in 1954. He studied in UNRWA schools in the camp and got his teaching degree from a training college in the camp. He moved to Saudi Arabia and worked as a teacher between the years of 1976-1978. Nasrallah then returned to Jordan and worked at Dostur, Afaq and Hasad newspapers. He is in charge of cultural activities at Darat-al-Funun in Amman. Nasrallah received numerous awards: The Award for Best Poetry Collection published in Jordan, The Arar literary Award for his body of work, and the Jordanian Writers Society Honorary prize three times for three of his poetry collections, and the prestigious Sultan Oweiss Award in 1998. He is a member of the Sakakini General Assembly. In 2001 Nasrallah donated all proceeds from his poetry collection "Maraya Al-Malai'ka" (Mirrors of Angels) to the Sakakini. The collection was written in tribute to Iman Hijjo, the infant girl who was killed by the Israeli shelling of Gaza on May 7th 2001..
Link to Ibrahim's website
Bewildered
In the beginning
the horses said, we need plains
the eagles said, we need summits
the snakes said, we need lairs
but humans remained bewildered
Days
On the first day
I held my hand as it drew a coffin
so they sent me a wreath
On the second day
I held my hand as it drew a flower
so they sent me a coffin
On the third day I shouted out
I want to live
so they sent me a killer
Poets
In that good and distant city
in a courtyard full of grass
all things sing
and everyone dances
He said: Go ask that filly to dance
I was shy
He said: If poets lose
the world will not gain
Confession
Yes
the house is a grave with a door and a window
the bedroom is half a shroud
and the bed, half a coffin
You, lady, and no one else
can change the scene
Freedom
Away from the flowerpots
and the scissors of the housewives
in the graveyards the rose bushes whisper:
More sadly -- here -- time passes
but the buds do not know fear
Childhood
Three small dreams, alone
pass through the night
searching for a house
the moment that the shell
pulverised the child's heart
Homeland
Under the yoke of our mornings
the sun crumbles
and in the darkness of our steps
our panting breath is on fire
these incomplete homelands
in which we we appear to be
nothing more than prisoners of war
Translated by Ibrahim Muhawi from several of the author's collections.
Here reprinted from Banipal No 13.
© Translation copyright Banipal and translator. All rights reserved.