Mohammad Helmi Rishah is a Palestinian poet, translator and researcher. He is the director general of the Palestinian House of Poetry and the editor-in-chief of Palestinian Literary Journal Masharef Maqdisiyah (Jerusalem Hills). Rishah received a bachelor’s degree in Economics and Business Management, and another in Arabic Literature. Rishah started working for the Palestinian House of Poetry in 2000. Ever since, he has devoted his time for poetical, literary, and cultural work. Rishah has participated in numerous local, Arab and international cultural and literary activities, including conferences, forums, and festivals. His works have been translated into many languages, including English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Bulgarian, and Persian. Risha has authored and edited more than twenty books. His poetical works in Arabic include Horses and Women (1980), The Anxiety Trilogy (1995), The Atlas of Dust (20014), and O Poet Within Me – in both Arabic and English (2015). His translated works include: Why The Grass Whispered Again: Selected Poems, translated into Arabic (2007), and Along The Slow River – Selected Poems and Short Stories, translated into Arabic (2007).
Her Fire Filings and the Wind
So distant would the sky be,
if I were not close to it.
How could I not thank the abyss?
My ink is padded,
my paper is a curtain…
my window is open,
my door is higher.
Hopping in pain, on the edge of life:
How beautiful is this barefoot moment;
My brain is moving away,
My dancing is my companion.
She taught me about fire,
and she died…
Do not worry O truth.
There is a rose in his genius mouth
another in his vast hand,
A female bouquet
tosses her waist at him
out of the sweetness of spirit.
They fear him because of his vastness and the narrowness of their noses,
Indeed they envy him for his great shadow…
Blessed be your poetry, O Muhammad.
V. I. P:
Very Important Poet
Since he began,
and until tomorrow;
his alphabets and their diacritical marks are broken
save for the fracture itself inside him.
In the allegation of love;
there is no winner except the dog.
How can you carry the homeland
if you are burying it in its own sand?
I never cried in the presence of his poem
when he mastered my crying
a little before he turned into a crocodile.
~ ~ ~
is an apple
~ ~ ~
If the butterfly
I’ll paint her
on its wet pane.
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