Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, a teacher of French as a foreign language and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Petrichor, Remembered Arts, Rigorous, Lunate, With Painted Words, The Dawntreader and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.
by John C. Mannone
By Julia Gardner
and your dreamy neon lights,
Nascar cab drivers indifferent to my safety belts,
you’ve always given me a bed,
at times it’s been a park bench,
but if you couldn’t get me home you always woke me up
Paris by Carol Alena Aronoff Paris was always more than Paris: the light of Monet’s garden illuminating Renoir’s picnic, the playgrounds of Matisse, Lautrec. Art drunk with croissants every morning on lace-covered tables with forsythia blooms in cerulean, the aroma of burnt sienna- cups brimming with water lilies, pure ambrosia soft like ripe brie. The […]
Somehow we were always expecting something like this, a strange wind off the Atlantic, moaning and cursing and full of old hurts, tearing shingles from roofs and slamming birds against windows, threatening to fling us, too, into another country
Learning a new language at fifty
is like learning ballet at seventy.
I love the music of new words
the dance of new thoughts,
a drumbeat of names:
Pevek and Anadyr, Roytan and Wrangel,
Larisa, Volodya, Valya and Slava,
Pyotr, Victor, Ludi, Villi, Yuri.
I want to come back to the north
and talk with you about polar bears,
and the ice floes, about icebreakers,
and the long night,
and the flowers on the tundra,
about where you came from
and where you are going,
and if the arctic will still be white
when our children have children.
by Fraser Sutherland I am afraid to return to that small green country of hills and hollows. No one’s there of whom to be afraid. What would await: the ashes of my son buried near the bones of my brother, though neither can harm or hurt me except the brackets of their living and their […]