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Nothing More to Lose
Nothing More to Lose is the first collection of poems by Palestinian poet Najwan Darwish to appear in English. Hailed across the Arab world and beyond, Darwish’s poetry walks the razor’s edge between despair and resistance, between dark humor and harsh political realities. With incisive imagery and passionate lyricism, Darwish confronts themes of equality and justice while offering a radical, more inclusive, rewriting of what it means to be both Arab and Palestinian living in Jerusalem, his birthplace.
129 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2014
12 people are currently reading
646 people want to read
About the author
Najwan Darwish
20 books39 followersNajwan Darwish; born December 8, 1978 in Jerusalem, is an Arabic-language poet. The New York Review of Books has described him as "one of the foremost Arabic-language poets of his generation". In 2014, NPR included his book Nothing More To Lose as one of the best books of the year.
Besides being a prominent poet, Darwish is a leading cultural editor in the Arab world. He has played an important role in developing Arabic cultural journalism by co-founding independent magazines and mainstream daily newspapers, as well as being a sharp critic.He was the chief editor of Min Wa Ila (From/To) Magazine in Palestine,and the cultural critic for Al Akhbar newspaper in Lebanon from 2006 to 2012, amongst other key positions in cultural journalism. In 2014 he became the founding chief editor of the cultural section of Al Araby Al Jadeed (The New Arab), a major pan-Arab daily newspaper based in London.
Darwish is active in diverse media, culture and art projects in Palestine and the Arab world. He was the literary advisor of MASARAT Palestine, the Palestinian Cultural and Artistic Year in Belgium (2007-2008) alongside the late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who was the head of the committee. He is the literary advisor to the Palestine Festival of Literature (PalFest).
Darwish is a speaker and lecturer. Past lectures include "The Sexual Image of Israel in the Arab Imagination" at Homeworks (Beirut, 2008) and "To Be a Palestinian Intellectual After Oslo" at the House of Culture (Oslo, 2009).
Besides being a prominent poet, Darwish is a leading cultural editor in the Arab world. He has played an important role in developing Arabic cultural journalism by co-founding independent magazines and mainstream daily newspapers, as well as being a sharp critic.He was the chief editor of Min Wa Ila (From/To) Magazine in Palestine,and the cultural critic for Al Akhbar newspaper in Lebanon from 2006 to 2012, amongst other key positions in cultural journalism. In 2014 he became the founding chief editor of the cultural section of Al Araby Al Jadeed (The New Arab), a major pan-Arab daily newspaper based in London.
Darwish is active in diverse media, culture and art projects in Palestine and the Arab world. He was the literary advisor of MASARAT Palestine, the Palestinian Cultural and Artistic Year in Belgium (2007-2008) alongside the late Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who was the head of the committee. He is the literary advisor to the Palestine Festival of Literature (PalFest).
Darwish is a speaker and lecturer. Past lectures include "The Sexual Image of Israel in the Arab Imagination" at Homeworks (Beirut, 2008) and "To Be a Palestinian Intellectual After Oslo" at the House of Culture (Oslo, 2009).
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 53 reviews
March 2, 2021
but the nightmares, always
are your only sheets
*
Turn me, Lord, into a lute
so that I may play for those
who hold their heads high
for those
returning from the dead
as if they never died
*
From beyond the years
from beyond the countries and all that the maps conceal
I guard you
and you guard me
I’m sleeping on the riverbed and listening
to you as you cross over
are your only sheets
*
Turn me, Lord, into a lute
so that I may play for those
who hold their heads high
for those
returning from the dead
as if they never died
*
From beyond the years
from beyond the countries and all that the maps conceal
I guard you
and you guard me
I’m sleeping on the riverbed and listening
to you as you cross over
June 13, 2021
I’m in danger of heresy but not only did I buy this in Asheville believing it was by Mahmoud Darwish but having read this, I prefer it to the one volume of Mahmoud’s poetry I have finished, though I’ve since been cautioned that the chosen book wasn’t reflective of Mahmoud’s best work and that my hasty reading missed some enduring symbols and motifs of the master’s work. I readily concede such but today I have found this particular collection in itself a triumph, well worth anyone’s time. The themes of human fallibility and the mutable nature of perception and history are striking. The allusions to Umm Kulthum and to Baudelaire afford it an oblique charm, one I found most endearing.
July 29, 2016
Political poetry often tilts toward message over music, but Najwan Darwish creates an impressive balance. These poems depict a multitude of perspectives, allowing for imagery that is specific to individual Palestinians rather than a collective identity. In his useful afterword, the translator, Kareem James Abu-Zeid, recalls having to remind himself, “I am not translating one poet, but many.” This is clear throughout the collection but perhaps most forcefully supported in “Self-Mockery,” which states, “It’s not I who write these words: / It’s some other bastard.” If that final word shocks you, know that these poems do not flinch from bold language. And if you like poems with bite, these have shark teeth. One of my favorites, "Want Ad," ends:
I need a servant
and a traitor
a lover to have me murdered
beaten to death
by sandals in the bath:
I need a queen
to betray me with a king
I'm not sure which of the poet's voices is speaking in this poem, but he's certainly memorable. The NYRB has done us a favor by publishing these wonderful translations.
I need a servant
and a traitor
a lover to have me murdered
beaten to death
by sandals in the bath:
I need a queen
to betray me with a king
I'm not sure which of the poet's voices is speaking in this poem, but he's certainly memorable. The NYRB has done us a favor by publishing these wonderful translations.
February 28, 2026
An absolutely incredible poet. A poet of liberation. I had the pleasure of watching this man speak. Which had made me love his poems even more.
July 24, 2025
free palestine
August 14, 2025
Sealey Challenge 2025: 13/31
This was my first full length collection of Najwan Darwish's work although I have read many poems in isolation over the years. It was rather impressive as it offers a tapestry of voices, each rooted in the lived experiences of individual Palestinians rather than a monolithic, collective identity.
Darwish crafts these perspectives with shifts in image, tone, and syntax that are sometimes subtle and other times striking. Throughout the collection, each poem definitely captured the nuance of each speaker’s world. The result feels like wandering through a town, encountering people on both their best and worst days, each simply trying to get by.
What’s particularly effective is this absence of a single overarching narrative; instead, the book thrives on its mosaic of personal stories. This approach not only humanizes but also individualizes, making each poem feel intimate and distinct. The credit for this is also due to Kareem James Abu-Zeid’s skillful translation, which manages to preserve the varied registers and emotional range of the original. Striking a balance in such a multifaceted work can’t have been easy, but here it’s achieved with remarkable success as a true collaboration between poet and translator.
This was my first full length collection of Najwan Darwish's work although I have read many poems in isolation over the years. It was rather impressive as it offers a tapestry of voices, each rooted in the lived experiences of individual Palestinians rather than a monolithic, collective identity.
Darwish crafts these perspectives with shifts in image, tone, and syntax that are sometimes subtle and other times striking. Throughout the collection, each poem definitely captured the nuance of each speaker’s world. The result feels like wandering through a town, encountering people on both their best and worst days, each simply trying to get by.
What’s particularly effective is this absence of a single overarching narrative; instead, the book thrives on its mosaic of personal stories. This approach not only humanizes but also individualizes, making each poem feel intimate and distinct. The credit for this is also due to Kareem James Abu-Zeid’s skillful translation, which manages to preserve the varied registers and emotional range of the original. Striking a balance in such a multifaceted work can’t have been easy, but here it’s achieved with remarkable success as a true collaboration between poet and translator.
April 3, 2014
Incredible, and provocative of complicated thoughts and feelings I'm still untangling. The translation is very effective, understated and dexterous. Review forthcoming at NPR.
January 13, 2019
Ovo je genijalno, pregenijalno! Oduševljena sam potpuno! Odavno nisam pročitala ovako dobrog savremenog pjesnika, pa čovjek nema nijednu pjesmu da kažeš da ne valja. Evo neke koje su se meni lično najviše dopale, iako ima on i boljih.
Osobna iskaznica
Iako su – kako u šali kažu moji prijatelji – Kurdi nadaleko
poznati po svojoj surovosti, ja sam nježnije od ljetnog povjetarca
grlio svoju braću na sve četiri strane svijeta.
I ja sam bio onaj Armenac koji nije vjerovao suzama pod trepavicama
povijesnog snijega
što prekriva podjednako žrtve i ubojice.
Zar bi nakon svega bilo neumjesno da pustim svoju poeziju
da padne u blato?
I uvijek sam ja onaj Sirijac iz Betlehema što uzdiže riječi mog armenskog brata,
kao i onaj Turčin iz Konye, što prolazi kroz dveri Damaska.
Maločas sam stigao u Bayadir Wadi al-Sir, gdje me pozdravio povjetarac,
povjetarac koji jedini zna što znači kad čovjek siđe s kavkaskih planina, s gordošću
i kostima predaka, svojom jedinom popudbinom.
A kad mi je srce prvi put stupilo na alžirsko tlo, ni u jednom času nisam posumnjao
da sam Amazigh.*
Na svakom su me koraku opet držali za Iračanina,
i pritom nisu bili u krivu.
A često sam se smatrao i Egipćaninom, koji se uz Nil neprestano rađa i umire skupa sa svojim afričkim precima.
Ali više od svega bijah Aramejac. Nije čudo da su mi stričevi bili Bizantinci, te da sam ja bio ono dijete iz Hijaza koje su tetošili Omar i Sofronije,11 kad su se otvorile dveri Jeruzalema.
Nema tog mjesta koje je prkosilo osvajačima, a da nisam bio jedan od njegovih stanovnika: nema slobodnog čovjeka s kojim nisam u rodu, kao što nema nijednog stabla ni oblaka kojima nešto ne dugujem. Niti će me moj prezir spram cionista spriječiti da kažem kako sam ja onaj Židov prognan iz Andaluzije, i da još uvijek iz svjetla zalazećeg sunca ispredam suvisla značenja.
Jedan prozor moje kuće gleda na Grčku, u sobi je ikona okrenuta prema Rusiji, sladak miris što se neprestano širi iz Hijaza,
i zrcalo: čim stanem pred njega vidim sebe uronjenog u proljetne vrtove Shiraza, Bukhare i Isfahana.
Ako si nešto iole manje od ovoga – nisi Arapin.
* Amazigh je termin za Berbere (također i Imazigeni, što znači „slobodan čovjek“), hamitski narod koji obitava u saharskom području Sjeverne Afrike. Berberi su, među ostalima, Sv. Augustin i Zinedine Zidane.
Usnuo u Gazi
Fado*, spavat ću kao što ljudi spavaju
dok granate padaju
i nebo se cijepa poput živa mesa
I sanjat ću, tada, kao što ljudi sanjaju
dok granate padaju:
sanjat ću izdaju
Budit ću se u podne i pitati radio
kao što ga ljudi pitaju:
je li prestalo granatiranje?
Koliko ih je pobijeno?
Ali moja tragedija, Fado,
je u tome što postoje dvije vrste ljudi:
oni koji vlastite grijehe i patnju izbacuju
na ulicu, kako bi mogli spavati
i oni koji skupljaju ljudske grijehe i patnje
mijeseći ih u križeve, da bi njima marširali
ulicama Babilona, Gaze i Bejruta
neprestano zapomažući
Koliko ih još dolazi?
Koliko ih još dolazi?
Prije dvije godine hodao sam ulicama
Dahieha, u južnom Bejrutu
i za sobom vukao križ
velik poput uništenih zgrada
Ali tko će danas podići križ
s leđa umorna čovjeka u Jeruzalemu?
Zemlja su tri čavla
a čekić milosrđe:
Udri, Gospodine,
Udri avionima
Koliko ih još dolazi?
prosinac 2008.
* Fado je portugalska riječ za „sudbinu“, a također označava tamošnji popularni način pjevanja, općenito uzevši tugaljiv i melankoličan, koji često priziva osjećaj gubitka, odnosno prepuštanja sudbini.
Noćna mora – autobus za Sabru i Shatilu
Vidio sam kako mi tetke trpaju u crne plastične kese
dok se u njih slijeva topla krv
(ali ja tetki nemam)
Znao sam da su ubili Natašu, moju trogodišnju kćer
(ali ja kćeri nemam)
Rečeno mi je da su mi silovali ženu
i niz stepenice joj skotrljali tijelo
na ulicu
(ali ja nisam oženjen)
Nema sumnje: ono su moje naočale
smrskane pod njihovim čizmama
(ali ja ne nosim naočale)
***
Usnuo u kući svojih roditelja, sanjao sam
da joj idem ususret, ali kad sam otvorio oči
ugledao sam svoju braću
kako vise sa stropa
Bazilike Svetog groba
da bi tu Bog u Svojem milosrđu zavapio: „To je moja patnja!“,
a ja skupivši ono malo gordosti
preostale u obješenima
odgovorih: „Nije, naša je!“
***
Tako da sad sjaj patnje zasjenjuje
sve moje snomorice
***
Gospode
neću pobjeći na sjever -
ne ubrajajte me u one koji traže utočište
- Račune ćemo sravniti kasnije -
Sad je vrijeme za počinak
Ne želim propustiti
svoju noćnu moru - autobus za Sabru i Shatilu
Sloboda
Sloboda na barikadama ima dvije gole sise
u desnoj joj je ruci francuski barjak
a u lijevoj puška s bajunetom
Ali gle kako samo gazi po ljudima
bosonoga Sloboda
Pojašnjenje
Juda nije htio da me „izda“, –
nije ni znao za tako važnu riječ poput „izdaje“,
On je naprosto bio „čovjek tržišta“
i samo me je – kad su došli nakupci –
utržio
Za nikakvu cijenu?
Nipošto. Trideset srebrnjaka
nisu mala stvar za
od blata sačinjeno lice
Moji najdraži prijatelji bili su Jude
sve listom
ljudi tržišta
U pohvalu obitelji
Samo jedna rečenica dovoljna je za kompliment:
Ti si duboki kamenolom
svih mojih noćnih mora
Plinske komore
Nemam baku koja je skončala u plinskoj komori
Moje bake pomrle su kao i većina baka:
Prva nije imala strpljenja
da dočeka prvu intifadu;
pluća druge otkazala su čim
je okopnila druga
Bake, niste dovoljno propatile
da bi mi bili spašeni
Kako užasna bje Nakba?
Kako mučno je biti izbjeglica?
Ali sitne su to boli
za crnčuge poput nas
Zabavljam se ispisujući ovo
u plinskoj komori
Život hramlje prema meni
Postat ću grbavac
nakon tri promašene godine provedene pred kompjutorom
Postat ću impotentan
nakon sedam godina neumjerenih avantura
Postat ću rasist
nakon propalih druženja s drugim etničkim skupinama
Postat ću skučen
sjedeći predugo sâm sa svojim mislima
Postat ću skrušen
zahvaljujući neumjerenom ateizmu
Gospode moj, je li to život što hramlje prema meni
ili supermarket deformiteta?
Glasine
Spreman sam za glasine
što uskoro će se proširiti
i voljan sam ih priznati
Potvrdit ću glasine
koje kažu da sam tog-i-tog jutra
ili te-i-te noći
ronio suze u najskrovitijem kutku
svoga bića nad jednom njemačkom Židovkom
što došla je ovamo s obitelji – obitelji
koja mi je otela zemlju
Što se pak razloga za plač tiče
nek’ oglase se glasine
Obelisk
za Umm Kulthum
Kad je najveća pjevačica svog vremena posjetila Pariz da bi održala koncert solidarnosti za svoju zemlju, koja se upravo izvlačila ispod ruševina strašnog poraza, pristala je na samo jedan televizijski intervju. (Pričalo se da je njen honorar, koji je u cijelosti donirala u svrhu sanacije ratne štete, bila najveća suma koju je neki pjevač tada dobio za nastup).
Na novinarsko pitanje što joj se najviše svidjelo u „Gradu svjetala“, kako ga oni zovu, Umm Kulthum se šarmantno nasmiješila i odgovorila – egipatski obelisk.
Egipatska seljanka u njoj bila je veća od svakog grada
jer radnik je veći od svakog pjesnika
taj čovjek što se sad zadovoljno smješka u meni oduševljen
ovom pohvalom svojim precima –
klesarima tog obeliska
Osobna iskaznica
Iako su – kako u šali kažu moji prijatelji – Kurdi nadaleko
poznati po svojoj surovosti, ja sam nježnije od ljetnog povjetarca
grlio svoju braću na sve četiri strane svijeta.
I ja sam bio onaj Armenac koji nije vjerovao suzama pod trepavicama
povijesnog snijega
što prekriva podjednako žrtve i ubojice.
Zar bi nakon svega bilo neumjesno da pustim svoju poeziju
da padne u blato?
I uvijek sam ja onaj Sirijac iz Betlehema što uzdiže riječi mog armenskog brata,
kao i onaj Turčin iz Konye, što prolazi kroz dveri Damaska.
Maločas sam stigao u Bayadir Wadi al-Sir, gdje me pozdravio povjetarac,
povjetarac koji jedini zna što znači kad čovjek siđe s kavkaskih planina, s gordošću
i kostima predaka, svojom jedinom popudbinom.
A kad mi je srce prvi put stupilo na alžirsko tlo, ni u jednom času nisam posumnjao
da sam Amazigh.*
Na svakom su me koraku opet držali za Iračanina,
i pritom nisu bili u krivu.
A često sam se smatrao i Egipćaninom, koji se uz Nil neprestano rađa i umire skupa sa svojim afričkim precima.
Ali više od svega bijah Aramejac. Nije čudo da su mi stričevi bili Bizantinci, te da sam ja bio ono dijete iz Hijaza koje su tetošili Omar i Sofronije,11 kad su se otvorile dveri Jeruzalema.
Nema tog mjesta koje je prkosilo osvajačima, a da nisam bio jedan od njegovih stanovnika: nema slobodnog čovjeka s kojim nisam u rodu, kao što nema nijednog stabla ni oblaka kojima nešto ne dugujem. Niti će me moj prezir spram cionista spriječiti da kažem kako sam ja onaj Židov prognan iz Andaluzije, i da još uvijek iz svjetla zalazećeg sunca ispredam suvisla značenja.
Jedan prozor moje kuće gleda na Grčku, u sobi je ikona okrenuta prema Rusiji, sladak miris što se neprestano širi iz Hijaza,
i zrcalo: čim stanem pred njega vidim sebe uronjenog u proljetne vrtove Shiraza, Bukhare i Isfahana.
Ako si nešto iole manje od ovoga – nisi Arapin.
* Amazigh je termin za Berbere (također i Imazigeni, što znači „slobodan čovjek“), hamitski narod koji obitava u saharskom području Sjeverne Afrike. Berberi su, među ostalima, Sv. Augustin i Zinedine Zidane.
Usnuo u Gazi
Fado*, spavat ću kao što ljudi spavaju
dok granate padaju
i nebo se cijepa poput živa mesa
I sanjat ću, tada, kao što ljudi sanjaju
dok granate padaju:
sanjat ću izdaju
Budit ću se u podne i pitati radio
kao što ga ljudi pitaju:
je li prestalo granatiranje?
Koliko ih je pobijeno?
Ali moja tragedija, Fado,
je u tome što postoje dvije vrste ljudi:
oni koji vlastite grijehe i patnju izbacuju
na ulicu, kako bi mogli spavati
i oni koji skupljaju ljudske grijehe i patnje
mijeseći ih u križeve, da bi njima marširali
ulicama Babilona, Gaze i Bejruta
neprestano zapomažući
Koliko ih još dolazi?
Koliko ih još dolazi?
Prije dvije godine hodao sam ulicama
Dahieha, u južnom Bejrutu
i za sobom vukao križ
velik poput uništenih zgrada
Ali tko će danas podići križ
s leđa umorna čovjeka u Jeruzalemu?
Zemlja su tri čavla
a čekić milosrđe:
Udri, Gospodine,
Udri avionima
Koliko ih još dolazi?
prosinac 2008.
* Fado je portugalska riječ za „sudbinu“, a također označava tamošnji popularni način pjevanja, općenito uzevši tugaljiv i melankoličan, koji često priziva osjećaj gubitka, odnosno prepuštanja sudbini.
Noćna mora – autobus za Sabru i Shatilu
Vidio sam kako mi tetke trpaju u crne plastične kese
dok se u njih slijeva topla krv
(ali ja tetki nemam)
Znao sam da su ubili Natašu, moju trogodišnju kćer
(ali ja kćeri nemam)
Rečeno mi je da su mi silovali ženu
i niz stepenice joj skotrljali tijelo
na ulicu
(ali ja nisam oženjen)
Nema sumnje: ono su moje naočale
smrskane pod njihovim čizmama
(ali ja ne nosim naočale)
***
Usnuo u kući svojih roditelja, sanjao sam
da joj idem ususret, ali kad sam otvorio oči
ugledao sam svoju braću
kako vise sa stropa
Bazilike Svetog groba
da bi tu Bog u Svojem milosrđu zavapio: „To je moja patnja!“,
a ja skupivši ono malo gordosti
preostale u obješenima
odgovorih: „Nije, naša je!“
***
Tako da sad sjaj patnje zasjenjuje
sve moje snomorice
***
Gospode
neću pobjeći na sjever -
ne ubrajajte me u one koji traže utočište
- Račune ćemo sravniti kasnije -
Sad je vrijeme za počinak
Ne želim propustiti
svoju noćnu moru - autobus za Sabru i Shatilu
Sloboda
Sloboda na barikadama ima dvije gole sise
u desnoj joj je ruci francuski barjak
a u lijevoj puška s bajunetom
Ali gle kako samo gazi po ljudima
bosonoga Sloboda
Pojašnjenje
Juda nije htio da me „izda“, –
nije ni znao za tako važnu riječ poput „izdaje“,
On je naprosto bio „čovjek tržišta“
i samo me je – kad su došli nakupci –
utržio
Za nikakvu cijenu?
Nipošto. Trideset srebrnjaka
nisu mala stvar za
od blata sačinjeno lice
Moji najdraži prijatelji bili su Jude
sve listom
ljudi tržišta
U pohvalu obitelji
Samo jedna rečenica dovoljna je za kompliment:
Ti si duboki kamenolom
svih mojih noćnih mora
Plinske komore
Nemam baku koja je skončala u plinskoj komori
Moje bake pomrle su kao i većina baka:
Prva nije imala strpljenja
da dočeka prvu intifadu;
pluća druge otkazala su čim
je okopnila druga
Bake, niste dovoljno propatile
da bi mi bili spašeni
Kako užasna bje Nakba?
Kako mučno je biti izbjeglica?
Ali sitne su to boli
za crnčuge poput nas
Zabavljam se ispisujući ovo
u plinskoj komori
Život hramlje prema meni
Postat ću grbavac
nakon tri promašene godine provedene pred kompjutorom
Postat ću impotentan
nakon sedam godina neumjerenih avantura
Postat ću rasist
nakon propalih druženja s drugim etničkim skupinama
Postat ću skučen
sjedeći predugo sâm sa svojim mislima
Postat ću skrušen
zahvaljujući neumjerenom ateizmu
Gospode moj, je li to život što hramlje prema meni
ili supermarket deformiteta?
Glasine
Spreman sam za glasine
što uskoro će se proširiti
i voljan sam ih priznati
Potvrdit ću glasine
koje kažu da sam tog-i-tog jutra
ili te-i-te noći
ronio suze u najskrovitijem kutku
svoga bića nad jednom njemačkom Židovkom
što došla je ovamo s obitelji – obitelji
koja mi je otela zemlju
Što se pak razloga za plač tiče
nek’ oglase se glasine
Obelisk
za Umm Kulthum
Kad je najveća pjevačica svog vremena posjetila Pariz da bi održala koncert solidarnosti za svoju zemlju, koja se upravo izvlačila ispod ruševina strašnog poraza, pristala je na samo jedan televizijski intervju. (Pričalo se da je njen honorar, koji je u cijelosti donirala u svrhu sanacije ratne štete, bila najveća suma koju je neki pjevač tada dobio za nastup).
Na novinarsko pitanje što joj se najviše svidjelo u „Gradu svjetala“, kako ga oni zovu, Umm Kulthum se šarmantno nasmiješila i odgovorila – egipatski obelisk.
Egipatska seljanka u njoj bila je veća od svakog grada
jer radnik je veći od svakog pjesnika
taj čovjek što se sad zadovoljno smješka u meni oduševljen
ovom pohvalom svojim precima –
klesarima tog obeliska
January 16, 2022
"We stood on the Mount
to raise a sacrifice for you
and when we saw our hands rise
empty
we knew
that we were your sacrifice
Let the mortals fall
in the hands of their fellow mortals
You alone always remain
This confused pilgrimage
of those who are impermanent—
what concern is it of yours?
Our hands rise, empty
We are your sacrifice"
// Jerusalem (I)
Kareem James Abu-Zeid proposes in his Afterword that there is not one Najwan Darwish but many voices, many different versions of the ever-present lyric "I". Reading his first collection of poems to come out in English, a selection of his work from 1998 to 2013 and translated by Abu-Zeid, it is quickly apparent that he has a varied range of voices and registers marked by subtle and clear shifts in image, tone, and syntax. His expressions of resistance as a Palestinian are not limited by tradition nor is his criticism only directed at Israel. Occupation is prominent – "I'll dream, then, like people do / when shells are falling: / I'll dream of betrayals.
Christ in suffering is a recurring figure here and while the crucifixion becomes a strong symbol of the Palestinian struggle, there is also a hope for redemption intertwined within it: "The world is hung now on a piece of wood" and salvation is nearby, waiting to come down to earth. He tries to come at a more diverse and enveloping Arab identity in the 21st Century not restricted by the arbitrary nature of borders or solid boundaries of ethnicity, only united by one's experience and sensibility. While he states "the seats of hope are always reserved" and the repeated echoing plea is "The Earth is three nails / and mercy a hammer: / Strike, Lord", he maintains "The world will be good" for posterity.
(I received a finished copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.)
to raise a sacrifice for you
and when we saw our hands rise
empty
we knew
that we were your sacrifice
Let the mortals fall
in the hands of their fellow mortals
You alone always remain
This confused pilgrimage
of those who are impermanent—
what concern is it of yours?
Our hands rise, empty
We are your sacrifice"
// Jerusalem (I)
Kareem James Abu-Zeid proposes in his Afterword that there is not one Najwan Darwish but many voices, many different versions of the ever-present lyric "I". Reading his first collection of poems to come out in English, a selection of his work from 1998 to 2013 and translated by Abu-Zeid, it is quickly apparent that he has a varied range of voices and registers marked by subtle and clear shifts in image, tone, and syntax. His expressions of resistance as a Palestinian are not limited by tradition nor is his criticism only directed at Israel. Occupation is prominent – "I'll dream, then, like people do / when shells are falling: / I'll dream of betrayals.
Christ in suffering is a recurring figure here and while the crucifixion becomes a strong symbol of the Palestinian struggle, there is also a hope for redemption intertwined within it: "The world is hung now on a piece of wood" and salvation is nearby, waiting to come down to earth. He tries to come at a more diverse and enveloping Arab identity in the 21st Century not restricted by the arbitrary nature of borders or solid boundaries of ethnicity, only united by one's experience and sensibility. While he states "the seats of hope are always reserved" and the repeated echoing plea is "The Earth is three nails / and mercy a hammer: / Strike, Lord", he maintains "The world will be good" for posterity.
(I received a finished copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.)
August 6, 2025
“Finding your graves
was an expanse of majesty and light
We recalled how the two of you fought
to the last bullet
the last breath
until they wrecked the home above your heads
with their tanks
and the earth in my eyes grew greater....
My friends
I envy nothing in this world
but your two graves."
was an expanse of majesty and light
We recalled how the two of you fought
to the last bullet
the last breath
until they wrecked the home above your heads
with their tanks
and the earth in my eyes grew greater....
My friends
I envy nothing in this world
but your two graves."
May 22, 2021
This was heart-wrenching and thought-provoking, painful, nostalgic, hopeful and hopeless. A collection that is worthy of taking your time to read it, regardless of whether you're a lover of poetry or not.
"Our hands rise, empty
We are your sacrifice"
"Go ahead and imagine trees swaying with you
and an air that welcomes your fall
you who lived like these trees
without land
without roots"
"Liberty Leading the People has two bare breasts
her right hand holds the French flag
her left a rifle with a bayonet
But notice too how barefoot Liberty
tramples the people beneath her"
"I don’t have a grandmother who died in the gas chambers
(...)
Grandmothers, you didn’t suffer enough
for us to be saved
(...)
I amuse myself by writing this down
in the gas chamber"
"A soft bed is worth the sky
waking up free is worth a year of life"
"Awake so that the colonizers might leave
Awake so that people can sleep
“Everyone has to sleep sometime,” they say
I am awake
and ready to die"
"sometimes you cannot sleep
and sometimes you can
but the nightmares, always
are your only sheets"
June 14, 2022
I was only pausing in my day to read a few poems but I had to stop everything else until I finished.
Passionate outcry against injustice but lyrically seductive.
I could not turn my head away
Passionate outcry against injustice but lyrically seductive.
I could not turn my head away
November 4, 2023
the world & all of time is woven into every line of this. Terrifying, compelling and comprehensive.
Read
July 4, 2024“You were a voyager death had
taken
You were a dead man the voyage
had taken”
taken
You were a dead man the voyage
had taken”
March 11, 2026
3.5 // started off not grasping a lot of these and then the second half had poems / lines that took my breath away
March 15, 2021
IDENTITY CARD
Despite - as my friends joke - the Kurds being famous for their severity, I was gentler than a summer breeze as I embraced my brothers in the four corners of the world.
And I was the Armenian who did not believe the tears beneath the eyelids of history's snow
that covers both the murdered and the murderers.
Is it so much, after all that has happened, to drop my poetry in the mud?
In every case I was a Syrian from Bethlehem raising the words of my Armenian brother, and a Turk from Konya entering the gate of Damascus.
And a little while ago I arrived in Bayadir Wadi al-Sir and was welcomed by the breeze, the breeze that alone knew the meaning of a man coming from the Caucasus Mountains, his only companions his dignity and the bones of his ancestors.
And when my heart first tread on Algerian soil, I did not doubt for a moment that I was an Amazigh.
Everywhere I went they thought I was an Iraqi, and they were not wrong in this.
And often I considered myself an Egyptian living and dying time and again by the Nile with my African forebears.
But above anything I was an Aramaean. It is no wonder that my uncles were Byzantines, and that I was a Hijazi child coddled by Umar and Sophronius when Jerusalem was opened.
There is no place that resisted its invaders except that I was one of its people; there is no free man to whom I am not bound in kinship; and there is no single tree or cloud to which I am not indebted. And my scorn for Zionists will not prevent me from saying that I was a Jew expelled from Andalusia, and that I still weave meaning from the light of that setting sun.
In my house there is a window that opens onto Greece, an icon that points to Russia, a sweet scent forever drifting from Hijaz,
and a mirror: No sooner do I stand before it than I see myself immersed in springtime in the gardens of Shiraz, and Isfahan, and Bukhara.
And by anything less than this, one is not an Arab.
Despite - as my friends joke - the Kurds being famous for their severity, I was gentler than a summer breeze as I embraced my brothers in the four corners of the world.
And I was the Armenian who did not believe the tears beneath the eyelids of history's snow
that covers both the murdered and the murderers.
Is it so much, after all that has happened, to drop my poetry in the mud?
In every case I was a Syrian from Bethlehem raising the words of my Armenian brother, and a Turk from Konya entering the gate of Damascus.
And a little while ago I arrived in Bayadir Wadi al-Sir and was welcomed by the breeze, the breeze that alone knew the meaning of a man coming from the Caucasus Mountains, his only companions his dignity and the bones of his ancestors.
And when my heart first tread on Algerian soil, I did not doubt for a moment that I was an Amazigh.
Everywhere I went they thought I was an Iraqi, and they were not wrong in this.
And often I considered myself an Egyptian living and dying time and again by the Nile with my African forebears.
But above anything I was an Aramaean. It is no wonder that my uncles were Byzantines, and that I was a Hijazi child coddled by Umar and Sophronius when Jerusalem was opened.
There is no place that resisted its invaders except that I was one of its people; there is no free man to whom I am not bound in kinship; and there is no single tree or cloud to which I am not indebted. And my scorn for Zionists will not prevent me from saying that I was a Jew expelled from Andalusia, and that I still weave meaning from the light of that setting sun.
In my house there is a window that opens onto Greece, an icon that points to Russia, a sweet scent forever drifting from Hijaz,
and a mirror: No sooner do I stand before it than I see myself immersed in springtime in the gardens of Shiraz, and Isfahan, and Bukhara.
And by anything less than this, one is not an Arab.
December 21, 2015
I did like this, but, of course, one doesn't know whether one is reading Darwish or Abu-Zeid, the translator.
In any case, the themes belong to Darwish:
"Jerusalem (I)"
"We stood on the Mount
to raise a sacrifice for you
and when we saw our hands rise
empty
we knew
that we were your sacrifice
"Let the mortals fall
in the hands of their fellow mortals
You alone always remain
This confused pilgrimage
of those who are impermanent--
what concern is it f yours?
"Our hands rise, empty
We are your sacrifice"
The situation of the Palestinians, with "Nothing More to Lose," is Darwish's topic though his vision, while dark, is not as hopeless as Mahmoud Darwish's work.
"The Load of Seven Camels"
"The singer's longing has worn her out:
the load of seven camels in every sigh
a tribe's departure in every tremor of her voice
and her silence a city
whose people sleep while she keeps watch
"But what am I making, with no weight to my sighs
no fame behind my voice
and my silence a city
the invaders have kept us from reaching?"
"Charles's Mother"
"My mother and Baudelaire's
stay up at night
like two relatives at a funeral
My mother asks her
Have you seen what poetry's done to our boys?
Najwan was so sweet as a child.
But Charles's mother remains silent
like the last thorn in the Garden of Evil"
The forced exodus of the Palestinians in 1948, the Nakba, is the decisive experience of these poems though Darwish himself was born in 1978 in Jerusalem. One thinks of Newt Gingrich's idiocy (2011) that the Palestinians are "an invented people" and the attitude of US politicians vis-a-vis the Israelis.
In any case, the themes belong to Darwish:
"Jerusalem (I)"
"We stood on the Mount
to raise a sacrifice for you
and when we saw our hands rise
empty
we knew
that we were your sacrifice
"Let the mortals fall
in the hands of their fellow mortals
You alone always remain
This confused pilgrimage
of those who are impermanent--
what concern is it f yours?
"Our hands rise, empty
We are your sacrifice"
The situation of the Palestinians, with "Nothing More to Lose," is Darwish's topic though his vision, while dark, is not as hopeless as Mahmoud Darwish's work.
"The Load of Seven Camels"
"The singer's longing has worn her out:
the load of seven camels in every sigh
a tribe's departure in every tremor of her voice
and her silence a city
whose people sleep while she keeps watch
"But what am I making, with no weight to my sighs
no fame behind my voice
and my silence a city
the invaders have kept us from reaching?"
"Charles's Mother"
"My mother and Baudelaire's
stay up at night
like two relatives at a funeral
My mother asks her
Have you seen what poetry's done to our boys?
Najwan was so sweet as a child.
But Charles's mother remains silent
like the last thorn in the Garden of Evil"
The forced exodus of the Palestinians in 1948, the Nakba, is the decisive experience of these poems though Darwish himself was born in 1978 in Jerusalem. One thinks of Newt Gingrich's idiocy (2011) that the Palestinians are "an invented people" and the attitude of US politicians vis-a-vis the Israelis.
November 8, 2023
“The days raise a glass to me
I see the outstretched arm everywhere
I turn
But what’s a raised glass when all of you have been expelled have fled to the four corners of the world?
What’s a raised glass when the invaders are in our home?
I give the glass back to the days”
Im not usually a fan of poetry, however this is a beautifully written collection. I wish I knew more Palestinian history before reading it. Buut it did cause me to look more into the history and for that I’m grateful
I see the outstretched arm everywhere
I turn
But what’s a raised glass when all of you have been expelled have fled to the four corners of the world?
What’s a raised glass when the invaders are in our home?
I give the glass back to the days”
Im not usually a fan of poetry, however this is a beautifully written collection. I wish I knew more Palestinian history before reading it. Buut it did cause me to look more into the history and for that I’m grateful
November 10, 2023
Sleeping in Gaza
Fado, I'll sleep like people do
When shells are falling
And the sky is torn like living flesh
I'll dream, then, like people do
When shells are falling :
I'll dream of betrayals
I'll wake at noon and ask the radio
The question people ask of it :
Is the shelling over?
How many are killed?
Fado, I'll sleep like people do
When shells are falling
And the sky is torn like living flesh
I'll dream, then, like people do
When shells are falling :
I'll dream of betrayals
I'll wake at noon and ask the radio
The question people ask of it :
Is the shelling over?
How many are killed?
July 30, 2024
Najwan Darwish's Nothing More to Lose is a raw and unflinching indictment of the Palestinian condition. It is a collection of poems that serves as a powerful testament to the resilience and defiance of a people living under occupation.
Darwish’s poetry is characterized by a visceral intensity, a direct confrontation with the horrors of war and oppression. His language is both lyrical and brutal, capturing the complexities of life under siege. He spares no detail, exposing the reader to the stark realities of displacement, violence, and loss.
A central theme in the collection is the struggle for identity in a world that seeks to erase it. Palestinians, according to Darwish, are caught in a perpetual state of limbo, their existence defined by occupation and displacement. The poems explore the complexities of belonging, questioning the meaning of home and nation when both are under threat.
While the collection is undeniably marked by anger and frustration, it is also a testament to the enduring human spirit. Darwish’s poetry is infused with a defiant hope, a refusal to succumb to despair. He celebrates the resilience of the Palestinian people, their capacity to love and to dream, even in the face of adversity.
Nothing More to Lose is not merely a personal lament but a call to action. Darwish's poetry demands attention, forcing readers to confront the injustices inflicted upon the Palestinian people. It is a powerful indictment of a global order that has allowed such suffering to persist.
Najwan Darwish’s poetry is a vital contribution to contemporary world literature. Nothing More to Lose is a collection that shakes the reader to the core, forcing a confrontation with the realities of war and oppression. It is a testament to the power of poetry to give voice to the voiceless and to inspire change.
Darwish’s poetry is characterized by a visceral intensity, a direct confrontation with the horrors of war and oppression. His language is both lyrical and brutal, capturing the complexities of life under siege. He spares no detail, exposing the reader to the stark realities of displacement, violence, and loss.
A central theme in the collection is the struggle for identity in a world that seeks to erase it. Palestinians, according to Darwish, are caught in a perpetual state of limbo, their existence defined by occupation and displacement. The poems explore the complexities of belonging, questioning the meaning of home and nation when both are under threat.
While the collection is undeniably marked by anger and frustration, it is also a testament to the enduring human spirit. Darwish’s poetry is infused with a defiant hope, a refusal to succumb to despair. He celebrates the resilience of the Palestinian people, their capacity to love and to dream, even in the face of adversity.
Nothing More to Lose is not merely a personal lament but a call to action. Darwish's poetry demands attention, forcing readers to confront the injustices inflicted upon the Palestinian people. It is a powerful indictment of a global order that has allowed such suffering to persist.
Najwan Darwish’s poetry is a vital contribution to contemporary world literature. Nothing More to Lose is a collection that shakes the reader to the core, forcing a confrontation with the realities of war and oppression. It is a testament to the power of poetry to give voice to the voiceless and to inspire change.
Read
June 11, 2025THE WORLD WILL BE GOOD
My son, I'm sleeping on the riverbed
and listening to you
as you cross the bridge
It's for your sake, too
that I sleep in language:
Your words never fail
to wake me
The world will be good:
There will be nothing but the love
I left you as your inheritance
to weigh down your shoulders
so share that love
"split yourself into many bodies"
just like Urwa Bin al-Ward, the son of the rose
(you too have no father but the rose)
My son, the cities were jagged
and all of this was so absurd
Let's return to the forest
Jump on my shoulders
and we'll go home
Come and laugh with me
we'll cleanse this river with our sound:
In the forest no one will judge us
for our laughter
My son, I missed you on the eve
of Eid al-Adha, the great festival
You would have loved the lanterns
as they swayed to the praises of the Prophet
I would have woken at dawn
to listen to the hymns
Is it fear or is it joy
that makes you tug my hand like this?
Don't worry
we won't be lost here. . . .
For your sake I woke early
and made my peace with the festival
From beyond the years
from beyond the countries and all that the maps conceal
I guard you
and you guard me
I'm sleeping on the riverbed and listening
to you as you cross over
My son, I'm sleeping on the riverbed
and listening to you
as you cross the bridge
It's for your sake, too
that I sleep in language:
Your words never fail
to wake me
The world will be good:
There will be nothing but the love
I left you as your inheritance
to weigh down your shoulders
so share that love
"split yourself into many bodies"
just like Urwa Bin al-Ward, the son of the rose
(you too have no father but the rose)
My son, the cities were jagged
and all of this was so absurd
Let's return to the forest
Jump on my shoulders
and we'll go home
Come and laugh with me
we'll cleanse this river with our sound:
In the forest no one will judge us
for our laughter
My son, I missed you on the eve
of Eid al-Adha, the great festival
You would have loved the lanterns
as they swayed to the praises of the Prophet
I would have woken at dawn
to listen to the hymns
Is it fear or is it joy
that makes you tug my hand like this?
Don't worry
we won't be lost here. . . .
For your sake I woke early
and made my peace with the festival
From beyond the years
from beyond the countries and all that the maps conceal
I guard you
and you guard me
I'm sleeping on the riverbed and listening
to you as you cross over
March 30, 2022
Three cheers to Kareem James Abu-Zeid, the translator; Darwish's poems come through clear and sharp in English. There is no apology here if you don't get a reference or if you wanted something happier as Darwish walks through the reality of a split life in Palestine and how loss is a constant companion, but there's also space for how this is true for many. Darwish talks about Latin American and the Armenians and references the Holocaust and how religions wind around each other in the Holy Land and quietly tear each other's hearts out.
There are some translator's notes in the back, so you won't be terrifically lost if you haven't studied any of this. This isn't cheerful but it is defiant, which is its own kind of power. Definitely recommend if you're looking for a new way to approach the Israel/Palestine conflict or if you're just looking for some searing poems.
There are some translator's notes in the back, so you won't be terrifically lost if you haven't studied any of this. This isn't cheerful but it is defiant, which is its own kind of power. Definitely recommend if you're looking for a new way to approach the Israel/Palestine conflict or if you're just looking for some searing poems.
Read
October 28, 2023We are the ones who gazed at the rushing water
beneath the bridge that cleaves the two shores
we are the ones who spoke our last words to each other
while the fumes from the bombs wiped everything out
we are the ones who, yesterday
saw the savior crucified
And I am the one stopping by the road
between the pavement and the trees
to write down these words
knowing full well
that they will never
reach your voice
(The Hills of Birzeit)
*
Go ahead and imagine trees swaying with you
and an air that welcomes your fall
you who lived like these trees
without land
without roots
(Like These Trees)
*
Yesterday I did not sleep
and after today I do not think
I’ll ever sleep again
(To Cristo)
beneath the bridge that cleaves the two shores
we are the ones who spoke our last words to each other
while the fumes from the bombs wiped everything out
we are the ones who, yesterday
saw the savior crucified
And I am the one stopping by the road
between the pavement and the trees
to write down these words
knowing full well
that they will never
reach your voice
(The Hills of Birzeit)
*
Go ahead and imagine trees swaying with you
and an air that welcomes your fall
you who lived like these trees
without land
without roots
(Like These Trees)
*
Yesterday I did not sleep
and after today I do not think
I’ll ever sleep again
(To Cristo)
June 27, 2024
3.5🌟
I preferred Exhausted on the Cross much more than this. Mainly because the poetries here feel more scattered in themes, messages etc.
I have enjoyed the translator's work on EotC and much of here too but will say I find it extremely off-putting that he chose to use the word "n****r" in a line in the poem The Gas Chambers. I don't know what the original line said, pretty curious to know actually, because that translation really threw me off. Didn't see anyone talking about this in the review section so I'm biting the bullet and so on and so forth.
I preferred Exhausted on the Cross much more than this. Mainly because the poetries here feel more scattered in themes, messages etc.
I have enjoyed the translator's work on EotC and much of here too but will say I find it extremely off-putting that he chose to use the word "n****r" in a line in the poem The Gas Chambers. I don't know what the original line said, pretty curious to know actually, because that translation really threw me off. Didn't see anyone talking about this in the review section so I'm biting the bullet and so on and so forth.
December 29, 2017
Book Riot Read Harder Challenge 2017: Read a collection of poetry in translation on a theme other than love
As I don't read much, if any, poetry, this might have been the hardest of this year's 24 challenges. But, I'm so glad I read this collection. It's a powerful and thought-provoking look at personal identity, history, religion, and war. And with its setting in the Middle East, I learned quite a bit more about the political history of the region as well.
As I don't read much, if any, poetry, this might have been the hardest of this year's 24 challenges. But, I'm so glad I read this collection. It's a powerful and thought-provoking look at personal identity, history, religion, and war. And with its setting in the Middle East, I learned quite a bit more about the political history of the region as well.
July 24, 2017
This is the first poetry, by a Palestinian author, that I have ever read. It's full of religious, social, cultural, and familial upheval. The poet plays with the distinctions between Arab and Israeli; Christian, Jewish, and Muslim; and father and son. At the root of this collection is the humanity that underlies all the conflict and misunderstanding.
April 27, 2022
Excellent volume of poetry with a brilliant and complex approach to the theme of resistance - not just on the Israeli Occupation. The critical eye, presented through different poetic speaker personas, is also extended to the injustices committed by Arabs (e.g. against the Imazighen and Kurds, political corruption by the ruling class in Palestine, fundamentalist groups).
June 2, 2022
My favorite pieces in this excellent collection are the ones where Darwish turned the gaze inward, in moments of doubts and vulnerability as the poet, the son, the friend, and the citizen in him collide, banter, or trade places. Here's one example from "a glimpse into the mirror":
...
I see a thread of beauty rippling
like a river of nobility
But instantly I tell myself:
Shut up and look away
...
I see a thread of beauty rippling
like a river of nobility
But instantly I tell myself:
Shut up and look away
Read
October 10, 2025“I rise from her love
like a man hit by a truck
I watch as she walks away
unburdening herself
of my blood
She really is a truck: In one go
she could wreck a hundred men
I’m amazed at my daring
at how I died and rose again
with so calm a heart
And here I am still at it
heedlessly
Jumping in front of another”
like a man hit by a truck
I watch as she walks away
unburdening herself
of my blood
She really is a truck: In one go
she could wreck a hundred men
I’m amazed at my daring
at how I died and rose again
with so calm a heart
And here I am still at it
heedlessly
Jumping in front of another”
October 12, 2024
Maybe a 3.5 for me, but very happy to round up. Wasn’t expecting so much Christian symbolism here, but it’s certainly not out of place with the themes in this collection. Took me a while to come back to!
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