Mona Kareem

Roses take their own life above the rim of my bed as my mother tries to tuck me into the desert of life * In the courtyard of my soul is a s...

أبراكادابرا       ينتابني الخوف أحيانًا   أغمض عينيَّ وأبطئ من حركة أنفاسي   أذكِّر نفسي بالكلمتين السحريتين: "الآن + هنا" الآن: ا...

Abracadabra    Fear sometimes washes over me I close my eyes and slow down my breathing I remind myself of the magic words: Now + Here Now: ...

  When   we die, the cemetery keeper tires of surveilling our graves’ windows. We trace the memory of rain — but it dances in the distance w...

The Migrant Poet Slaughters His Voice One scorching summer —warmer than the previous summer, and cooler than the next— the poet journeyed fr...

Mona Kareem on the colonial phenomenon of rendition as translation  1 Earlier this year, an English translation of Yi Lei, a prominent poet ...

  جالسة على أريكة خضراء في شقة بروكلينية باتت الآن موبوءة ببقّ الفراش، أدركتُ فجأة أن موعد   رحلة طيراني للقاء عائلتي لأول مرة منذ خمس سنوات...

Sitting on a green couch in what is now a bedbug-infested Brooklyn apartment, I suddenly realized that my flight to meet my family for the f...

The lights are always on  in the room of escape & leisure. If you're passing by, you might mistake it  for the dim glow of a falling...

  In a brilliant and personal essay on the history of Bidoon literature, Mona Kareem shows why literature cannot be thought along national l...