Life in a Country Album: Poems

By Nathalie Handal

From migrations to pop culture, loss to la dérive, Life in a Country Album is a soundtrack of the global cultural landscape—borders and citizenship, hybrid identities and home, freedom and pleasure. It’s a vast and moving look at the world, at what home means, and the ways we coexist in an increasingly divided world. These poems are about the dialects of the heart—those we are incapable of parting from, and those that are largely forgotten. Life in a Country Album is a vital book for our times. With this beautiful, epic collection, Nathalie Handal affirms herself as one of our most diverse and important contemporary poets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780822986959

Book preview

Life in a Country Album

And Place was where the Presence was Circumference between.

—Emily Dickinson

I waited for thee,

said, Come to bed,

where bodies drown love

to reach pleasures

free of parsing,

said, Come to dreams

that undress other centuries.

I waited for thee,

in the flames rewinding

the cries of coming.

I waited for thee,

in the color liberty,

a blue at the center

of women who dare

to carry water

to every other side.

I waited for thee,

as lust wonders

where the heart goes

in the middle of the night,

alone—if the sky

is a master of longing.

I waited for thee,

full of salt,

syllables and stones.

O maiden, hold my waist.

O beloved, hold my body.

Teach me the thunder

that took you away

and told you

to stay nowhere.

Tell me if this album

is the love we swore to.

BLEU BLANC ROUGE

[Album français]

Les chemins lumière

[We admired his speaking style. He spoke French French. The famous French of Guy de Maupassant. . . . We didn’t speak real French. What we considered to be French, with our rustic accent, a dry coarse, and jerky accent . . . the French of a former little black soldier. . . . "There’s a big difference between speaking in French and speaking French," he claimed, without developing his point. Alain Mabanckou, Bleu, Blanc, Rouge]

              While the city stood

              between uneven lights,

              I slid away

              as if I didn’t belong

              to its questions,

              as if French wasn’t mine,

              even if it’s the first language

              I used to conjugate love,

              even if Napoléon and Jeanne d’Arc

              confessed their confusions

              to my childhood dreams,

              and the books by Apollinaire

              were as lurid as the Muallaqat.

Are you French?

              I carried a Larousse

de la Conjugaison

              all my youth, so I didn’t fall.

              I memorized the mysteries

              in Anouk Aimée’s eyes

              to learn how to dare desire

              to play its echoes backward.

              I reached the depth of laughter

              to every grief

              watching Louis de Funès.

              As men played à la pétanque,

              I wondered if a kiss

              can defeat a heart.

Are you French?

              I wrote every street

              from Bastille to Belleville,

              smoked my first Gauloises

              in a Citroën

              while singing Dassin’s

              « L’Amérique »,

              bought my first bottle

              of L’Eau d’Issey

              on Rue des Francs-Bourgeois,

              and remembered

              le Vieux Port de Marseille

              where an old man told me,

piano piano tu y arriveras.

              Isn’t that all French French,

              along with

              les bagarres, les bisous,

              la bouffe, les bouquins

              bien sûr, les manifs

              les tabacs, le vin

              la séduction, la lingerie

              être nu—

              So French—

              Alors c’est quoi le problème?

              Why couldn’t it be simple?

              Why does such beauty

              accompany sale immigré,

              clandestin, chinetoque, bougnoul.

[Minorité visible? C’est comme ça qu’on nous appelle maintenant? Bon, j’espère qu’ils nous ont bien vu ces derniers temps. Les Nouveaux « Misérables », Romaine Clergeat, Paris Match]

              A raï came on

              then Marc Lavoine:

On est tous des frères

selon les déclarations,

. . . faut jamais les oublier

les trois mots

qui terminent