A Tent of Words: Meena Alexander, by Craig Epplin by Craig Epplin Meena Alexander opens her recent Poetics of Dislocation (2009) with these words: The new American poet thinks in many tongues, all of which flow into the English she uses: a language that blossoms for her. Places stick to her and with them histories, strands of local knowledge. She is aware of violence and warfare, she has experienced... 

By Meena Alexander In April 2011, I visited Mamilla Cemetery. This ancient place of Muslim burial is being destroyed by the Israeli authorities in order to build a Museum of Tolerance I. She waits for me under a green almond tree Right in the middle of the cemetery In front of a broken stone marking a man’s death. Glyphs dissolve — her voice clarifies: Why are you here in Ma’man Allah... 

Transcript of an audio Interview with Meena Alexander, by Craig Epplin by Craig Epplin This interview was conducted with Meena Alexander for Rattapallax in her office at the CUNY Graduate Center on March 21, 2012. -CE Craig Epplin: Hello.  This is Craig Epplin of Rattapallax Magazine.  I’m sitting with Meena Alexander who is featured in this issue of the magazine.  Thanks a lot, Meena, for sitting... 

Drawn by child in Balata Refugee Camp By Meena Alexander A task I gave myself at the age of ten Returns to me – Ecris une tristesse, Write a sorrow Dukham erutha. In Balata Refugee Camp when someone dies No time to wash the corpse No time to weep or pray or conjure loss. Carry the body right away Lest it stiffen in the room. Who can break a loved one’s bones? His voice was rushed, a dove in flight Wings... 

By Meena Alexander 1. Lemon tree with fruit specked with sunlight. 2 Bird in a cage in an ancient courtyard singing to a woman in sweat pants tu tu tu tu. 3 I go down into the hut where Baba Farid Shakirganj lived for 40 days and nights without food. Coming out he sang – O Beloved, take these thorns from my body. The delights of honey are in my mouth. 4. This is where the bombing began in 1967 she... 

By Meena Alexander In the taxi going to Abu Dis where Al-Quds University is. Westwards past a sign that reads Mt of Olives. The hillsides of Jerusalem scarred with settlements. Geyva Binyamin to the right. Clouds are floating high above the hills, they swirl above the Pharisees. The money changers of Jerusalem eat limestone and cabbage. Passing truck – I do not know what they want to do with these... 

By Meena Alexander Back in New York I dig out the notebook with its marbled, stippled covers, earth brown with the blue of peacock wings. I bought it in Venice, in a paper shop close to the church where they play the music of Monteverdi over and over again, in an eternal humming sound of lutes. I took it with me to Jerusalem. Now it is filled with my travel notes, only a few of them are given here,... 

By Meena Alexander Early morning. I am sitting in the courtyard of the Indian Hospice on a stone wall by an old well – no longer in use. Opposite me the room with the deep stone vent and downwards steps to the hole where Baba Farid slept. I need to think and stretch out in the Jerusalem sun. Find my center here. Not minding the boy soldiers with peach fuzz on their cheeks. Or the settlers with... 

By Meena Alexander Sitting in the garden at Al Quds with two students, two lovely girls. One with a green ID , from Jericho. The other has a blue ID, she is from Jerusalem. After the wall was built they could no longer visit each other. The wall has cut their lives in two. Write about us they tell me. They point to the separation wall where it cuts through the grounds of the university. The faculty...