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Omar Sabbagh

Politics And The English Language
Beirut

One last thing you must remember,
my old man said, before sitting down to cards,
give them an inch, and they’ll take a yard….

I never was too fond of proverbs orthe grieving
children of the dud, moot point, sired
by the ashen taste of final breaths, dregs, swansongs, academics,
fathered by a book-learnt quieting of desire.

But there is wisdom in the stale and dried-out brief
of an idiom like that, locked and packed and seething
in its burly lock with years of living history

distilled, condensed, culled to a kind of brimming crystal,
shaped to the smallest point of understanding that love can give.
The cliché of the Zionists has no real depth of mystery, he said.

And then he swiped a joker from the middle of the table.

By Omar Sabbagh, 10/04/2026

Among The Cynics

This is the last possible murder,
the last still-shot, frieze,
a picture caught in the trap of its own geography,
the last of the Levantine colors,
the mischief of invention, a certain cleverness
so quick to unweave the thread that might have led
them home. They will never forget
the theft that brought them here
and in failing to forget be stuck here forever.
And I can commiserate.
And I can log myself in the same dead
groove, a slotted place
where nothing’s allowed to move,
victims of the life a warmed love once gave.
And when the last daft cynic here dies
tears will be the gloss of my aging eyes
and I will read the ending
of all my certainties;
and the swansong, from white to white, will befinished, sung.

Beirut, 02/04/2026

Verse In A Time Of War?

Is there ever a window that is true
to hurt? Ever a sky to the sky’s sky-blue?
I walk with words, and try to know with words;
I try to soften the bone-hard edge of the world
about me –but does it ever do

any justice to what has no true name,
no grip or grasp of hand,
no salving, solution, none of the ache of wisdom
or of wisdom’s clean-run ends, her white ablutions?
I wake to how the world accrues

in sharpness its worldliness, addling the brass
of our wounds, slinking in deviousness our curse
into pockets we’ll never quite see –no, not fully…
Still, though, there is verse. Open pain. And my beloved country.

Beirut, 08/03/2026

Refugee

An older man slumped
in a white-cushioned chair.
He is trying to forget
being here or the silver
colour of his hair.

In the place of the younger
his life would be different
he can’t but wager,
and the living would once more thrum
to the spin of the spinning ball,

to the rig and tug of the roulette table
the young must take life for…
Out of idleness here, a placid innocence
the oak of his pain gains in
clarity, prescience, he whispers to himself,

its thickset ash-brown colour a reminder
of what the rings of time have shelved
behind him and before. No book remains
to be a shelter for his wisdom.
A war is afoot. Danger turns a word for home.

Tavolina, ABC Mall, Verdun, Beirut, 06/03/2026

War Again

Flames and coal-grey spires
The alphabet,
the black-set, lettered limbs
of our warzone once again,

each man and woman
and each child they’ve sired
engaged to the dark-red wound
in the room of the world
and in the world’s dark room,
and space a wilderness gone wild
again, dust and matterless matter
and the heart’s now-
tottering, now-spluttering boom

like hellish dancers
in the same-old, same-old
bacchanal
of man and his dreadful twin:
a war whose dark and sinister end
is never,
is never,
is never

to create or to begin…

And my daughter
in the safer distance,
and my daughter,

and the sorrowing fall
of the in-wending of a girl’s
inheritance
of a world like ours sheared
of all due, bound sense:

and strands and orphans
of shorn, thick wool
to block and stopper
the ears and eyes
with death and destruction
and the patness of a time
of human logic
defiled now by how it defies
all speech, all tall-back,
the dignity of one’s aging imagination.

And only blood now too hot
for the nude and ruddy skin
it courses throughout, inside;
and only red now remaining or soot
the colour

of any last,

of any white,

of any of the lasting finish

of any kind

of older, whiter religion….

Beirut, 05/03/2026

Omar Sabbagh is a very widely published British-Lebanese poet, writer and critic. Over the last two decades, his poetry has appeared in many prestigious venues, such as: Poetry Review, PN Review, Agenda, Acumen, New Humanist, (T&F) New Writing, The Reader Magazine, Stand, Kenyon Review, New England Review, Banipal, The Warwick Review, The Wolf Magazine, Poetry Wales, Philosophy Now, among many others. Poetry collections all published by Cinnamon Press: My Only Ever Oedipal Complaint (2010), To The Middle of Love (2017), But It Was an Important Failure (2020), Morning Lit: Portals After Alia (2022), For Echo (2024). His Beirut novella, Via Negativa: A Parable of Exile, was published with Liquorice Fish Books in March 2016; and his Dubai novella, Minutes from the Miracle City was published with Fairlight Books in July 2019. He has also published a book of Lebanese verse narratives, Cedar: Scenes from Lebanese Life (Northside House, 2023), and a collection short fictions, Y Knots (Liquorice Fish Books, 2023). Further poetry collections: RIP: Poems after Gaza & Words after Waddah (Cinnamon Press, 2024), Night Settles Upon The City, a poetry collection out of war-torn, near-contemporary Beirut (Daraja Press, 2024), Gazan Days (Dar Nelson, June 2025). A collection of auto-fictive prose, Mischief in Arcadia & Other Tales (Sulfur Editions, 2026). From 2011-2013 he was Visiting Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at the American University of Beirut (AUB); Associate Professor of English at the American University in Dubai (AUD) 2014-2024; as of autumn 2024 he began a new teaching role in English Literature and Creative Writing at the Lebanese American University (LAU).

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