About Siham Karami

Siham Karami is a the author of the full-length poetry collection To Love the River (Kelsay Books, 2018), and her poetry chapbook manuscript was a finalist in the QuillsPress Chapbook Contest. She also loves photography and a link to samples of her work can be found on the menu. Her publication credits include The Comstock Review, Able Muse, Measure, Think, The Rumpus, Off the Coast, Tupelo Quarterly Review, Mezzo Cammin, Pleiades, Otoliths, The Turnip Truck(s), Third Wednesday, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Orchards Poetry as Featured poet, among others. A four-time Pushcart Prize and twice Best of the Net nominee, she can also be found on twitter @sihamkarami.

Poem Published in Third Wednesday

d3be0f2a-e145-4cb3-8f07-7827fdfa7efa

My poem “Survival of the Fittest” has been published in the latest issue of Third Wednesday, a fine print publication. An honor to be among such luminaries as Ted Kooser and Susan Rich, and many more fine poets. Their website is here.

Advertisements

Review of My Book on The Mark Review


Check out this review of To Love the River on The Mark Review! I’m especially happy that the reviewer, who is one of many who are not so enamored of poetry generally, really enjoyed the collection. Please check it out, then check out this page for buying it as well as other information, such as interesting details about the cover artist.

Holiday Surprise!! “The Chained Muse” Publishes My Ghazal

The formal poetry website The Chained Muse has published my ghazal “The Triumph of Roses” (reprint) on Christmas Day, a gift and also an auspicious shot of luck for 2019. This link will bring you the Roses Ghazal and also give you my ghazal “In Egypt” with a wonderful and appropriate photo, published there last October. This is an up-and-coming venue for formal poetry. Please check it out!!

Two Poems in the Inaugural Issue of Dark Marrow

The hyperactive (publishing up a storm) and wonderful site Rhythm & Bones’ zine dedicated to the dark side, Dark Marrow, has published two of my poems: “Metamorphosis” and “Frost My Heart.” These are definitely dark poems, formal ones (a sonnet with variations and a rondeau), which fit the site’s description: “featuring your twisted visions and nightmares, your traumas you can’t shake, the ghosts that haunt your daydreams…” If this is what you need at this moment, there is much more to fit that mood here.

November Blitz: Three Journals Live with My Poems

November has started out as a busy month for my poetry publications, with three fabulous journals publishing multiple poems each, all now live online for November.

Otoliths, “a magazine of many e-things,” publishes experimental poetry of many varieties with an impressively large volume of work, making it an unusual venue for me, but a good home for these particular 3 poems, one of which is entitled “Ode to Ancient Astronaut Theorists.”

Mojave He(art) is a desert themed journal which, although relatively new, already shows promise with fine poetry, creative nonfiction, fiction, and photography that is a cut above. So I am happy to have three poems in its November issue, which explore the desert theme with the Apollo moon landing, a ghazal about longing and time, and a prose poem in a Middle East setting. (Scroll down to my name to find separate links for each poem.)

And last but definitely not least is the vital and unique online zine Anti-Heroin Chic, where two of my poems have been published, each about very different kinds of love.

Please check out all three places, where you’re likely to find much to enjoy!

My Book To Love the River Now Available!!

EC1148F8-4679-4D9E-894A-87207AD47120

My first full-length poetry collection, To Love the River, is now on sale at the publisher Kelsay Books’ website! This is much sooner than I had imagined, months earlier than its projected publishing date, so this is a huge and happy surprise. The book is the culmination of many years’ work, the subject matter spanning a river’s worth of emotions and experience condensed into the craft of both formal and free verse poetry.

The cover art is by the Swedish artist — a pioneer of abstract art pre-Kandinsky! — and mystic Hilma af Klint (1862-1944) whose séance-inspired (and later simply inspired) paintings are finally getting recognition in her first solo exhibition at the Guggenheim Museum. Like her work, my poetry also reflects a subtly spiritual perspective on life.

Here is one sample poem from the book, which echoes the “dawn” theme woven through some of these poems, “The Word for Dawn,” first published in Sukoon journal.

The Word for Dawn

Fajr: the j a mere mirage, light on the tongue,
just melting into r, no vowel between,
bluing into nothing but a turning of the lips.
I hear it like a distant motorcycle,
its street lost in a cricket’s heartbeat,
and I find it leaking tiny drumbeats from
my son’s earbuds fallen from his ear,
buzzing in his sleep. Newborn wasps,
tinny, revving j’s straight through the r’s
that rise and thread their little lights
where teeth touch lips and feel the furry f’s
a darkness, void, a space of hairy night.
A single hair-edge turning from the deep.

New Poem in Hobo Camp Review


The Hobo Camp Review Autumn Issue is now live online with my poem, “Hovland, Minnesota.” This is about the actual town in the far north of Minnesota (close to the Canadian border) which is the closest named place on a map to the cabin where my family used to spend summers when I was a child.

The Hobo Camp Review, with its hobo theme, is a place I like to go to often for writing that validates my vagabond spirit, where campfires are home in a temporary world and often the makeshift feels the most permanent. Please check it out!

Ghazal in Better than Starbucks!

My Ghazal “The Triumph of Roses” is up at Better than Starbucks, in the Rhyming and Formal Poetry section, wherein you will find some fabulous poetry. This issue is also available in print. Please spend a little time there, maybe with whatever beverage you consider better than Starbucks.

Edward Harkness: Poems that Listen, Bring Us to Listen

This is a discovery I should have made long ago: Edward Harkness, a poet of place, and so much more, recording solemn and moving histories and keeping an uncommon, quiet faith with the reverence that understands what not to say. I found myself deeply moved by poem after poem. His tone is conversational, elements of the casual somehow imbued with a sense of the sacred. And so one finds truths and openings one otherwise might have missed. He is a teacher, award-winning poet and author of two poetry collections and a number of chapbooks, but most of all a man somehow in touch with his surroundings and aware of both his place and his displacement in them. Let the poetry speak for itself.

Union Creek in Winter

There’s no word for it so far, the word
for what it means to be in love with you
in our sinking world, what it means to hike
through new snow, to hear beneath
the glass of creek ice the flow of winter
percolating its way through the ravine
not quite soundlessly toward lower ground
to join the wild roar of the American River.

The word that means we’ve loved
through the avalanches of our time,
loved while the wars raged, paid for
with our taxes, loved while our loved ones
voted for hatred, for I want the false past I want
what’s coming to me, protected as they’ve been
by their skin white as this very snow draped
on hemlocks in the ravine’s wavering light.

The word that means we’re not alone,
we share that same nature wonder,
for the flicker tapping on a far-off tree,
the delicate calligraphy of a mouse’s
prints along our path, as if Tu Fu
has been here too, who knew, even then,
even in the Tang Dynasty, beauty
leaves behind its faint notations.

The word that means we will go on,
we will follow an earlier trekker’s snowshoe
trail, slog on bundled to keep the chill
from overtaking us, descend again steeply,
then climb again switchbacks above the creek
away from its cold murmurings, to our car
and the long drive back to the war zone
of now. Armed with our little courage,

we must drive straight to the front,
strap on flak jackets and begin the slow
search for survivors, slow search
for the words that might revive them.
Even now we’re feverish to make contact,
to know what to listen for, to learn to hear
those muffled cries from deep in the rubble.
If we knew the words we might save

those most weakened, most in danger of giving up.
If we knew the words we might keep the world,
its rivers, its ice, its bitterroot, its winter wrens,
its hemlocks, its moonlight, its children,
its Shakespeare, its Szymborska, its rosehips,
its green and orange lichens, its Dylan,
its kora players, its humming birds, you,
me, and our Muslim neighbor, Maya, alive.

And this, the title poem of one of his collections:

Saying the Necessary

I read of a Montana man
whose pickup
stalled in the mountains.
Cross-country skiers
found him next spring,
their skis rasping
on the top of his cab
just showing through the snow.
His engine dead, no map,
he’d apparently decided
to wait for help.
His diary calmly records
his life of being lost.
He describes the passing days,
how he rationed his crackers,
an Almond Joy,
built a few small fires at night,
ate his emergency candles,
ice from a pond,
a pine’s green lace of moss.
He hoarded every spark
from his battery.
There’s evidence he wandered
up a nearby ridge.
He might have noticed a marmot,
gold and relaxed on a rock,
or spotted mountain goats
wedged high in grey basalt.
From a pinnacle of broken
lichen-colored scree
he watched the world bend away blue,
rivered with trees.
He might have heard
the whine of a plane
in the next valley,
looking, looking.

Then the cold came.
Frostbite settled the matter
of hiking out.
He wrote detailed accounts
of the weather,
noting the clear, icy air,
little flares of stars
drawing no one’s attention.
Not so frigid this evening.
A later entry read:
Ribbed cirrus clouds moving in.
Then tender goodbyes
to his wife and daughter—
my lilac, my rose.

When the blizzard buried him,
he wrote by his interior lights,
and when the battery failed
he scratched in the dark
a strange calligraphy,
covering the same pages,
the words telegraphic,
saying only the necessary
as he starved.
In the end,
his script grew hallucinatory—
…toy train… …oatmeal…
…farmhouse lights just ahead…—
illegible, finally,
like lines on a heart monitor.
Several pages he tore out and ate.

He must have known
even words wouldn’t save him.
Still, he wrote.
He watched the windshield
go white like a screen,
his hands on the wheel,
no feeling.
He listened to his heart
repeat its constant SOS,
not loudly now,
but steadily—
a stutterer who’s come to love
the sound of his one syllable,
at peace with his inability
to get anything across.
He must have pictured himself
wading through the drifts,
traversing the heartbreaking distance
between voice and any ear,
searching for tracks,
a connector road that leads
down to everyday life.
By glow of moonlight filtered
through snow-jammed windows,
his last act was to place his book,
opened to a page marked Day One,
on the passenger seat beside him.