The introduction describes Ali as a man with "a large, clownish nose and jutting jaw" that "suggested the uneasy cohabitation of mirth and menace." His poetry could be characterized the same way.

In "Michelle," Ali describes a friend, gently teasing, "Her kind husband / was named Michel, / and the name of her handsome / white dog was: / Michel." But poking fun turns serious as we realize Michel is a term of affection when the author hears "the sweetness off Michelle’s saying / upon my leaving: Au revoir, Michel!" (151)

What stand out most in Ali’s poetry are the characters. In "Abd El-Hadi Fights a Superpower," we meet a man who "In his life he did not speak / of the New York Times / behind its back, / didn’t raise / his voice to a soul / except in his saying: / ‘Come in, please, / by God, you can’t refuse.’" (3)

He is not Ali’s neighbor; he is your neighbor: hospitable (to a fault), serving "eggs / sunny-side up, / and labneh / fresh from the bag" (5).

He returns in "Abd el-Hadi the Fool" as the man "who gets on my anger’s nerves / and lights the fuse of my folly" with the sheer stupidity of his unconditional generosity (133). This is another joy of reading Ali’s work; we see the interplay of anger and laughter even in dark circumstances. We often meet old, lost friends, like Amira and Qasim, one with her auburn braid grounding author to his land, and the other with his cane and slyness. In the small, tangible details we learn to know these people – and miss them.

To say Ali writes about the struggles in Palestine is to reduce his work. His poetry addresses Palestinian life directly, but without politicizing it. What is important is humanity and dignity. The emotional resonance derived from work is all-inclusive. Everyone can relate to having "even forgotten / the simplest way of collapsing / in exhaustion on the tile floor." (11)

This edition printed by the Copper Canyon Press, features the poems both in translation and in their original Arabic, printed side-by-side on opposite pages. Aside from a few quibbles, I found the translations largely deft and true to the spirit of the work. One of the translators writes: "the poet in English is a ‘maker’ (from the Greek poieein, ‘to make or fashion,’ as in the Scottish ‘maker’), in Arabic he is the sha’ir, the one who knows through feeling (shu’ur). The combination of these two notions yields…the most critical ingredient of a good translation."

The translations reflect this sensibility, retaining the movement, voice, and feeling of the original poetry. In some cases, the English translation rivaled the Arabic of my favorite passages.

Ali could teach us a thing or two about humility. In his 60 years, he’s learned "that water is the finest drink, / and bread the most delicious food" – that words are the most significant when they touch the heart along with the mind. (117)

And just like a baker, he makes the complicated chemistry look simple. He is a great friend to my bookshelf.