Rachel Buttiġieġ‘s work explores the intersections of ancestral memory, loss, and the Mediterranean landscape. Carrying on a family legacy of poetry, she writes to bridge the gap between the Maltese islands and generations.
Dreaming of sunny days by the sea,
sweet prickly pear, roża, and cacti green,
whose glochids warn of Dingli’s face,
guarding Filfla u Fifoletta’s remains–
yet amid their battered skins,
Peregrine falcons soar her jagged cliffs.
I see you still, tifel żgħir,
running circles around your brother,
clouds of Saharan dust covering your mother,
a child of the Maltese Islands, għal dejjem.
As the air slowly clears,
whispers softly fill my ears,
merħba d-dar, ħi,
Welcome home, dear.
The island’s sand dejjem beneath our feet,
roots that grow ever deeper,
our blood and bones keep watchful eyes
under the sun-kissed summer skies.
Illallu, I have missed, golden franka fingertips,
the salty seas’ quiet sighs, my qalbi,
golden-hour sunset bays—Melita, Kemmuna, Għawdex, mela.
Rugged villages hum their lullabies,
caves leading to starry nights on our rock.
Fireworks, festas, and church bells ring
with spirited voices,
ancient Valletta sings.
She’s bravely risen from the rubble,
on humble shores,
defying trouble.
Aħna kburin b’min aħna.
And I belong to the trees,
Siġra tal-Għargħar, il-Ħarruba,
lemon, orange blossom breeze,
fwieħa taż-żahar.
sour, sweet, salty jiena,
free like the flowers, without names.
Growing happily by the Mediterranean,
honey-sweet our island’s name.
In-Naħla Maltija, gremxul,
creatures prezzjużi, inside of me,
where dar has always been.
Nanna, Nannu
whispering through the Majjistral of time,
ejja, tifla, ejja…
between worlds, diasporically,
I belong to me.
Poetry in this post: © Rachel Buttiġieġ
Published with the permission of Rachel Buttiġieġ