this is what I tell you,
things are different here
I don't speak of the world as if it has 'corners'
because this is an invitation to walls
one that sat on the street
on your breath too long
but I assure you, taking your hand
is unmatched of silk to skin
you witness the sky, a bit clearer
with all shades possible of the same morning
twitter of a bird or two,
crazy is gradation of the day, very clear
a building crumbles like paper
on the heads of its inhabitant to make more way
for trees, for houses, for a man's dog
some men are more worthy than others
it is different here
what's most holy has killed the prophets
we survive because we have lost faith
Friday, March 31, 2017
green hand
once spring made the trees glitter green
at your touch, you said, a green hand makes the soil grow
long held out the grass is yellow in the garden
it misses your green hand
at your touch, you said, a green hand makes the soil grow
long held out the grass is yellow in the garden
it misses your green hand
in the crease
Between your smile and your hand sifting flour
I find my footing, this is an obsessions,
to find the path to make of the bread- a meaning
in the crease of your wrinkles,
I find my homeland, how the wrinkles
of the olive tree, like olive skin generate newer blood
this ancient being has no heftiness
I find my energy in the lightness of your step
cane-bent, but like sugar-cane, you still stand tall at church
perched on the old desk, that is pinned to the glass
I find my reassurance that once young
can mean a potential of the future folded in a wrinkled crease
between your smile and your hand
I find the remaining bits of thread for a thob
a dress, stitched gold and red
the colors of royals and peasant, contained like my homeland
on cloth, wrapping around your hands, grandmother.
re-watch, re-tell
night descends while the window flickers with a soft breeze
I sit to watch the stars align one more time,
tell me another tale, then
my lone shadow
I sit to watch the stars align one more time,
tell me another tale, then
my lone shadow
Thursday, March 30, 2017
The woman who spoke about other women's freedom
Found chained to the bed
a bruise around the head
the woman who spoke about other women's freedoms
was heard howling at a familiar claw
tearing fast at a white robe, now red
a bruise around the head
the woman who spoke about other women's freedoms
was heard howling at a familiar claw
tearing fast at a white robe, now red
the beggar, the visitor
Thief, screams the beggar
at the ant
that begged for a morsel of his borrowed bread
at the ant
that begged for a morsel of his borrowed bread
forget (v)
like a man does
comes the advice about forgetfulness
as if the brain picks a gender to place a heartache into
systemically like a lost brooch
like a found treasure chest
bury astray, the given
forced over like a bent shadow
the careless hand that pretends to feed while it's empty
take down the music, where the memory
captures a rapture that can only be replaced
by photographs smeared over with fingerprints
like a Christmas tree fold the branches and tuck it away
there's something very surgical about a removal
a death of some sort forced onto the living
a rush of a thousand meteors
without answer or reason
how many ways were these atoms formulated to make two bodies?
maybe it is neither a job or a demand
to keep the bodies under check
a jog, a dance, a walk
is enough to let new air in
this is a kind verb
it allows us interpretations with leeway
if you play with meaning, do you arrive at the desired end of the ocean
or where you really just a few kilometers down your own shore?
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
The dead
Close the store fronts and add a poster to the ones fading
out of our sight, the youth will remain young
mothers will continue to carry their melancholic anger
like a badge stitched on the chest, over the heart
just where the youth should have been still standing
brothers will carry a different anger
unwashed shirts, stained with the smell of those gone
players of football in the usual streets, dreamers under the windows
loving quickly and realizing slowly, how it ends
the sister will stitch together poetry, a word that binds another
with gold thread malak, the royal used in weddings and for kings
the land, where they had fallen sprouts flowers
in winter twigs to keep warmth, in spring poppies for blood
in summer jasmine permeating the night and in fall cyclamen the flower of death and glory.
out of our sight, the youth will remain young
mothers will continue to carry their melancholic anger
like a badge stitched on the chest, over the heart
just where the youth should have been still standing
brothers will carry a different anger
unwashed shirts, stained with the smell of those gone
players of football in the usual streets, dreamers under the windows
loving quickly and realizing slowly, how it ends
the sister will stitch together poetry, a word that binds another
with gold thread malak, the royal used in weddings and for kings
the land, where they had fallen sprouts flowers
in winter twigs to keep warmth, in spring poppies for blood
in summer jasmine permeating the night and in fall cyclamen the flower of death and glory.
Saturday, March 25, 2017
For sale
- lipsticks
- a lampshade
- an old washer
- fridges without doors
- photo-frames, never used
- three sofas from the 'avant garde' phase
- the jewelry box with the broken ballerina
- sweaters that could have easily gone to charity
- the florescent stars that hung on the ceiling, like galaxies
- coat-hangers with clothes weighing them down, pretending to be of use
- the accessories rack bought with good intention, left to bad weather and dust
- the mementos, all of them, the stuffed teddy-bears, the i-love-you, the silver earrings;
- the flower-pot, the goldfish, the soap-dish, the navy dress that received compliments at a wedding
here I am selling the things that made sense, things I can no longer glue your memories will go first I am sure.
- a lampshade
- an old washer
- fridges without doors
- photo-frames, never used
- three sofas from the 'avant garde' phase
- the jewelry box with the broken ballerina
- sweaters that could have easily gone to charity
- the florescent stars that hung on the ceiling, like galaxies
- coat-hangers with clothes weighing them down, pretending to be of use
- the accessories rack bought with good intention, left to bad weather and dust
- the mementos, all of them, the stuffed teddy-bears, the i-love-you, the silver earrings;
- the flower-pot, the goldfish, the soap-dish, the navy dress that received compliments at a wedding
here I am selling the things that made sense, things I can no longer glue your memories will go first I am sure.
Friday, March 24, 2017
a passing note
one nudge
she will be sold
the woman who diverted
a river of tears in a foreign city
too cruel to love her, the streets
too new to know her details
it is hard to be a passing note
three nights here and then you are gone
travelers lost, follow the north star
how many, do you reckon, find their way home?
she will be sold
the woman who diverted
a river of tears in a foreign city
too cruel to love her, the streets
too new to know her details
it is hard to be a passing note
three nights here and then you are gone
travelers lost, follow the north star
how many, do you reckon, find their way home?
The echo
The echo answers her voice
with jokes of his own, tinted with pleased laughter
it is funny the room is full of answers
but the echo finds his voice regardless.
with jokes of his own, tinted with pleased laughter
it is funny the room is full of answers
but the echo finds his voice regardless.
No longer your story
Look how the grass sprouts
cutting out of earth, without question
this is what you learn from nature
but you haven't been looking properly
there are no holes in the grounds
where the seeds fall
the hand that feeds is the same hand
that sows but after careful consideration of the elements
who wouldn't choose spring?
look ahead
to where winter leaves its trail
Snow leaves this mountain
cutting out of earth, without question
this is what you learn from nature
but you haven't been looking properly
there are no holes in the grounds
where the seeds fall
the hand that feeds is the same hand
that sows but after careful consideration of the elements
who wouldn't choose spring?
look ahead
to where winter leaves its trail
Snow leaves this mountain
exactly when it is supposed to, without begging or reverting claims
it grows out into puddles,
wets the edges of my feet and your old overcoat
how could we not have heard, snowfall?
perhaps this is our obsessive flaw
counting time with our twenty fingers
it takes courage to make up these words
I understand a lie needs one person to fold
but look again
how snow and spring can sprout from the same mother
without your intervention
this is no longer your story, at least, till next spring grows
until you understand how tall grass can stand.
it grows out into puddles,
wets the edges of my feet and your old overcoat
how could we not have heard, snowfall?
perhaps this is our obsessive flaw
counting time with our twenty fingers
it takes courage to make up these words
I understand a lie needs one person to fold
but look again
how snow and spring can sprout from the same mother
without your intervention
this is no longer your story, at least, till next spring grows
until you understand how tall grass can stand.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
these nightly terrors
Are we alone,
the man with the mask whimpers
at the throat of the girl abducted at night.
the man with the mask whimpers
at the throat of the girl abducted at night.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
White shawl
White shawl, wrapped around my head
there is not a drop of rain today
I could have been a new Gandhi
but the world got to me faster
there is not a drop of rain today
I could have been a new Gandhi
but the world got to me faster
Thursday, March 16, 2017
how she treats him, an indentation
He gave her the only rose that bloomed in winter
she, returned the petals with a soft blown kiss
that- has made all the difference
for a small child with a book on their lap
she, returned the petals with a soft blown kiss
that- has made all the difference
for a small child with a book on their lap
disarray
I have known a river
that runs against all others from sea to source
blinking with an undercurrent, it pulled the pious
but left me and you
maybe I should stop using pronouns that identify too close at home
our features, but it can be masked- this habit
the same way we learned that the map is what we see
but maps lie all the time
can't you see,
this it the first kind of discomfort that you note
there is disarray in the simplest of movements
an unnerving settlement in the way you carry your body
from left leg to right leg as you shift your weight
a dance breaks in the middle
then, it is not the same
who said it should ever be?
the wall behind me carries a torn out photo
on I had kept in my pocket for years,
disarray comes in many shapes
then there is you, another ball of mess
that runs against all others from sea to source
blinking with an undercurrent, it pulled the pious
but left me and you
maybe I should stop using pronouns that identify too close at home
our features, but it can be masked- this habit
the same way we learned that the map is what we see
but maps lie all the time
can't you see,
this it the first kind of discomfort that you note
there is disarray in the simplest of movements
an unnerving settlement in the way you carry your body
from left leg to right leg as you shift your weight
a dance breaks in the middle
then, it is not the same
who said it should ever be?
the wall behind me carries a torn out photo
on I had kept in my pocket for years,
disarray comes in many shapes
then there is you, another ball of mess
Bite at the wind
Bite, twice with the same teeth
at this passing wind, too close to your lower lip
don't expect anything other than blood to spill out.
at this passing wind, too close to your lower lip
don't expect anything other than blood to spill out.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
public/private
Public
is all that is yours but never truly so at touch
private
all that is yours within a hand's grasp
public
the work of a genius in a captain's arms, along with his lover
private
eight work hours a night, no lovers in sight
public
praises to the empty chair, the charred key
private
jokes on the rust climbing the key, nailing the chair to the ground
public
a denouncement of the pleasure of living
private
intimacies over a glass of wine for the fine art of living
public
this statement you sewed to your forehead
private
is the way I kissed away the numbness of the stitches
public
the way your eyes danced with me opposite your door
private
in your arms we would dance with the door open
public
perfume, exhaust fumes, three howls for old fruit
private
use the same spray deodorant, cannot afford to howl at one another with a broken down car
public
this devotion to denounce, pleasure and other measures
private
in a space where pleasure is publicly denounced
I wait for you to make private what's public
for us, alone.
is all that is yours but never truly so at touch
private
all that is yours within a hand's grasp
public
the work of a genius in a captain's arms, along with his lover
private
eight work hours a night, no lovers in sight
public
praises to the empty chair, the charred key
private
jokes on the rust climbing the key, nailing the chair to the ground
public
a denouncement of the pleasure of living
private
intimacies over a glass of wine for the fine art of living
public
this statement you sewed to your forehead
private
is the way I kissed away the numbness of the stitches
public
the way your eyes danced with me opposite your door
private
in your arms we would dance with the door open
public
perfume, exhaust fumes, three howls for old fruit
private
use the same spray deodorant, cannot afford to howl at one another with a broken down car
public
this devotion to denounce, pleasure and other measures
private
in a space where pleasure is publicly denounced
I wait for you to make private what's public
for us, alone.
Travel and read
A ticket to a land, I leave on the table
I see the question in your eyes
have you read another book?
I see the question in your eyes
have you read another book?
R is for Rudea
We have long stopped caring about the alphabet
what makes a letter more special than another, but its order?
I was born under the letter A, Alif, I call it in my mother-tongue
an alpha, a first letter, a significance and a resonance
it takes a while getting used to other letters;
how they curve around you like an artificial tongue
you are the letter R, for words borrowed
like this what we share a Rueda
a circle is a Rueda, a wheel is a Rueda
a rounding of stomping feet and glared screams is a Rueda
Rueda is when you offer me a hand
then close it off with another form of a crooked smile
Rueda is when I cannot be a mystery
but I can have enough freedom in me to dispel
myths about round wheels and their harbingers
not doom, not gloom but a wave of sound and motion
an intention to receiving, loved once
rejected for reasons above the waist and below the chest
Rueda is three claps, five couples
ten stomping feet and a free-beat music
R is for Rueda
like A is for the start of this alphabet.
what makes a letter more special than another, but its order?
I was born under the letter A, Alif, I call it in my mother-tongue
an alpha, a first letter, a significance and a resonance
it takes a while getting used to other letters;
how they curve around you like an artificial tongue
you are the letter R, for words borrowed
like this what we share a Rueda
a circle is a Rueda, a wheel is a Rueda
a rounding of stomping feet and glared screams is a Rueda
Rueda is when you offer me a hand
then close it off with another form of a crooked smile
Rueda is when I cannot be a mystery
but I can have enough freedom in me to dispel
myths about round wheels and their harbingers
not doom, not gloom but a wave of sound and motion
an intention to receiving, loved once
rejected for reasons above the waist and below the chest
Rueda is three claps, five couples
ten stomping feet and a free-beat music
R is for Rueda
like A is for the start of this alphabet.
tied-up
What use is my pen
if I cannot use it
when my hand is tied behind my back
yet still, expected to write?
if I cannot use it
when my hand is tied behind my back
yet still, expected to write?
Thursday, March 9, 2017
the men around me celebrate women's day
One's deep in his head with football
another gives me a flower, too red
one with a fierce eye and a long obsession with calves
another with a flame for a tongue licking fire widespread
one with a divorce at the end of his aisle
another with a woman for his shadow, standing
one woman buried under his beard
another a shake released in the hips twice
one with a battered wife
another with one long dead
one with an arm the length of a high-rise
another with a lame leg
one with words takes me,
another brings me bread
the men around me celebrate
what it is like to be woman
hefty, but not dead.
another gives me a flower, too red
one with a fierce eye and a long obsession with calves
another with a flame for a tongue licking fire widespread
one with a divorce at the end of his aisle
another with a woman for his shadow, standing
one woman buried under his beard
another a shake released in the hips twice
one with a battered wife
another with one long dead
one with an arm the length of a high-rise
another with a lame leg
one with words takes me,
another brings me bread
the men around me celebrate
what it is like to be woman
hefty, but not dead.
a short springy feeling
There's something about spring
the way your skin covers around it
making the folds tight for the sun to arrive
my right hand, itchy,
fails me at touching back those
that touch me
if I told my mother
I would imagine her laughing
with a sound so loud my ears will shake
to the act that was once boiled on a grandmother's chest
that spring touching us is green, like money
like things used once and never fully
left behind
Monday, March 6, 2017
Sunday, March 5, 2017
a fairy-tale origin
Three pomegranates fell from a tree
down to where a horse was drinking
sprouted three young maidens and a prince
this is the preface to a short story about
where I grew and how I came to be, a woman
Writing to you is like witchcraft
Writing to you is like witchcraft
I usually barely make of the ingredients I use, a complete pot
I throw little parts into the mix
without realizing how potentially damaging I am becoming
one day there's a complete drought
like one promised seven good years and seven bad ones
another there's a flood of smoke, smells
uncontrollable fumes to linking my destiny to yours
it seems careless, this disposition
to the many attempts I am making
at failing to make comprehensible, a sentence
without shortlisting any bias I might have for you
this is the effort I put into my words to you
seemingly surfaced with honey, glazed with potion
when did I become a witch?
was not wizardry an act for the brave
the cowards like me have to wait
for the right time to brew what was kept
bitter in jars not ours, yet used and borrowed
like my writing to you, these days
pinched and quick, without an origin or an explanation
save these old tears that needed using,
save this old pen that doesn't write any more
save fatigue, my writing to you is like witchcraft
we both don't understand it but we wait patiently for the result.
I usually barely make of the ingredients I use, a complete pot
I throw little parts into the mix
without realizing how potentially damaging I am becoming
one day there's a complete drought
like one promised seven good years and seven bad ones
another there's a flood of smoke, smells
uncontrollable fumes to linking my destiny to yours
it seems careless, this disposition
to the many attempts I am making
at failing to make comprehensible, a sentence
without shortlisting any bias I might have for you
this is the effort I put into my words to you
seemingly surfaced with honey, glazed with potion
when did I become a witch?
was not wizardry an act for the brave
the cowards like me have to wait
for the right time to brew what was kept
bitter in jars not ours, yet used and borrowed
like my writing to you, these days
pinched and quick, without an origin or an explanation
save these old tears that needed using,
save this old pen that doesn't write any more
save fatigue, my writing to you is like witchcraft
we both don't understand it but we wait patiently for the result.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Nightmare
I am on top of a white cliff
with no direction or sense of a value
unable to move a muscle
you are the lake bellow the cliff
that will contain my bones
with no direction or sense of a value
unable to move a muscle
you are the lake bellow the cliff
that will contain my bones
paint wars
Vastly uninspiring
this war against my self
with red paintbrush
to sedate the rest who paint with white
this war against my self
with red paintbrush
to sedate the rest who paint with white
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Opening chapters
The start is always crucial
it is how you make an entry
choosing a form, a matter, a void
this is why we stress first word
because after the spirit became
the letter, a word, its conjunction
how does a month open
a flip in the day's dent
then roll the days
this is how you stand on
two rocks
without effectively falling
to balance is to counter
where you line the ground
with dirt, roads and trodden footsteps
this is how we avoid
rugged photographs
let the past rest folded
beneath its hands
a reverse spelling
of spells, cellars and suited strangers
a bunny furrows in my garden
between the mallow and the daisies
for once I don't recall
where I last placed tenderness
this density of the bones
that cannot bend
keeps manifesting itself
in the company of opening chapters.
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