Heavy on the mind
a man left without much to eat
while I throw old apples in the back-garden's bin
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
The dance of war is a beautiful thing
Dance- to move your body in a way that goes with the rhythm and style of music that is being played. The Webster Dictionary
on the floor, you move
under your steps I hear, a thousand child scream
as the bomb drops
and I remember how the longer I shivered-
I thought- the sooner I would learn to enjoy
music and fireworks as an adult
growing old is different than growing to heal
or heed to the sound of danger, a dancer
you lift your hand with the softer set of arms
without rhythm, a confused anger,
glide a blade in the hands of those who lost humans
gained power, to stand and speak
with the voices borrowed from those who were refused
the right to words or to moving lips
flaming hips, chant a mantra that is incomprehensible
to the back-drop of a celebration
kill to live and let live
isn't it the first rule of survival
those who are fit decide on those who are not?
the dance of war, you comment, is a beautiful thing
it only takes awareness and the right amount of appreciation
to the making of music from the clash of two swords
or the clash of two bodies, created from the same material
bone and skin,
breath and brain
rattle like hollow wood, tries to beat optimistic music
from lonely flutes
the dance of war, beautiful feeds on the same ground
where we stand
counting how many shoes can we donate to one-legged children
this is a result of movement,
eastern or western to the beat of music
your body shakes, it is beautiful you say,
to dance on flattened earth, you cannot tell
that there will be music, coming from the shaking ground
careful where you set your dance of war, for there were people
there will always be, in flattened lands, old-hidden music.
The letter I wrote
Folded, in your breast-pocket
a letter I gave you, like another wrapper
left between your heart and the rest of us
who do not sleep, lay waiting for answers
a letter I gave you, like another wrapper
left between your heart and the rest of us
who do not sleep, lay waiting for answers
Giving way...
'Or being hated, don’t give way to hating'- Rudyard Kipling
Run from the nearest place on the hills into the desert
but do not ask for Tiresias to predict rain
force an oracle when he is half-made of a snake
snakes make of the desert a home,
it is always like that, the cure is in the belly
of monsters
the monsters decide who lives
who dies, it is not up to God
anymore, decision-making is entirely human
made plausible before the first moon of the new month
a month left to God where all the devils are locked
but a few had gone astray, like normal angels would
in El-Manya you would hold a gun in your right hand
a flyer in your left, at arm's length,
pray before you act, not act and pray for forgiveness
in El-Manya, you would hold a gun in your right hand,
a flyer in the left, does not ask for forgiveness
the precision of a shot on a six year old's neck
heroic, the act of blood over bravery
made to receive
payment in ripe blood
Go tell the mothers of the children
who receive coffins instead of flowers
to grieve silently
between the afternoon meal and the dawn's call for prayer
sorrow has to wait until the word of God
settles among us
run from fear and contain another
that you are slotted 'interesting' in airports
at the sidelines of conversations, slaughtered for following
an ideal, a difference, a belief
but this is not how I was raised
not how I would expect;
a bullet from a stranger whose mother fed from my mother's
orchard, who with prayer I had showered
with love I had practiced, turning both my cheeks
where my lips caught the blow
where a son of mine died because he obtained my last name
because our names are kofor, blasphemy
blasphemy is the other side of love
where I put you down, in the name of the one who reigns
the skies, where I break your back and wish you a speedy recovery
blasphemy is when my prayer is without direction
but with aim, blasphemy is when in El-Manya
going to God means a death
of little flowers left, untended to,
where children are not sent to play or arrive at church
but later in the day, the blasphemous
stiff, yet white, like angels
fallen in the wide deserts of the pharaohs.
Run from the nearest place on the hills into the desert
but do not ask for Tiresias to predict rain
force an oracle when he is half-made of a snake
snakes make of the desert a home,
it is always like that, the cure is in the belly
of monsters
the monsters decide who lives
who dies, it is not up to God
anymore, decision-making is entirely human
made plausible before the first moon of the new month
a month left to God where all the devils are locked
but a few had gone astray, like normal angels would
in El-Manya you would hold a gun in your right hand
a flyer in your left, at arm's length,
pray before you act, not act and pray for forgiveness
in El-Manya, you would hold a gun in your right hand,
a flyer in the left, does not ask for forgiveness
the precision of a shot on a six year old's neck
heroic, the act of blood over bravery
made to receive
payment in ripe blood
Go tell the mothers of the children
who receive coffins instead of flowers
to grieve silently
between the afternoon meal and the dawn's call for prayer
sorrow has to wait until the word of God
settles among us
run from fear and contain another
that you are slotted 'interesting' in airports
at the sidelines of conversations, slaughtered for following
an ideal, a difference, a belief
but this is not how I was raised
not how I would expect;
a bullet from a stranger whose mother fed from my mother's
orchard, who with prayer I had showered
with love I had practiced, turning both my cheeks
where my lips caught the blow
where a son of mine died because he obtained my last name
because our names are kofor, blasphemy
blasphemy is the other side of love
where I put you down, in the name of the one who reigns
the skies, where I break your back and wish you a speedy recovery
blasphemy is when my prayer is without direction
but with aim, blasphemy is when in El-Manya
going to God means a death
of little flowers left, untended to,
where children are not sent to play or arrive at church
but later in the day, the blasphemous
stiff, yet white, like angels
fallen in the wide deserts of the pharaohs.
a tenderness
Three sets of novels sit on the windowsill
three books of poetry on my lap
your voice, in between the pages, is tender
three books of poetry on my lap
your voice, in between the pages, is tender
Sunday, May 28, 2017
in this East
In the back-yard, you take the children to plant flowers
digging up spaces for the little pink and red petals
trust you are fine,
in between the shots, other children dig spaces for the bodies.
digging up spaces for the little pink and red petals
trust you are fine,
in between the shots, other children dig spaces for the bodies.
Saturday, May 27, 2017
De-colonizing my kitchen
Colonize my tongue
cut the words of my language into several pieces
but leave the kitchen counters clean of your cutlery
calming chamomile, charred fish, Falfel with chick-peas
you cannot claim the way I calm down my anger;
I chop the vegetables and the world goes still around me
better cut-out vegetables than colonized cookery.
cut the words of my language into several pieces
but leave the kitchen counters clean of your cutlery
calming chamomile, charred fish, Falfel with chick-peas
you cannot claim the way I calm down my anger;
I chop the vegetables and the world goes still around me
better cut-out vegetables than colonized cookery.
What the eight year old said
I want my mother, she cried
the eight year old who knew that the light was coming
yet all she wanted was comfort of darkness on a familiar shoulder
close your eyes little one, let us hold you
in our minds, in your innocence, in our collective shame.
the eight year old who knew that the light was coming
yet all she wanted was comfort of darkness on a familiar shoulder
close your eyes little one, let us hold you
in our minds, in your innocence, in our collective shame.
trust the weight
Trust
if I put my weight forward, on a high roof
would you let me fall?
if I put my weight forward, on a high roof
would you let me fall?
Do not drink with a sore throat
The milk left from the Santa Claus days
do not drink with a sore throat
your imagination will be contaminated by soreness
do not drink with a sore throat
your imagination will be contaminated by soreness
Before the banging sounds
Before the banging sounds there was song
a dance between the screens, the stars and the singing teens
before the banging sounds was music
an escalation of notes, joyous around the packed rooms
before the banging sounds was breath
from which we all became, to which we all return
before the noise was silence
a break in the middle of the sentences and a cheer
before the noise there were claps
a wave of enthusiasm and a feeling of achievement
like a world full of chances for dreams to become real
that was before the banging sound
where the city lay by sea
where the children never needed to rearrange their names
before the war was the peace
we had imagined to be, a young boy waiving a flag
before the banging sounds
was a belief that the breath that made us, assured we are one
before it crowds my head, I will speak
I am not made silent yet.
a dance between the screens, the stars and the singing teens
before the banging sounds was music
an escalation of notes, joyous around the packed rooms
before the banging sounds was breath
from which we all became, to which we all return
before the noise was silence
a break in the middle of the sentences and a cheer
before the noise there were claps
a wave of enthusiasm and a feeling of achievement
like a world full of chances for dreams to become real
that was before the banging sound
where the city lay by sea
where the children never needed to rearrange their names
before the war was the peace
we had imagined to be, a young boy waiving a flag
before the banging sounds
was a belief that the breath that made us, assured we are one
before it crowds my head, I will speak
I am not made silent yet.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
subject
Three bruises on the jaw,
a burning sensation behind the eyes,
I am subjected to your muscles
a burning sensation behind the eyes,
I am subjected to your muscles
Dreams, caught
Do not hang me loose, above your sleeping head
catching your old dreams, sifting in me
exposing my back to the bare wind while you rest carelessly
I am not responsible for your nightmares.
catching your old dreams, sifting in me
exposing my back to the bare wind while you rest carelessly
I am not responsible for your nightmares.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Fresh blood
Where does it generate from?
this fresh blood, not the youth, nor the old
does it, then, grow on trees?
this fresh blood, not the youth, nor the old
does it, then, grow on trees?
Using the letter P too many times
This is your country
she said to me, before the map was clear
paves with poppies
because poppies are red, like blood, no
these are your people
confusing their letters
there are too many peas in the pod
but not enough to make dinner for the mother with three starving children
you use the word slanting too many times
but the ground under you doesn't slant, it shakes
there is a difference in the two verbs
she insists with a sense of wonder, as if one can predict the ends of earth
this is your bird,
it pointed its beak towards me, not a peacock but a phoenix
to rise from the fire you built with your bare hands
who told you phoenixes where mythological?
the proteas burn and they are as real as the back of your hand
touch it, I will never lie
this is your country,
where the letter P is used so many times
the softer it is on people's palettes makes it melt like ice-cream
to erase the taste of thistle on their tongues.
she said to me, before the map was clear
paves with poppies
because poppies are red, like blood, no
these are your people
confusing their letters
there are too many peas in the pod
but not enough to make dinner for the mother with three starving children
you use the word slanting too many times
but the ground under you doesn't slant, it shakes
there is a difference in the two verbs
she insists with a sense of wonder, as if one can predict the ends of earth
this is your bird,
it pointed its beak towards me, not a peacock but a phoenix
to rise from the fire you built with your bare hands
who told you phoenixes where mythological?
the proteas burn and they are as real as the back of your hand
touch it, I will never lie
this is your country,
where the letter P is used so many times
the softer it is on people's palettes makes it melt like ice-cream
to erase the taste of thistle on their tongues.
the poet wonders
She ponders if the natives are the color of the sky
or if the have fled the earth or become it-
I think of my grandfather, hunched over the land
watering the sky
or if the have fled the earth or become it-
I think of my grandfather, hunched over the land
watering the sky
on to your night-stand
One box of juice, for thirst, for vitamins
one box of tissues for night-wakings
you sometimes find your self in a strange room
the realization will take you by storm
a tray, untouched- the food is growing cold
with anger, with server lack of appetite
the light is high and strong
maybe too strong for your soft green eyes
a buzzer, for the calls- to those who can help you stand
your phone charging in the distance
blinking yellow and white-lights
like candles we used to trace, young enough with our fingers
away you sleep for a night
I pretend not to hear, the phantom snoring
that makes your absence clear
on your side of the bed.
one box of tissues for night-wakings
you sometimes find your self in a strange room
the realization will take you by storm
a tray, untouched- the food is growing cold
with anger, with server lack of appetite
the light is high and strong
maybe too strong for your soft green eyes
a buzzer, for the calls- to those who can help you stand
your phone charging in the distance
blinking yellow and white-lights
like candles we used to trace, young enough with our fingers
away you sleep for a night
I pretend not to hear, the phantom snoring
that makes your absence clear
on your side of the bed.
the voice in your throat
You are born with two vocal cords
the argument had already started in the kitchen
there is reason, he tells me, that you have one moth and two chords
your voice is more powerful than the set of lips you color every morning.
the argument had already started in the kitchen
there is reason, he tells me, that you have one moth and two chords
your voice is more powerful than the set of lips you color every morning.
Opening night: PalFest X
The night opens, outside the court,
in the auditorium we can hear the outside world dwindling
call for prayer and a pause for the call for words
nothing sacrilegious about the sun-set, the sound, the word
Ten years, write
read the voices that speak in the name of those who listen
read the words that have shaped nations
pushing them forth like ebb and flow
mark their words, with power
write: this is how the words gather to form you
a body, an audience, a history
write, let the words become you
back-dropped to the old court
back-lit walls, back-dated posters
a celebration is a sound you make in the throats of others
to cause jubilation; make noise, use the words
ten years merit the celebration
of nights opening and closing under an old fig tree
near where Mahmoud Darwish sipped his coffee every morning
watched the birds in flight and made the letters dance
a decade of dedication to the voices
that have once thought dead, fished from the rubble
nicked by the hands of time,
we are all aging, aren't we?
I meet them,master of the words, at the dark hour,
fresh from flight, unaware of the hearts
of the cities to come, with the week passing by
one week of their lives and a minute into mine
to go somewhere, you leave your whole self behind
but to come forth is a gift you give
those who are unable to move
too long is their absence and our fury
The night opens, outside the court,
in the auditorium we can hear the outside world dwindling
call for prayer and a pause for the call for words
nothing sacrilegious about the sun-set, the sound, the word
the night opens outside the court
and the outside world is alive
a call for prayer rings in the night
in respect we ask, do we stop for the voice of God,
or do we continue to hear, the voice of God reflected in our words?
in the auditorium we can hear the outside world dwindling
call for prayer and a pause for the call for words
nothing sacrilegious about the sun-set, the sound, the word
Ten years, write
read the voices that speak in the name of those who listen
read the words that have shaped nations
pushing them forth like ebb and flow
mark their words, with power
write: this is how the words gather to form you
a body, an audience, a history
write, let the words become you
back-dropped to the old court
back-lit walls, back-dated posters
a celebration is a sound you make in the throats of others
to cause jubilation; make noise, use the words
ten years merit the celebration
of nights opening and closing under an old fig tree
near where Mahmoud Darwish sipped his coffee every morning
watched the birds in flight and made the letters dance
a decade of dedication to the voices
that have once thought dead, fished from the rubble
nicked by the hands of time,
we are all aging, aren't we?
I meet them,master of the words, at the dark hour,
fresh from flight, unaware of the hearts
of the cities to come, with the week passing by
one week of their lives and a minute into mine
to go somewhere, you leave your whole self behind
but to come forth is a gift you give
those who are unable to move
too long is their absence and our fury
The night opens, outside the court,
in the auditorium we can hear the outside world dwindling
call for prayer and a pause for the call for words
nothing sacrilegious about the sun-set, the sound, the word
and the outside world is alive
a call for prayer rings in the night
in respect we ask, do we stop for the voice of God,
or do we continue to hear, the voice of God reflected in our words?
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Call to St. Jude
I will call out to Saint Jude
three times between prayers and the beeps
of the dangling machines, that speak of a language we do not understand
Biblical or not, one call never changes
save us, the last of the lost causes.
three times between prayers and the beeps
of the dangling machines, that speak of a language we do not understand
Biblical or not, one call never changes
save us, the last of the lost causes.
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Collect v.s. practice
Too long I have practiced the art of collection
with what fits my hands, shelled-out acorns,
twigs, a soft stone here and a jagged one left to the wild
I have never practiced leaving behind what is not mine
this is our selfish desire, to collect and claim ours
what has been given rightfully to others,
without apology, but with a sense of wonder,
now the collection's pieces line up like soldiers
over an old desk, a mirror or in an old closet
with practice, I keep at hand a continuous set
of doings; lifting a bucket to paint the sky
turning around in sleep to dream better
making shapes of the same clouds over and over
repeating to myself that with collecting and with practice
it can be fixed, what I cannot retain, describe
or make mine by sole ideas in my head.
with what fits my hands, shelled-out acorns,
twigs, a soft stone here and a jagged one left to the wild
I have never practiced leaving behind what is not mine
this is our selfish desire, to collect and claim ours
what has been given rightfully to others,
without apology, but with a sense of wonder,
now the collection's pieces line up like soldiers
over an old desk, a mirror or in an old closet
with practice, I keep at hand a continuous set
of doings; lifting a bucket to paint the sky
turning around in sleep to dream better
making shapes of the same clouds over and over
repeating to myself that with collecting and with practice
it can be fixed, what I cannot retain, describe
or make mine by sole ideas in my head.
when grace arrives
Put your grief away in a bag
the sun is here, already, and you are late
there's no room for pain when grace arrives
the sun is here, already, and you are late
there's no room for pain when grace arrives
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
hanging on her chest
He hangs on her chest
like a photo in an ill-fitting frame
heavy, chipped and fraying except for seven year old jokes
he goes but his photograph on her neck stays
like a photo in an ill-fitting frame
heavy, chipped and fraying except for seven year old jokes
he goes but his photograph on her neck stays
explaining a jukebox
I would have liked to walk with you that day
instead of walking with lonesomeness, the whoosh of autumn leaves
behind me and a turn at every corner, to imagined otherness
I would have like to walk with you that day
arrive exactly where I found you, at the end of October,
with a cigarette half dangling in your mouth
smoke inhaled, not yet exhaled, until you saw me
a dress, short with pride and patches of black and white
you carried around an intense energy,
yet bound your ankle a shade of guilt between the beads of your anklet
of things done in secret; lovers kissed on the mouth when marriage
was the only tie that lead you home
still I would have liked to walk with you
to the end of the crowded bar, where you asked
for the source of music, pied-pieper, piped to the wall
before the dingy bathroom, behind the pool table
across from the bar where we sat, served expensive alcohol
in cheap glasses. You protested, again, on the sound of the Beatles
not coming to your years and I had to explain
how to flip years of music-making into compact CDs, black on the outside
holographic with notes and somber melodies. A dollar in and a few arguments
over whose music suits best the minute,
for each minute has its song, each memory, river-long a piece
to undress it to its core
I turn my head and explain how row behind row
like schoolchildren the songs line up,
from the belly of the old-looking machine that matches nothing
in the bar except an old sofa, this is not a place for youth
but it is a place for the present
for a few moments a jukebox, I say, is the world.
instead of walking with lonesomeness, the whoosh of autumn leaves
behind me and a turn at every corner, to imagined otherness
I would have like to walk with you that day
arrive exactly where I found you, at the end of October,
with a cigarette half dangling in your mouth
smoke inhaled, not yet exhaled, until you saw me
a dress, short with pride and patches of black and white
you carried around an intense energy,
yet bound your ankle a shade of guilt between the beads of your anklet
of things done in secret; lovers kissed on the mouth when marriage
was the only tie that lead you home
still I would have liked to walk with you
to the end of the crowded bar, where you asked
for the source of music, pied-pieper, piped to the wall
before the dingy bathroom, behind the pool table
across from the bar where we sat, served expensive alcohol
in cheap glasses. You protested, again, on the sound of the Beatles
not coming to your years and I had to explain
how to flip years of music-making into compact CDs, black on the outside
holographic with notes and somber melodies. A dollar in and a few arguments
over whose music suits best the minute,
for each minute has its song, each memory, river-long a piece
to undress it to its core
I turn my head and explain how row behind row
like schoolchildren the songs line up,
from the belly of the old-looking machine that matches nothing
in the bar except an old sofa, this is not a place for youth
but it is a place for the present
for a few moments a jukebox, I say, is the world.
a pocketful of past
Had I lived differently, you say
Had I not done, not talked, not walked the line, you tell yourself
but you remember too, that the coin with these two faces
shamed, regretted, is unwanted in the pockets for too long.
Had I not done, not talked, not walked the line, you tell yourself
but you remember too, that the coin with these two faces
shamed, regretted, is unwanted in the pockets for too long.
sweetness, sometimes
sweet sweet,
hunger is the sweat of duration
no food in our stomachs
but privilege covers for our vices
like a mother, like an old mother
we look for reasons for the consumption
to consume, is to loose everything
let then, this hunger consume us
like those on famine,
you cannot afford to start eating because you waste
resources
why are we getting scientific,
hunger is not about science, it is about a feelings
but cannot all feelings be tamed
trained and honed, or yet replaced
like those substituting the sun
with synthetic light
like seeking water for an answer, water hasn't always been a
solution
all soluble, not this hunger
not that primal need,
for a change to happen assure, our collective hunger and
anger, are suppressed.
Summer is back
I see you, with your back turned to the grass
your head is already in the stars
you whisper, summer is back
I do not want to tell you
that I already know, I have reached
summer's hand on the back of my shoulders
the fly's buzz in my back-garden has told me
a soft air of wine and a long lull in the night-time
a dance with broken toes on the roof
summer is all about open;
looser shirts, smiles, shorter tempers to the direction of the sun
your hand finding mine, is the ultimate reason
for summer to return.
your head is already in the stars
you whisper, summer is back
I do not want to tell you
that I already know, I have reached
summer's hand on the back of my shoulders
the fly's buzz in my back-garden has told me
a soft air of wine and a long lull in the night-time
a dance with broken toes on the roof
summer is all about open;
looser shirts, smiles, shorter tempers to the direction of the sun
your hand finding mine, is the ultimate reason
for summer to return.
Monday, May 8, 2017
reminders of the plight
Do I keep a sand-clock
to remind others of their plight
asked none but the time that remains present.
to remind others of their plight
asked none but the time that remains present.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
sent into light
Sent into the light
those thoughts, three dreams by the firewood
collected from dried-sap trees
those thoughts, three dreams by the firewood
collected from dried-sap trees
Thursday, May 4, 2017
She remembers
How spoken to her, addressed
a sense of a midnight escape and a new star
dragging its tail onto the night
a lot like goodbye and a little like a meeting
a sense of a midnight escape and a new star
dragging its tail onto the night
a lot like goodbye and a little like a meeting
Monday, May 1, 2017
Poppies and thistle
In the fields, were poppies, last week
today all I found standing was leaves
the poppies have withered
at the hands of the purple thistle,
much like me and you.
today all I found standing was leaves
the poppies have withered
at the hands of the purple thistle,
much like me and you.
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