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Photo credit: Bianca Berg
In Quarantine Searching for Meaning
By Maya Kaabour
A pen is just a pen
until you write
a death note
or a love note
with it.
A song is just a song
until your soul tornadoes
through your body
and your feet bleed
in blisters
to it.
A fire is just a fire
when you see it
burn a stranger’s house on TV –
but when it burns your room
and leaves you
with just
one childhood album
the context changes.
Multiple Sclerosis is just a
disease that’s difficult
to spell
but when it puts
your mother
through hell
well, the name
is no longer
the same.
All day and night –
the Earth orbits the Sun
and all the world’s
inanimate objects
one
after
the other
orbit in search of their meaning.
These objects
make their way in
and out of our lives:
catastrophically
illogically
metaphorically
periodically
before we have even
had the chance
to notice them.
Humans
do the same
sometimes.
We are nothing but layers
upon layers
of constructed
and deconstructed
meaning:
Names.
Nationalities.
Religions.
Genders.
Spectrums.
Ideologies.
Labelled kinks.
Concealing what
we’re really feeling.
All day and night –
we rush to take the
busy train to
Meaning Town.
The train is sticky
and over-crowded
and invasive
at times
like the armpits of
the man
standing next to you.
But we keep
buying tickets
and arguing over seats
despite all of this.
As the meaning for One
was not enough
so venture into the search for
the meaning of Two.
One day someone
stripped me of all
my belongings.
Left me in Quarantine.
Devoid of my anchor
of Meaning.
Suddenly my lamp
devolved into
just a lamp.
And my plant
was just a plant.
(Despite the occasional
wilt in plea
to water it.)
And my clothes –
no longer
a mean of self-expression
but merely there
to make sure
I am not
bare.
And I started saying things
like I meant them.
And I really felt things
when I felt them.
(Without giving them
too much value
or subjective meaning.)
And the Earth stood still
And the Sun shone through –
Neither dependent on the
movement or the stillness
of the other.
And I found meaning
in having no meaning.
And I thought:
What a wonderful time
it is right now
to be alive.
Me, here in my room.
You, there in yours.
That on its own
will suffice.
That on its own
is a lullaby.
Without the Chaos
of Expectation
and the loud noise
of Meaning.
Photo credit: Nathan John
Ode to My Beloved City During the Pandemic
In stillness…
you look even more magical
your roads – black silent snakes
the buildings – hush glitter boxes
the people – changing with changes
you have tucked everything in your safe womb.
Your slumber, now is luminous.
Your slowness, now heals.
I shall wait … my beautiful Dubai,
for when you wake up,
you shall radiate with gargantuan strength!
Photo credit: Dmitry Ratushny
The Flickering Light of Hope
Silent melodies of melancholy,
blown out in puffs of smoke;
were enough to destroy the aspirations-
of a dreamy-eyed bloke.
He was too lost in his reveries-
to grow and blossom.
Like a birch tree’s leaves falling in autumn,
he fell from grace and hit rock bottom.
He still cherishes-
the memories of his experiences.
However, in bottles of rum and grievances,
he slowly perishes.
Yet, he holds on to a loosening rope.
He still extinguishes darkness-
with the flickering light of hope.
Photo credit: Nouman Raees
A Portrait of You
All this while
lurking around the art gallery
nothing caught my eye
as much as this
one painting
that hung high upon
the tall white ceiling
It had shades of crimson red
and carnelian,
underneath the
lips and the sides
of each cheek
Along with the strokes
painted with mulberry
and a mixture of plum
that signified the
damage beneath
the eye
It was like
the painting was
screaming for attention
towards the behavior
that had been displayed
upon the face
It seemed so vivid
as if the portrait
had tears running
down its face
with muffled voices
trying to put across
a forbidden message
But, the lips
appeared to be painted
with a thick layer of
greyish white
that prevented the
screams to travel
past the canvas
There was a story depicted
through the depths of
smudging, thin lines
and strokes that
are beyond ones understanding
And, at the bottom of the canvas
your name was written in silver
along with the title “A Portrait of You”
Photo credit: Nick Samoylov
Façade: Enfilade
I am these buildings that surround me.
Rising as if out of transparent, thin air:
breathing.
breaking to howl for oxygen as
they twist in their own architectural dance.
Claiming their stakes in poems that did not exist until
their foundations were built.
their beams were set up.
strong ladders were leant against the shaky brick walls for creating support.
Dust was scraped; nails were bled into the hardening cement.
There were days when they cupped their hands together and prayed as rough edged rollers painted them in unimaginable white hues.
Then, finally:
when the workers told them that they were firm enough,
they’d framed themselves in windows with wood olive brown and sandal paste soft,
decorating themselves with
jewellery pretty new house soothing
perfect makeup forever patient calm
expensive clothes cute eyes subtle curves
pretty high heels heavy wig soft voice sweet smile
faux pas pretty
faux faux faux faux faux faux faux
succulents carefully balanced on tired windowsills so people can
see, see, see, see…
See me.
Photo credit: Frank Albrecht
Ancestor’s Calling
Our roots are like those of an olive grove
carrying stories buried in the soil, beneath the earth
no matter how many they cut off
disguised with villas and buildings,
the whispers of our ancestors will always be there.
Sometimes on a windy day
you might hear the farmers’ whisper,
free the land
Photo credit: Luca Tosoni
Hope of Freedom
Long ago in a village
I saw a beautiful bird sitting in a cage
it seemed as if the bird was fake as it didn’t move
but if you looked in her eyes, you will presume
that she is crying for hope, reason to live but couldn’t express
as the courage of that bird was depressed
Days and nights passed by and she didn’t move or sleep
but one day another bird came to her and she moved
tweeting to each other through the bars of captivity
it seems as if the bird in the cage was reborn
the bird had found hope for life
and thus kept trying to escape
the flames of her courage were ignited
by the will of getting out
the morrow I looked at the cage and couldn’t believe my eyes
the bird was out in the moonlight of night
it couldn’t have been possible without the hope she got
from the other birds’ message of freedom
Photo credit: Aaron Burden
In The Silence of The Field
I cast my glance far away
as my eyes spread the silence of the blades of grass.
I am wondering, unbearably,
does any blade die
without the knowledge of the whole field?
I slowly adhere to nature
to that world of stunted herbs.
The words became petrified with unison,
in the infinity of thoughts,
while I merge the pictures of the unbearable
torrid city asphalt and
entwined thicket in the murk of the sky.
Wailing of the city melt into the abyss
freeing itself from the harmony of the width
of boiling sky of Sahara and
rainy Amazonia,
without the intactness of silence
in true greenery.
Photo credit: Annie Spratt
Reading to My Little Brother
three, tall, stoic, lucky bamboos stand against the wall
riddled with amber wounds now
feng shui fettered somewhere in its pose
‘lucky bum’ you call them
you and the sliver of baby fat
under your chin
that took me back to a night some months ago
it was bedtime
our thoughts encased in the dreary dampness
of the night
a small body beside mine
and strawberry toothpaste breath
slippery
on the hard-bound walls of the fairytale book
‘there was a boy who lived with his mother’ and so on
my voice, its frilly frock and all
lost somewhere in the brambles of your disinterest.
‘so you will be the first to die’
you say suddenly, your eyes still fixed on the page,
your lips still pursed
‘and I will die many years after you’
my surprise is quiet,
smirky,
you are young-and-unwise-y
childish thrall in my
‘yes, I will die first’
and suddenly the night gains color
my smirk hangs limp in the air
yes, yes, yes
we lie like that in the quiet
till your fingers find mine
a wet kiss on my chin
‘I wish we could die together’
you whisper to yourself
and in that low lamp light
I loved your uneven haircut
and cavity-clad teeth
a little more
but I can see that your mind has already wandered
that the moment is already lost
you whine that you’re hungry
and I get up to fix you something.
Photo credit: Evgeni Tcherkasski
Capella
The moon is out, the heavens are clear
Celestial bodies bear down light through years
night years, light years, empty years
reaching Earth spent and done
An echo, a memory of what once was
a fire ignited in the heavens above
the birth and death of a Celestial God
Thank you for reading Poetry!
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