Edition V

May 2016


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Ban Me - by Amina Lakehayli  (photo by Amina Lakehayli)Photo credit: Amina Lakehayli 

Ban Me

By Amina Lakehayli

Ban me.
Put me in a box, that’s not my size.
I’ll dismantle my bones; I’ll squeeze tight my heart.
I’ll leave behind my dreams, and I’ll blow my hopes in a helium balloon.
If there is no space for my soul; I will sell it for you.
And I still wouldn’t fit, in the box you choose.

Ban me.
Lock me in a cage made of stars,
tell me I have the universe inside it, but I still want to fly.
Feed me love, I still want to sing.
Protect me from the world outside, and deny me the one I have within,
I still can’t be owned, I still have a name
and I still want to love blindfolded outside my cage.

Ban me.
Carry me in you; I’ll soak in your blood.
The life you want for me is bright, but I can’t sense the light.
Cut me loose, I’m heavy, and I’m tired.
I can’t settle down for what you wish, I lust for freedom, for depths and heights.

Ban me, because when you said “You’re not one of us” you were right.
Ban me, so we both could rest and I can die.


Lullaby - by Namal Siddiqui

Lullaby

By Namal Siddiqui

Mother is a beautiful tall broad postured woman.
Her nose is a perfect asymmetrical structure,
her eyes are brown and speak more than the words she says,
her hands are large and able to hold many more children than her own,
her fingers are long like a pianist or a sculptor, guiding gently
creating and molding patiently.

Mother is a lullaby.
The wavy texture of her hair is a lullaby.
The smell of her skin, a mix of her soap and the food she cooked is a lullaby.
The gap between her perfectly square teeth is a lullaby.
The often intimidating sound of her steady footsteps is a lullaby.
The sound of my name in her voice is a lullaby.
The prayer she says in the middle of the night, when I am fast asleep, is a lullaby.
The hands she holds high and the tears she cries for her children are a lullaby.
The woman I see, the woman I want to be like, the woman I came from.
That woman. My mother, is a lullaby. 


Epiphany in Al Barsha - By Anggo Genorga  (photo by Myriam Nehmeh)Photo credit: Myriam Nehmeh 

Epiphany in Al Barsha

By anggo genorga

When I saw a long line grain of sand
on the street gently blown by the wind
and saw it
           as lines of snow white cocaine,

I knew then that I’m missing my home.

People just don’t notice
how messed up someone can be;
we mind our own business.

Sentimentality always comes uninvited
and it catches you with your pants down
most of the time.

I figured that out just now.

— I walked my way to a bug infested partition
whistling to can’t find my way home.


لن أنساك - by Philippe Jardak  (photo by Kamesh Vedula)Photo credit: Kamesh Vedula 

لن أنساك

الشاعر فيليب جرداق

أغرسُ قلمي في دمي                               وفؤادي يبقى بالحُلُمِ

 بين جرح الماضي                                   وعظمة الحاضرِ ورهبة المستقبلِ

يا أنشودتي و يا كلمتي                              التي كانت فحوى حياتي

سأبقى أحبكِ إلى الأبدِ                                حتى  يأخذ الله أمانته في عيد العشّاقِ

أكون في سماء العليِّ                                أنظركِ إلى أسفل وأكون ملاككِ الحارسِ

علّ ذلك يشفي عذابي                                ويوفِّق دربكِ في مسيرة الحبِّ

تذكّريني دائما بذاك الصوتِ                      الذي سمعتيه داخل منزل اللهِ

أُذكري وجهي                                           الذي ضحك لكِ

وذاك العقلُ                                              الذي لم ينفكّ عن التفكير بكِ

صوتكِ في ذاكرتي                                    يتردّد صداه في مسامعي

كنتُ أصمّ العشقِ                                      فأمسيتيني شاب الحاضر الأليمِ

كنتُ أعمى الحبِّ                                      فعندما كلّمتيني أبصرتُ حقيقة مشاعري

ليتني كنتُ أعماً و أصماً                            لكان عذابي أخفّ وطئةً عليكِ

أحبّكِ ولم ولن أحبّ غيركِ                         والله شاهدٌ على كلامي

أنّكِ دخلتِ حياة هذا العبد الفقير                   وخرجتِ منه وحبّه باقٍ لكِ

لا يسعني إلاّ أن أقدّم لكِ كلماتي                   كوردةٍ متواضعةٍ تحمل شوقي وعشقي لكِ

وأحرفٌ حيث معناها واحدٌ                         تعرف أنّها لم تكتب إلا عنكِ

متواضعةٌ قدّمتُها ذبيحةً لكِ                        لأبقى في نظرها ذاك الكاتب الذي أحبّكِ

إلى أبد الآبدين يا حبيبتي                                


Once I Was - by Samir Georges  (photo by Myriam Nehmeh)Photo credit: Myriam Nehmeh 

Once I Was

By Samir Georges
(Author of the beautiful book “As I Write These Words”)

I was once a star 

with all the distance of a photograph 
all the heat of a sparkling night 
that sets the soul alight. 

Once I was a memory 

lost amidst the chrysalis 
that stretches the journey of the sun 
in search for excitement in the cold 
that settles upon the past 
and stills our time in silence. 

Never again will I be what was 

the star has ebbed and gone, 
though the ghost of its touch lingers more, 
I am hatched and born to fly 
and flit down upon the fragrant soil 
chasing warmth in virgin nectar. 

I am bracing myself for death now 

such is the passing of youth 
that the star can reach me no more 
and the memory is but a shell 
of all I can no longer be, 
so I am free at last 
free to fear and in pursuit of warmth 
I am free to run 
ascend my aging flesh 
back against the hanging sky 
with the jasmine’s nectar 
hot across my lips 
and death’s looming specter 
the gentle persuasion of a broiling sun.


Love Has Deep Brown Eyes - by Rasha Ismail  (photo by Christopher Campbell)Photo credit: Chris Joel Campbell 

Love Has Deep Brown Eyes

By Rasha Ismail

Love has brown eyes
and it took me thirty years to realise.
A skin, a scent
a smile I recognise,
a knowing too real…
too real to analyse.
Love can paralyse,
a numbness too sweet to criticise.
A stillness,
a slow breath, a release
a succumbing with ease
a flow too strong to verbalise.
Love has deep brown eyes.


Wildflowers and Weeds - by Kokab S. Syed  (photo by Roksolana Zasiadko)Photo credit: Roksolana Zasiadko 

Wildflowers and Weeds

By Kokab S. Syed

They cross paths on the loneliest of streets, on a lonely day
Each wondering about the other, with nothing much to say

Holding on to secrets too trivial to reveal
They talk of hopes that live, of dreams half real

What would’ve you been in another life – had things gone differently
Just who I am, she states. Only better, stronger too, happier probably

A wildflower, out in the open, wild and free
Yet close to my kind, my tribe, my family

Feeling the beaming sun, swaying with the winds that greet
Yielding all that warmth in bright hues and scents sweet

Staying true to my roots, oddities and essence
Holding fast to the very cause of my presence  

Disheartened and pensive, he confesses unwittingly:
Not all are as fortunate; if anything, a weed I’d be

Smiling she adds: Of the very best kind you mean
Ones that live passionately, the strong and keen

You are what you will, some dreams do come true
Look around. If weeds can blossom, so can you


أبواب - by Moemen Helmy

أبواب

الشاعر مؤمن حلمي

أتجول في طرقات نفسي، ما أكثر الأبواب المغلقة
أطرقها بلا مجيب، فكيف يجيبني من قضيت عمري أكتم أنفاسه
ألمح بطرف عيني باباً موارباً دائماً ما أحاول تجاهله
أتجه نحوه لأحاول إغلاقه وأسجن ما بداخله للأبد
أجذبه نحوي ولكن لا يستجيب لي مهما حاولت
تخور قواي وينفتح الباب وأراها خلفه
أرى من كان يمنعني
مأساتي أنني لا أعلم هل من فتحه يحمل حريتي أم مماتي
،سيّان
!أفمن عبر  البحر كمن ابتلّت قدماه بآثار الخيال


Love Yourself First - by Aneesha Rai  (photo by Roksolana Zasiadko)Photo credit: Roksolana Zasiadko 

Love Yourself First

By Aneesha Rai

Love yourself first;
that’s what was written against her chest
as she walked past the carriages of the metro cars.
Written by a cheap marker to erase the cheapness,
written in bold as her gait.
She was beautiful, not by her looks
but by her stance and her unbridled belief,
and as I shy away from staring at her chest
the minute I close my eyes
that’s all I can see
like a glaring reminder.


Mr. Nargy - by Jamil Adas

Mr. Nargy

By Jamil Adas

Patience, Patience Mr. Nargy,
let your feelings touchdown lightly.
Heed the lesson and make it count,
no other way will your mind sprout.

Mr. Nargy knows he’s a lout,
still, he likes to sit and shout.
As the dust settles, he’s composed,
his boy bleeding on the floor.

Boy realizes the devil has left
His father back to his righteous self
“Father, father let’s play again
I’ll play the devil and you be the saint”


Thank you to every writer for the thought infusing poems contributed and
thank you to every passerby for reading the art of our talented poets.

If you would like to have your poem or image published for the next
Dubai Poetics edition
send your poem or request to be a “visual artist” to poetry@dubaipoetics.com

Join us again in our Poetryhood!!


Enjoy more of our earlier editions through these links:

Edition I
Edition II
Edition III
Edition IV