May 2016
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Photo credit: Amina Lakehayli
Ban Me
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
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.
Photo credit: Myriam Nehmeh
Epiphany in Al Barsha
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.
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
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.
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.
Photo credit: Roksolana Zasiadko
Wildflowers and Weeds
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
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
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
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
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