Edition VI

June 2016


Dubai Poetics on Facebook         Dubai Poetics on Instagram

الظلام - by Moemen Helmy  (photo by Natheer Halawani)Photo credit: Natheer Halawani

الظلام

الشاعر مؤمن حلمي

وحدي في السواد
وجودي في ذلك النسيج الذي يربط ذرات الكون معاً
الضوء أصابه اليأس وتوقف عن الزيارة
والعين لم تعد ترى سوى نسيج الحلم
أرى عطارد يصارع المريخ، والشمس تقف بينهما حكماً
أرى النجوم تلعب البيليارد بالكواكب
أرى نجما يموت، ومن ثراه يحلق نجم وليد
أرى الكون في حجم حبة خردل
أرى الانفجار الكبير
أرى انعدام الوقت في اللا وجود حيث لا قبل ولا بعد
أرى الكون ينكمش نحو النهاية
أرى الأرض خالية، لا ناس، لا وجود
أرى الماضي والحاضر والمستقبل في آن واحد
أرى هذا كله وأتساءل، هل حان وقت قيامتي، أم أن البعث حق لم يكتب لي بعد


الشيشة - by Farah Chamma

الشيشة

الشاعرة فرح شمّا 

في المقهى
نرى الشباب في أحسن حال
.لا يفعلون إلّا ما يريح البال

.لا يهمهم لا قمعٌ و لا حربٌ و لا احتلال
ينتظرونَ عروساً
نحيلةً، طويلةَ الهامةِ، رأسُها مرفوعٌ
.فاخرٌ، تفّاحتان و عنبٌ و برتقال

في المقهى
نرى الشباب في أحسن حال
.لا يفعلون إلّا ما يريح البال

أحاديثهم برابيشٌ تمتد من أفواههم
.لا موضوعٌ يطرحُ و لا سؤال
تقرقر الشِيَشُ بدلاً عنهم
.و تضيء وجوههم شاشات الجوّال

،تشتعل رؤوس الشيشة ناراً
.أمّا رؤوسهم فكالجليدِ مضاضةً للاشتعال
فقد يكونوا قد سئموا الحديث عن البطالة و ارتفاع الأسعار و المال
،و سئموا السياية و الثورات، و فقدوا فيها كلّ اللآمال
.فمن الطبيعي أن يفضلوا الحديث عن البرشا و الريال

في المقهى
نرى الشباب في أحسن حال
.لا يفعلون إلّا ما يريح البال

لِمَ يقرؤون الكتبَ
إن كان هناك مجال
للجلوس لساعاتٍ
في مقهى االموّال

نراهم على هواهم
وسط الدخّانِ جالسين
كالغمامِ يعمي أبصارهم
.فهم لأحلامهم و طموحاتهم لغافلين

،كالشيشة هم
يخنق الدخّان مائهم
فمن يأتيهم بماءٍ معين؟
وكّلوا أمرهم على الله، فهو المستعان المعين
.و قاموا الليل على أوراق الشدّةِ ساجدين

،فيا شباب اليوم
فالنشيش معاً
.ما دمنا جالسين
،فالنشيش للوطن
.و فالنشيش للمظلومين
،و فالنشيش للطغاتِ
.و فالنشيش للمستعمرين
.و فالنشيش للعلمِ و الثقافةِ و الدين

،و فالنشيش
و نبقى في المقهى جالسين
لعلّنا في يومٍ نشيشُ
.في فلسطين

(إذا أردت مشاهدة إلقاء الشاعرة فرح شمّا لهذه القصيدة اضغة هنا)


Travel With Me - by Kokab S. Syed  (photo by Matthew Wiebe)Photo credit: Matthew Wiebe

Travel with Me

By Kokab S. Syed

I have been meaning to ask  
For years now I must’ve been 
So think awhile then answer me 
If you’d like to be my travel buddy   

Each day Earth takes a spin 
Balancing the chaos within 
Dancing to a rhythm unheard 
Inside a labyrinth sparkle­coloured   

Those bound by fate, idle and sad 
With nowhere to go, nothing much to see 
Or the ones caught, in a race with time 
Too driven to pause, live and just be    

Even the beauty locked up by the beast 
Or that one in the tower a dragon guards 
All go round with every twirl down the orbit 
On and on, for Earth’s clock-work-­wound    

Now we could carry on as we have all along 
Or give each other company from this moment on 
For every hour of every day of our journey to be 
Will you take my hand, will you travel with me?


Generation Loop - by Shynu Elizabeth Jacob  (photo by Ahmad Minawi)Graphic credit: Ahmad Minawi

Generation Loop

By Shynu Elizabeth Jacob

Ages cross all barriers,
when you miss your future carriers.
They are indeed naughty like little warriors,
but a touch of love, questions who is superior.

Live life to be a learner,
experience it to be a teacher.
Special care God has sworn,
to give you parents the moment you were born.

How you treat them is all in your hand,
most simple of them is to understand.
With the magic of generations,
soon it’s your turn to switch the celebrations.


Submission - by Verda Khan  (photo by Oscar Keyes)Photo credit: Oscar Keys

Submission

By Verda Khan

A crouched bug
prostrates before love’s throne,
meek, bows, hands crossed
faith in the unknown destiny

soon to be spoken
out not so loud not
so killing, unheard voice.

Eyes are now weary
of fiasco tries…
Now heart triumphs dingy
at the thought of any new page in life

starring ocean set at
the centre of the throne.
Fragile she waits,
wonders.

Wonders, 
what would finally be her
present, curse, possession?

The call is never an empty one
she believes.

The hearing is, merely, a guide.

Indefinite orbits, she sees
why does she see the 
mediocre, bounded room now
spacious?

Why the chaos of chains are
just the voices of occupants?

Why does complexity care to 
be a jumbled thread of
simplicity?

Has she been given a novel sight?

By the mishap archives
she rests before love’s throne.

She has a candle,
neither Angels’ nor Babylon’s
wrapped in swish
of no prophetic deeds,
neither Satan’s.

She has a lightened candle,
covering journey’s every moment
getting close to its end
with elapsing age

how centered, yet,
it craves not for a quiet 
descent
and anticipates fate not
of it’s candle’s remains.

She sees, throne is brightest
at the middle way.

Where does she stand? Which way?

She doesn’t. 

She is bending on her knees
before the divine throne – 
Patient, yet
demanding – 
Copying
God is listening to
her silent prayers.


Video credit: Mazen Abdulrahman

Cold-Blooded Saint

By Tala Bunni & Yousra-Linda Maamar

To each his own, the desires are dire
One-on-one, the light will yield
Darkness will defy, fueled by nothing but ire
Year after year, the cold blood shall be revealed

Shot with the arrow, the crow and the sparrow
Slowly advance, so forcefully entrance
Through nations and kingdoms wide they plow,
Countless souls rot in a lackluster trance

Slaughtered souls no longer lie dead
Besmirching what was left of the holy Creed
His hand he took, his hand that fed
The devil is undoubtedly one to breed

Once the evil eye fully ascends,
And the Dark Knight’s Power has been dispersed
The white feather wings God-sent
Shall make sure the light is re-immersed


الأنا - by Nour Abughaida  (photo by Nour Abughaida)الرسامة نور أبو غيدا

الأنا

الشاعرة نور أبو غيدا

تائهة بين الأنا بكل حالاتها
بين الوجود واللا وجود
بين كلمات ثائرة بلا حدود
عالقة بين خطوط الزمان في اللا مكان
هناك أنا قابعة بين جدران الأحلام

!أمسيت بأنا و أصبحت بغيرها.. أفما آن للأنا أن تتبدل؟
!و بدورها أن تقبل؟
ألم تسأم التقلقل بين حالاتها
!و تبدلها تارة بعد تارة و ثوران أفكارها؟

هناك بعيداً عن كل الضوضاء
بعيداً عن العنجهية و الكبرياء فوق تلك السحابة البيضاء
تكون الأنا محفورة في غمام الغيم الأبيض
ملفوفة بالنقاء مسرجة بنور الشمس
مضاءة بخيوطها الذهبية إشراقاً جميلاً وقوراً

أكره الرياء و أمقت الاختباء بغير الأنا التي بداخلي
أشعر بالازدراء كثعبان يسعى للانسلاخ و تبديل جلده الرث في الحال
و إن كانوا يطلقون علي صفة الغموض و الكتمان
و إن كانت قد تعبت روحي من كل غدار في هذه الحياة
فلن أبدل الأنا و لن أكون بغيرها حسناء

أقبع بعيداً عن ضوضاء الأقنعة عن سمفونية الرياء
بعيداً عن كل هذا الدهاء
!أكون أنا من أحببت أن أكون
من أحببت روحي التصالح معه لكي أكون

لا أملك خزانة مليئة بالأقنعة كما يملكون
ولا أبدل نفسي كما يبدلون
لست وليدة المواقف
و لا رهينة المصالح
لا تكسرني الهموم
و لن أكون ما أكره أن أكون

لن أكون كما يستسيغون

فأنا هي أنا حتى و إن شاؤوا ألا يشاؤون


Jack Handley @ Shot By BeaPhoto credit: Bea Goddard

Man on a Train

By Trayle Kulshan

I haven’t the strength
to lift the corners of my face.
Each cell rests there
anchored to my angry profile
set behind dark glasses.

I wonder how this man
loves his wife. Is she
fed savory rice and slowly
touched by him?
Do they share secrets?

I haven’t the will
to fight my envy. I covet
her life with an ugly man’s
hands holding hers
knowing mine will not.


Rue - by Hiba Memon  (photo by Mo Maria)Photo credit: Mo Maria Sarkis

Rue

By Hiba Memon

I have always been scared of the word ‘Yes’
like strands of ribbons, it would swirl around my head,
like a snake easing its way through, it would settle itself,
and all that would come out would be a two-lettered ‘NO’.
Risks and adventures are for the vagabonds and wayfarers
I prefer the company of the meek and the mild.
I prefer to drape myself in covers of ignorance,
and walk the streets, with downcast eyes.
Had I known, the beauty of gambling with Life,
I would have merged with Janus and let the Fates decide.
Had I known the beauty of living, and songs of the dead,
I would untangle myself from the words I’ve never said.


Do You Believe in True Love - by Binu Sivan  (photo by Greg Rakozy)Photo credit: Greg Rakozy

Do You Believe in True Love?

By Binu Sivan

‘Do you believe in true love?’ the young voice asked,
seeking not just an answer, but reassurance
that the future is not just about working hard and logic
of responsibilities and duties, a full time job and a relationship maze.

I paused, and swallowed the bile of cynicism
that threatened to destroy her fragile “hold on” hope.
I paused, and closed my eyes, letting the soothing breeze
of memory and hope ease my brow.

I wonder, ‘Why is she asking me this?’
I am not an ace at this. I never was.
Time, drudgery, and a lifetime of settling and
taking, and being taken for granted has laid it all to rest.

Do I believe in true love? Or do I believe that it is all a lie?!
‘There is no such thing as true love!’ a voice in me taunts.
Just look at the disillusionment,
the debris of relationships lying in that mound.

And yet… yet… there is poetry
Rumi, Ghalib, Parveen Shakir – plaintively beseeching the Gods,
consoling you and me, and their worlds within…
‘Kahin toh so raha hoga mera chand…’ she sang.
And you wonder. Do I truly believe that it is all a lie?

But, do I believe in romance? Yes, I do! I believe in romance.
Not the Valentine’s Day shit of cards, candlelight dinner and roses
I don’t even believe in the “we-will-grow-old-together” kind of romance.
And I definitely, no longer believe in forever.

Yet I am a lover of love. I believe in romance.
I believe in the ‘right now you are the most important
person in the world for me’ kind of romance.
Romance… a gentle, soothing breeze
that sweeps across our hearts soothing our tired eyes.

A breeze that brings with it a smile and a stubborn bubble of hope;
fragile and strong, vulnerable and bold.
It needs a face… a soul to caress… to brush against
slowly raising the soul’s shrouds, and waking it
to the joy, peace, angst and pain that is but the companion to love.

But it needs a soul that it can touch.
A breeze that blows against a rock face
will not raise any veils… will not birth any songs.
Just a weak wind, it will falter and fade.
I am a born-again romantic. I have no proof. It’s true.
But I have faith. A romantic. I am my own soul mate.

I look at the moon and the stars and I remember what I read or
maybe, heard somewhere… ‘we are all stardust.’
Such cosmic magnificence and magic could not just be created
for something as banal as work and success alone.

There has to be more…

In my innocent teens swirling with tornado-like emotions,
I believed in forever after.
In my twenties I chased dreams – professional and personal.
Some turned to dust and some took flight.

In my thirties I chose reality over dreams.
Told myself that I am too old to be a believer.
But now in my forties, I have left all sureties behind.
If all that is, is only that which we can see,
then how do you explain the yearning and the seeking
that my heart drowns in.

The key I am sure lies in my heart or hormones or liver or mind
or wherever these feelings are born. 
When I look up at the beautiful moon in the sky
and my heart and soul aches and yearns for…

what am I searching for?
My partner…
God…
My soul mate…
Cosmic answers?

These feelings, this pain… this constant seeking for the other piece.
No matter how complete we make our own lives to be
this is what makes me achingly human.
Without this sad yet still hopeful heart, I may just as well be dead.

There is no logic, no proof… all I have is the knowing that this is so.
I have always known it. I may never find him.
But my heart will continue to love.
Searching for him in faces that I see pass me by.

Searching for him in that sudden turn of a head,
a pause, a half glimpsed chin and the flash of an eye that reflect,
in that quicksilver second of connection my own search.
I have nearly found him a hundred times, but he has always slipped through.

Maybe now is not the time.       
But, one thing I can tell you my young friend

as long as we are alive, romance is alive.


الحب هو أنت - by Philippe Jardak  (photo by Ahmad Minawi)Photo credit: Ahmad Minawi
This is a photo of the unfinished Rachid Karami International Fair building (by the architect Oscar Niemeyers) which was halted due to the civil war in Lebanon.

الحب هو أنت

الشاعر فيليب جرداق

قلتُ سلامٌ على من أحبَّ
وأهلا لمن عشق الحبَّ
فليل العاشقين مدينة الهوى
وورود الحبِّ عاصمة الثوى
سألتكِ المحبّةَ والقلبَ
أفلا تكوني قلب الذي ابتلا؟
يا روحي، يا عمري الملا
فما العمر إلا ومضات القلب حلا
أحبك وأعشق الحياة كلها
بين الأنين والحنين والتي بها
أعشقك حتى آخر حدود بحر الهوى
وموج البحر وصوت الأفق صدى
ملكتِ فؤادي فانكتب لي العمر الملا
زمان الحب والأحاسيس والقدر تكلّما
أتت الورود والياسمين والقمرُ خجلا
أتوا ليقولوا لكِ عني أنا العاشق المبتلا
الذي انتظر العالم كلّه وبكا
ليراكِ أميرةً، مالكةً عرشه الفقيرا
لو تكلّم الليل عني، وشهد البحر لي…لما
قالا لكِ كم من الحب أعطيتُ لفؤادٍ تكلّما
أحبك ولم أعرف طعم الحب إلا من خلالك…أنتِ المنتهى
نثرتُ النجوم فوقكِ كرداءٍ أبيضٍ كلّه لكِ مكلّلا
عشقتكِ إلى المنتهى، إلى دهر الحبّ انكتبا
فما الحبّ إلا زمان ومكانٌ لم يعرفا المنتهى


A Fable on the Lonely Table - by Amit Karda

A Fable on the Lonely Table

By Amit Karda

I lift again,
I lift again the so enchanted pen

and write a fable,
a fable of my love sitting without you, on the lonely table.

Oh I know, it was not supposed to be as it is now,
I know, I was the one who should have figured out how.

I am helpless, helpless but I don’t want to command pity,
at times, my feelings for you make these noisy areas dissolve into a silent abandoned city.

For what I am entitled shall be mine, someone told me.
But I do not know, if not with you will I do fine?

I might need someone to hold me.

You said I’ll be going places and love, you said, I deserve to.
I wonder, if we can go together, seats, I shall reserve for two.

You make me feel different, special, which I know might just be my imagination,
But I liked you, felt for you, loved you, I truly did, unfortunately without any anticipation.

No wonder then, how my bad it was.
 I need to change myself, fake a smile and move on,

The slightest of your sight sometimes,
got me off track and again things began to dawn.

It’s difficult, I know you know it’s difficult to be at peace with what you feel,
the agony of the pain, even when there are no visible wounds to heal.

But with all my heart I appeal to you to consider my request, give me some time,
please don’t abandon me, not just yet my love,
please don’t treat me as a worthless dime.

I wish I could change things, O I really do,
I wish I could make things easier, for you to have moments of love and happiness quite a few.

I’ve regretted nothing so far, and I hope I don’t from here on again,
but, it’s devastating to just go back to whatever it was earlier, and write with the same old pen.

I lift again,
I lift again the so enchanted pen,

and write a fable,
a fable of my unreciprocated love sitting alone on a lonely table.

A fable, a parable which irrefutably has a lesson to teach,
a lot of things, I have to do; a lot of goals to reach.

And still I am a believer of love and the power of the divine,
I try to abandon my feelings for you and embrace the pain,
because I know, that in the end
everything shall be fine.


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
Edition V