Edition VIII

August 2016

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Withdraw and Overcome - by Donya Abdulhadi

Withdraw and Overcome

By Donya Abdulhadi

You think the end begins when your arms are dead weight.
Your gaze sinks. Eyes heavy. Shoulders: drop the burden now. Give up.
Release the grip of the toxicity that held you together and that pulled you back.
Inhale the grief, let it engulf you; revel in it. Resign. Give up

and seek Him.
Find his eyes.
Withdraw like a tide with all your might and then overcome,
as he fills your empty vessel again.
Now catch the beautiful sound of steps on wet gravel
on a rainy day
and begin again.

Consolation - by Arsoniste (Rachel Sunter) (photo by Lukas Budimaier)Photo credit: Lukas Budimaier


By Arsoniste (Rachel Sunter)

Why do you run from me?
Thoughts can buzz like bees in my head
Harder I try
Still the days pass by
End up with nothing

We’re treading water
My face gets older
If I don’t try to reach for my dreams
I’ll have no one to blame but me

Words that I keep inside
Never want to hide
Find a way to slide past
The gates at night
One thing keeps me sane
Nothing stays the same;

We’re treading water
My face gets older
If I don’t try to reach for my dreams
I’ll have no one to blame but me

When I am most in need
I can forget to bleed
Tears in a pillow case
Offer consolation

This poem was performed by Arsoniste herself in her awesome song.
Vibe to it here — {I want to vibe to this}

Merry Mortal Man - by Samir Georges (photo by Matt Fortune)2Photo credit: Matt Fortune

Merry Mortal Man

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

Rising in the wake of sun and champion 
with the fervor of courage and vigor’s hymn 
blood pumps and limbs rise in morning’s embrace 
and before emptiness steals my thirst 
I stretch for the sun dyed ale and triumph 
quench my thirst with fire and breathe, 
morning has broken and so has its spell 
clanking ice on glass rings the night man’s bell; 

With mortal rancor I invite stupor to my veins 
ushering into this day the promise of shade 
seduced by the obscurity of these lopsided reigns; 

Step by idle step I yield my path, 
enter night where I am returned at last 
unto anonymity, where like a drop of rain 
to the sea I wade, snuffed like candlelight 
asleep I’m laid… 

till sunlight engraves unto me distinction 
draws me out like breath to lips is bade, 
and so merry mortal man is made 
the drunken moth to the flame he prayed.

101 Reflections - by Amina Lakehayli (photo by Volkan Olmez)Photo credit: Volkan Olmez

101 Reflections

By Amina Lakehayli

 One hundred reflection of smoke in her eyes,
I couldn’t find one of me,
I faded under the purple sky.
The flames kept the ashes warm,
my doubt contained them
into a circle of solid ice.

In between,
a flower grew with no thrones
and the smell of old promises
we left hanging in the shore,
enchanting and wild.
You loaded the gun,
and didn’t blink nor cry.

One hundred reflection of smoke in your eyes.
The mockingbird couldn’t sing,
you were running out of breath
and you have lost sight
of all that was scaring you.

Excruciating numbness pushed you to hug the sun
and there it was the bump to the ground,
that snapped you back to sweat and blood.
The reality you chose to believe,
weighed you down.

One hundred reflection of smoke in my eyes,
I kept reaching out through fog and echoes of sound.
My hand cleared the glass and rested where I have found
one hundred reflection of smoke and the one more was
one warm reflection of the shadow of your back.

Everyone is Talking About the War - by Raghdan Abu Hassan (photo by Raghdan Abu Hassan)Photo credit: Raghdan Abu Hassan

Everyone is Talking about the War

By Raghdan Abu Hassan

There are some that control
the world that we know.
There are some that we see
and there are some that we don’t.

They control what is done,
our light is their sun.
They decide who we be
and who we can become.

The only thing yours
is your soul and your will;
nothing can stop you,
no one ever will.

However there is He,
he who can.
Strange as can be,
he could be a man.

A man, not a god;
maybe by definition.
He’s a dying dormant denying our desires and defying our declarations and diplomacies.

He is a man, so strong,
our deaths are similar concerns to our disturbing doubts, deeds, and dystopic dire dependencies.

We lay a mere game in front of his
dark damp dirty deteriorating dispositions.

Do you know his dice?
No, his die
could dispose, delay, set dead
to all our days, danes and deviant daughters.

Only “He” can do things,
that we dare don’t.

Such as kill, compose, curate, and contain.
He can care for our enemies and burn our friends,
butain after butain after butain.

The Flame and The Shadows - Subhaditya Mukherjee (photo by Ismael Nieto)Photo credit: Ismael Nieto

The Flame and the Shadows

By Subhaditya Mukherjee

The flame flickers
it’s Shadows rising on the walls
the darkness threatening to drown it’s light.
Will it burn?

The wind hums
it wreaths it’s sadness
in whispers,
the little flame sways in respect
and the breeze gently caresses it in return.

Sometimes we see a brighter spark
overwhelming it’s source
screaming in fury
yet other times bring a marked dullness
almost as if the flame is dying.

If you watch
you can see the dance
the stage itself is alive
squirming in pleasure
the darkness tries to conquer.

The actors are entwined
a couple in each other’s embrace
so close
yet so far apart
as one tries to rule the other.

It’s a miracle how long it can last
this deadly dance of
the eternal flames
and the ageless wind.

We watch
frozen in the shadows we are
yet filled with awe.

We light ourselves up
in joy and glory.
We dance with our pain
and the shadows of our misery
we move
unhindered by time;

the dance goes on
till one of the actors slip;
a tiny wave and the candle snuffs out
a small spark and the world burns
yet till the end
we keep moving
until the ground covers our bones.

Yours - by Fayrouz Sadek (photo by Hieu Le)Photo credit: Hieu Le


By Fayrouz Sadek

They say time helps you heal 
Scars and wounds would disappear
Your body once more starts to feel
Turns out nothing they say is real

Your soul aches for their existence 
Your body trembles at their touch 
All what’s stopping you is the distance 
Asking yourself why you loved so much?

Having flashbacks of how it started 
Drowning in your eyes for the first time 
Because of you my soul departed 
And wanting you will always be a crime 

I want you to feel me in your veins 
I want to be your favourite hiding place 
To conquer this life as it rains  
To leave a mark, to leave a trace 

I crave the delicious indecent lust
You surrender your body, an act of trust
Let me give you a gift of promised pleasure 
One so rare, one you can’t measure 

What’s a life if you don’t love so deeply?
A hollow ghost is what you’ll be
And fear of emptiness wakes you from your sleep 
Then the passionate eyes you can no longer read

How can the presence of a soul give you hope?
Make your heart pulse, It’s rebirth 
Slowly with darkness you would learn to cope
Help you realise what you’re worth 

I pray that one day it feels right 
Either to give up or hold on tight 
Words inside me I can never write 
In another life, our future would be bright

The Beginning Until There was an End - by Arta Afshar (Photo by Ahmad Minawi)Graphic by: Ahmad Minawi

The Beginning Until There Was an End

By Arta Afshar

It’s pretty awful actually,
slipping through the cracks of you like
it feels good to be home.

I’ve had the strangest feeling that you’ve killed me once before,
ready to burst from this form
in sight and out of mind.

But what about the words she sang sweetly as you walked away?
Should sorrow signify the shattering of your strength?
Still, you shake the cold off your bones and continue on,

For what?
Was it worth it?

Still you remind her that everything burns,
it’s just a matter of how long you hold it to a flame,
when you forget what’s harder,
your fists or your heart.

You’re fine with destruction
until it’s your world crumbling down to ashes.
Slip into my veins,
let me show you where the river ends. 

To a Poet Laureate - by Trayle Kulshan

To a Poet Laureate

By Trayle Kulshan

Dear Sam,
I once wrote eight page
letters to your son, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
your driveway lined with alder saplings.
I pumped my bike up one, two, three
straight hills to Sawmill Corner
hoping you and Sally
never knew that it was me.

A round faced nine, ten, eleven
years old, I once bound blank
diaries during art, which you
the printer, must have taught.
Boring holes through stacked sheets with
needles, the blunt end cut my finger
making it hard to tie thin thread.
Somehow three small bundles became a single
tome, glue beaten with a wide stubby brush
into paper we must have made
from fresh pulp.

Inside, I once wrote eight line
poems, invented words in colored
pen, punctuation
revised with wild insects flying round
kerosene lamps, flashlights and blue
computer screens.
I completed only one, quickly
placed inside the cedar shake box
hoping you and Sally
might think that it was me.

Searching... - by Amit Karda (photo by Hieu Le)Photo credit: Hieu Le


By Amit Karda

A battle inside me is on since so many lifetimes,

A rattle beyond control, noisy like the wind chimes

“Why?” I ask, for what is this task?
Am I no one or someone with an inconceivable mask?

So I enthrall myself into a journey, scared and in the state of paranoia,
Oh! this journey is haunting, questions arise every time during the metanoia.

Am I the body, the soul, the mind, the ego or am I just made of a subtle pride,
sometimes I want to feel nothing and just be carried away and sway with the tide.

I am deeply shaken at the core of my roots, with this unshakable curiosity,
sometimes I wish I was dumb enough to go with the flow, and skip this atrocity.

So I ask, I question, I doubt, I inquire, I dispute, I seek,
and after this, all I find is more curiosity, My god, the answers seem so oblique.

“Oh! Help me! Will you?” I shout at the sky, seeking shelter under the so called “higher power”,
I’ve been wandering, wandering to find a meaning, going from temple to temple, tower to tower!

This lust for a purpose and a meaning, has brought me experiences so incredible,
I am being treated differently, some love me unconditionally, while the others just recognize me as inedible.

Against the odds, I struggle, right out of the crowd, I snuggle,
to find you almighty,  I know, I shall have to and I will struggle.

In-spite of the efforts that I take, let me have the Divine taste,
fight towards what I can make, let my futile efforts be not a waste!

I pray, I chant, I fast, I meditate,
from my ego, I’ve tried to dissipate.

But in the end, I realize and I am aware,
the answers are to be found on the inside, and only that is true and fair!

I Want to Drive My Own Car - by Verda Khan

I Want to Drive My Own Car

By Verda Khan

I want to drive my own car
on this anarchic highway

surrounded by glorious radiance.
Rather than sit at
the back
and stare
at the blowing poles;
zooming paths changing,
passing by.

If I could drive my own car,
I would stop by
that lovely tree
and rest, and
and eat its enigmatic fruits
and go on to drive,
and drive.

Rather than toil at the back of the car
I’d better fall from the tree
I just passed… miles ago. I can see it, but there is
no turning back.

I would stop by,
yet again. The raven
won’t mind if I
shared its haven.
But I see myself move yet again.

Now I see the car stop
at its own desire,
I try to keep up the pace
of patience,
but this fire
turns more red than blue;
though this face and temperament
leave the former clue.

Now the car has paused,
but I quite don’t want it to
I see the raven still flying,
reminder of my quiet
feelings, too.

The Centre of My Existence - by Saachi Devnani (photo by Hieu Le)Photo credit: Hieu Le

The Centre of My Existence

By Saachi Devnani

Like the early morning chant
your presence fills peace, 
purifying my moments
that once felt heavy.

You’re the soul of truth;
a rare finding on earth.

Among treasures and jewels,
beyond you nothing is worth.

New Beginning - by Shynu Elizabeth Jacob

New Beginning

By Shynu Elizabeth Jacob

Hearty efforts put in a lot
to start a beginning from a pot.
Many a people should he heed
to bring new life to the seed.

Hard times come in flow,
like showers of pain mending slow.
Learn the meaning of life with experience,
all a joy when it blossoms with magnificence.

Deep from within come your dreams
that mold productive streams
to moisten the land you want to grow,
a life you would like to row.

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

Edition VI
Edition VII