Edition XIV

February 2017


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tales-in-purple-by-dania-al-husseini-photo-by-ismael-nietoPhoto credit: Ismael Nieto

Tales in Purple

By Dania Al Husseini

A cluster of orchids
perched on a lone branch
reach out
to a different world…
you leave your past behind.

Petals unfold,
slow, soft.
A feather’s caress-
unable to catch you
no matter how much she tries.

The supple,
new
touch of you:
Petals of suede
microscopic veins
your edges
lines silver, unfrayed.
Amidst hues of purple,
in a deep lull
she comes undone.

To taste you,
to scoop you up
her own paper cup
lavender ice-cream,
gooey swirls
melt off your sides.
Drip.
Drip.
Fragrant
droplets of romance
miss her mouth.
To hang around her lips
is what you want.

Clasped in her hand,
the flower bouquet chants.


elevator-people-by-namal-siddiqui-photo-by-bilal-khawliPhoto credit: Bilal Khawli

Elevator People

By Namal Siddiqui

The automated voice says,
‘Sorry to keep you waiting’
Morning routine. Faces still
wrinkled with the imprints
of pillows and bedsheets.
Laptop bags and paper work.
Overly priced coffee. Small
talk.

This stuffed elevator.

Today I smell a young man’s
sharp cologne. Yesterday it
was Mademoiselle by Coco.
I love that perfume.

30 people at a time, trying to
get to their floors.
The most frustrated ones
trying to get to floor 52.
Sometimes it’s nice to have
the bald man with a big
belly and suit. He
creates   …..   space.

The young lady with a stone
face, posed like a princess.
The cute guy who only looks
on the floor, at his shoes,
hands in pocket. Wait, is that
a dimple on his cheek?

This briefness of time and
lack of space
reflects the true nature of
man,
impatient, animalistic.
I hate this elevator.


%d8%ab%d9%83%d9%84%d9%89-by-nour-abu-ghaida-photo-by-nour-abu-ghaidaArt by Nour Abu Ghaida

ثكلى

الشاعرة نور أبو غيدا

ثكلى الروح و الجسد؛
.تلك هي الأنثى بلا حلم

،كفي عن إرضاء نفسك بأشباه الأمور
،بأشباه الحلول
،بأشباه الرجال
.فلست بشبيهة روح و لا جسد و لست بشبيهة أحد

لا تكوني مركونة عند تلك الزاوية المظلمة الرثة المتصدعة بكلمة “لو”؛
لا تكوني كغيرك ممن ظنوا أن لا حياة لهن مع أحلامهن
،و أنهم خلقن للمكوث تحت مسميات الأنثى التقليدية
،لا تتنازلي عن عشقك
،عن حلمك
عن أملك
..لاتتنازلي عمن هي أنتي

كوني أنتي كما حلمت أن تكوني؛
لا تكوني رثة من الداخل ترتدين قناعا مجتمعيا زائفا بالألقاب المقبولة؛
حتى و إن كان هذا سببا بنعتهم لك بالمجنونة؛
بالمتمردة؛
باللا مقبولة
مادامت تلك الألقاب منهم فهي ألقاب موهومة مسمومة بفكر شرقي متحجر
.لا ترضي بلقب ليس فيه حياة لك و إن كان فيه حياة لكل من حولك
.إدفعي بقلبك للحياة للحب و العمل و إدفعي نفسك للحلم للمغامرة للجنون و الأمل
.لا تبكي ضياع نفسك في سبيل إرضائهم و لا تهدمي هدفا لانه لم يلمع بأعينهم
..كوني أنثى عنفوانية غير مكبلة؛ حالمة غير مقروءة
.حققي ما حلمتي بالحياة من أجله و به ؛ كوني أنت الحياة كما أردتها أن تكون
لا تكوني  متصدعة متهاوية الداخل
لا تعلني حدادا أبديا و لاتعيشي سرابا منسيا
.لا تكوني خيالا و هميا لأنثى مكبوتة


e3tezar-sorry-by-eman-el-shaikh-photo-by-ahmad-minawiPhoto credit: Ahmad Minawi

E3tezar (Sorry)

By Eman El Shaikh

I want to apologize
for the way I leave for days
the times I find you strange and indecipherable
and relinquish my eyes
to other contours.

Deep in that visceral place where you live
I feel ashamed
about the way I live as an itinerant
between you and other things.
And yet you always return to me
in a dream, a hymn, a verse

always still forgiving, giving
more than I can receive.

This wound
does not fail to translate.
It is here always, unhealing
for I am always giving birth
to my mother tongue.

I have an elegy in my bones
that I need to write
but first I must remember my lament
or find it again.
For years my song has waited, pregnant
the first notes repeating:
يا عربي
بحاول أفتكر
مع إنّي عمري ما نسيت


flowers-by-mariyam-thahira-photo-by-antonina-bukowskaPhoto credit: Antonina Bukowska

Flowers

By Mariyam Thahira

So what if your past is ugly?
Derive lessons from every encounter,
and let them nourish further
the process of transforming thee
to who you aspire
to really be.

For, from the dirtiest
of mud, exclusively
do the most elegant
of flowers rise beautifully.


dead-poets-by-malak-el-halabi-photo-by-rachel-chisholmPhoto credit: Rachel Chisholm

Dead Poets

By Malak El Halabi

A poet died yesterday
no one heard the news.
he jumped from the 9th floor
of raw memory
crashed to the parking lot floor
without a sound
and not a single drop of blood was spilled
instead,
the floor was covered with poems
poems that the guards stepped carelessly on
poems that the cleaners knelt down carefully to
collect
one by one
Only to throw them hastily in the big trash bin around
the corner.

A poet died twice yesterday
no one heard the news.
Who cares about poets and their poems.


summer-by-hiba-memon-photo-by-matt-fortunePhoto credit: Matt Fortune

Summer

By Hiba Memon

Seated side by side on a straw woven bed, we would shell rice.

Grains in all shades of brown would peek out among the white ones-

Your bespectacled eyes would scrutinize every bit,

And my reckless self would chuck them all out every time.


%d8%af%d8%b9%d9%88%d8%a9-%d8%a7%d9%84%d8%b3%d9%85%d8%a7%d8%a1-by-philippe-jardak-photo-by-ahmad-el-tayebالرسام أحمد الطيب

دعوة السماء

الشاعر فيليب جرداق 

سلمتُ من قول الناسِ                     و قول حروفهم تصدأُ الأنباءِ

       سلّمتُ للحياة قدري                       و لم يكن لقدري إلا الحنانِ    

             صَعِدَتْ نفسي السُّلَمَ                       فلبَّتْ دعوة القديرِ

فُتِحَ لها البابُ المطليُّ ذهباً                  نسجَ من رائحتها هواء الحياةِ

رنَّتْ لها أبواق الفرحِ                        باركَتْ أهل البيتِ، وقبل العليِّ

موشّحةً بفستانٍ من ذهبِ                   شعرها منسوجٌ من خيالِ الحبِّ

      ذَهِلَ من جمالها، جمالَ الوردِ               و طار معها بخيالِ الوجدانِ

        أخذ يدها و أمر الملائكةَ بالعزف            على أنغامِ موسيقى الكمالِ

مرَّتْ سنين و عقود، ولاحت الأيام            و لايزالان يرقصان على أنغام الخيالِ


corrupted-by-siara-nova-photo-by-morgan-williamsPhoto credit: Morgan Williams

Corrupted

By Siara Nova

There is a corruption going on in the world and that corruption is growing in our heart. 
It has reached a point where we can’t tell the difference, between what’s corrupt, and what’s not. 

Values have become devalued, and morals are no longer taught.
The fight to keep things from falling apart is somehow no longer fought.

Relationships have no fundamentals, and friendships seem to have no more trust.
It’s like the world’s greed is just being fed with seduction, betrayal and lust.

Everywhere you look around, there is jealousy, broken hearts and tears.
It’s like people have forgotten a world where they can trust and believe without having to fear.

And the results of all the world’s seduction, makes women want to show off their skin. 
To dress sexy, wear make-up and put their bodies to thin.

Why have we reached a point where social media likes are what make us feel like someone or something.
I mean can’t you value yourself, without having it all? 

We buy expensive clothes, and manicure our toes, to look good in front of people that don’t care,
and then cry about it later at night when we feel that our souls are so bare.

Instant gratification is a gest of our nation, with demand soaring higher by day.
At night people sleep with their hearts feeling low, and wake up and repeat the next day.

So, dear friends whom lend me their thoughts, are these habits of reason something that you do everyday?
Because if you can change the way your heart feels and your mind thinks, your soul will be clean from decay.

I am a victim too, of these things that we do, but I promise there is a better way.
To be living and treating this world, to improve your life day by day. 

If someone has wronged you, just don’t wrong them back.
If someone betrayed you, wish them well, smile, don’t fight back.

If you handle someone’s bad with a replica of their action, then what makes them different from you?
Instead rise up high, and walk away far and your heart will be at peace with you.

There is a corruption going on in the world, and corruption is growing in our heart. 
But we will reach a point, where we will know
what is corrupt and what is not.

Just open your eyes, and look through the skies
and let this whole world sink right in.
Don’t let the world change you or change what you see
and you’ll learn that is the only right way to be.


33-by-pia-fajelagutan-photo-by-karim-monsieurPhoto credit: Karim Monsieur

33

By Pia Fajelagutan

From within her rib cages
sprouted a mound of
wishbones
(galvanized by miracles that’ve died 
in
daydreams)
instead of a spine

& when the storm
christened her
it pulled on the forks
and left with the bigger halves.


%d9%85%d8%b3%d8%a7%d8%b1%d9%83-%d8%a5%d9%84%d9%89-%d8%b5%d8%af%d8%b1%d9%8a-%d9%88%d8%b1%d8%ad%d9%84%d8%aa%d9%83-%d8%af%d8%a7%d8%a6%d8%b1%d9%8a%d8%a9-by-jad-al-araby-photo-by-nour-abu-ghaidaالفنانة نور أبو غيدا

مسارك إلى صدري ورحلتك دائرية

الشاعر جاد العربي

،في كل مرة نبني الجدار
.نبنيه بنية اللاعودة
نبنيه بشعور الندم على قراءاتنا الخاطئة لقلب و عقل و جوهر من نحب
نبنيه بندم على كل هزائمنا السابقة
أو بأسف على كل انتصاراتنا اللاحقة
.لأنها لن تساوي شيئاً بعد حين

ليس هناك جحيماً أكثر قسوةً من جحيم الطمع بالانتصارات المتواصلة
.أو الأنانية المطلقة بالفوز المستمر بقلب و جسد و روح من نحب
،الشعور بالخسارة جحيم المحبين
،و التحرر بالرحيل جنة العاشقين
و البكاء اللاحق شتاء مداريٌ لا بد منه
.حين تغرقنا الذكريات و تنفجر داخلنا البراكين

و ما يعيد لي شعور اليقين في قمة الغضب و الغيرة و الحسرة
أنه حين تضعفين أمامي
نتبادل الوقوف أمام المرآةِ
فأرى ما ترينه و تشعرين بما أعانيه
،و نصل معاً إلى أرض البكاء الموعودين بها
.مذعورين من احتمال فقدان أحدنا للأخر

هل تنكرين أن مأساتك برحيلي هي بحجم مأساتي حين تغيبين؟
لكني، و من حجارة ذاك الحائط الذي نبنيه بغضبنا
سأبني لنا بيتاً يحمينا من تشابهنا
.لنحتمي منه و فيه

،و من حرارة قلبنا سنُذيبه من الداخل
 ،لن أدعكِ تتوهين و إن كنتِ على بعد قارتين
،و لن أدعك ِتضيعين كسفنهم و أنت محفورة على و جهي
،وردةً من أرضي
،و روحاً من صلبي
،و شجرةً إرتوت من شتاء مدينتينا المتجاورتين
.مصيرك إلى صدري و رحلتكِ دائرية


guiding-sheep-to-wolves-by-jamil-adas-photo-by-matt-fortunePhoto credit: Matt Fortune

Guiding Sheep to Wolf

By Jamil Adas 

Radios preach religion
on the streets of my city.
Brothers and sisters reiterate radio waves in
self-fulfilling speech
as if wisdom comes that cheap.

Paid blabbers paid to repeat
messages,
hoping machine-head ears are switched on
like message-machines.

Crooked minds looking for answers to explain
why disaster strikes again, and again
to prove the mistake couldn’t possibly be in us!
Otherwise, cover it up.

Oh mighty mind, Awake!
Forget their riches and their thrones
unearth beauty in forms unknown.

TV prattles for soul selling
in picture-perfect;
immortal paragons in a box
while you decay and found wizened,
dead in front of a dream unsold-
venture off before your life is mourned.


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 of 2017:

Edition XIII