Edition XX

August 2017

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Warm Memory i. - by Emma Robertson (photo by Hieu Le)Photo credit: Hieu Le

Warm Memory i.

By Emma Robertson

soft hair chokes my ears
rosy lobes drowning in sweaty locks
gentle stares crescendo to glowing hugs
tourist fingers on my homeland head
tangle the shorter strands, north of my neck

my tailbone tingles
my fingers fizz
cradled by the mattress, my cheek rests on another’s jeans
quiet friction on dark-wash denim

a background silence
a silence not empty, but not substantial enough to be noticed
simply absorbed by the plants
and the sandy shoes in the corner

a foreground noise
a noise composed of vibrations that echo between the three lovers
reflected on each other’s eyes
and read by our lips

the old spaghetti-scented air, with every breath
delivers a spaghetti-scented love note
an inhale, an exhale
a sensual exchange of pasta-perfumed happiness

sore bones,
joint cramps
cushioned by two foreign pairs of trousered legs
against my own

the simplest form of contentment
reciprocated and relished
in the shape of an equilateral triangle

the friends exist in a triple harmony
platonic affection
kisses without contact
the moment lasts

Nebraska - by Yosr El Sherbiny (photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

“Inspired by the Starkweather Murder Case”

By Yosr El Sherbiny (Founder of Wrichitects)

Picture this.

A vein in your body
carrying red blood cells
vital for your survival.

imagine this vein expanding,
growing longer and longer,
from the state of New York on the East coast, where the sun rises,
snaking its way past towards California, where it sets in the West.
The blood in the vein is so strong,
vibrating at a healthy heart rate.




picture a focal point on this vein
acting as a perspective point
creating two rows of perfectly painted plaster buildings.

Sprinkle some elegant clouds of people;
Women with top hats and black dresses.
Men with suits, thick moustaches and cigars.
Carriages pulled by horses fill the sides of the street.

You can even imagine a jet plane dragging the red, white and blue starred cloth across the clear blue sky.

It is a beautiful Starkweather day, America.

I step on the vein
making a tiny cut,
a cut so small but irreversible.
Blood leaks from my veins and spreads over the canvas
oozing its way over the streets.
Tiny splatters of blood fill the sky with red clouds.
Some of the blood even mixes with the dirt on the ground
creating an ugly brownish paste, staining the canvas forever.

Nebraska was never the same again.

Take Your Love - by Silvana Nardiello (photo by Zoe Marzolo).jpgPhoto credit: Zoe Marzolo

Take Your Love

By Silvana Nardiello

Take your love
And turn it into a dress
Make it with foam of moon
And water of stars
Blue stars as a cape of sea

Take your love
And turn it into a crib,
A cave of sunlight,
A nest of butterflies

Take your love
And wear it
Let me fall asleep by your kisses
By your countless cuddles

Take my love,
Silent fire,
Wizard of my dreams,
Filigree of my thoughts

Put it on your heart
Let it bloom
Let it nourish
Let it die of love

The Dream - by Reena Remesh (Photo by Morgan Williams)Photo credit: Morgan Williams

The Dream

By Reena Remeshkumar

Fairies granting wishes
Ogres scaring children 
The river flows for the fishes
the king lion roars from his den
triumph echoes through these woods
water-lilies flourish near these banks 
Great tawny beasts spring up 
near the willows 
and all this had disappeared 
once she had opened her eyes
and all that was seen now 
was the cold bitter hate spreading in this world

The White Space - by Susan George (photo by Dan Carlson)Photo credit: Dan Carlson

The White Space

By Susan George

Sometimes, we are often stuck in a rut.

We find that we are not moving forward.
No matter how hard we push.

It is that void between you and the person you want to be.
That space between you and the person you want to be.

Sometimes, you are so excited by your passion that you forget you need to stay
and watch the world from above

an eagle eye perspective.

The little blank space which is inevitably there
because you need time to realize that great things are yet to happen within you.

The Woman on the Stage - by Dania Al Husseini (photo by Monica Lacey)Photo credit: Monica Lacey

The Woman on the Stage

By Dania Al Husseini

Table lamps
In a known hangout.

Strings of verse
Find their place,
In the seated crowd-
To the tall man
In the back.

A woman’s satin blouse
Is an invite
Of fake lashes and pouts,
To a man
On her right.

‘Connect the dots’,
Her eyes say.
‘Play my game of cat and mouse.’

But he turns away

Whose mouth
Forms melodies
Of melancholy
Behind the mic..
Whose eyes
Recline in
The shadows of
Deep, bronze dust,
Lined as a feline’s
In regal green.

Like an artist who draws an outline
He’s enthralled as she recites,
While the woman in satin
Flips her hair and
Restless in her seat.

When the lights turn on,
And the mic’s made its last sound,
She bows down
To the crowd,
And catches the
Of a familiar face
Seated in the back.

Messages to an Unrequited Love - by Laith Bilal (Photo by Allef Vinicius)Photo credit: Allef Vinicius

Messages to an Unrequited Love

By Laith Bilal

I hope that he,
who your heart finds comfort with,
is a thoughtful gentleman.
That holds your purse, heels, and whatever may trouble you
while whispering love into your hand.

I hope that he,
who your soul harmonizes with perfectly,
always holds you for a dance.
Even when fate sings with sadness,
even when life plays no music at all.

I hope that he,
hopelessly falls for you
every time your skin bewitches him to.

I hope that he,
will sense your pain
when your crooked smile doesn’t
say the same.

The Face - by Archana Shivmani Rao

Lost but to be Found

By Archana Shivmani Rao

Everything we do is pictured
for want of likes and tweets
the comments we read and write
with mock pride and digital treats.

Nothing in our mind stays
opinions written about everyone under the sun
two minute fame is the goal
second-hand intelligence in the long run.

An excess of useless forwards
spreading menace and panic
didactic quotes are the new black
our shallow e-jokes so unromantic.

We touch phones more than people
deadly lure of the blue light
our texts are higher than real talks
dignified privacy not in sight.

Do you remember the last time
you counted the raindrops?
you ran on the sun drenched grass?
you played scrabble and checkers?
you wrote a letter with a pen?
you were bored?

Unashamed life of simplicity
found in those joyful days of yore
except in matters of love
Less is definitely more
Less is more.

The Cursed Crystal Ball - by Reham Yeshar (photo by Aaron Burden)Photo credit: Aaron Burden

The Cursed Crystal Ball

By Reham Yeshar

I’m a crystal ball of a city you want to visit but not reside
My seasons change in a switch and sometimes collide

From scorching air to flooded streets
Will you send a prayer without deceit? 

An over-flowed mail box of words formed in disguise 
Answer me with the sound of emptiness but not in lies

I’m a crystal ball of a city you want to visit but not reside
My people roam the streets with tongues that died 

Where is the wrong in my city that weeps? 
The green is faint for my trees are asleep

I am a crystal ball that you’d easily crush and break
If only a visitor would come and not call it a mistake

Layers of a Lie - by Kaya (photo by Kaya)Photo credit: Kaya (Kavyaa Suryaa)

Layers of a Lie

By Kaya (Kavyaa Suryaa)

Clear layers on my eye
each possess a soul that
once lived exposed, just to die
the blood of the layer
attracted to guilt,
left the layers soul
to crumble and drift

each layer, gone, in a blink
they vanish, to the past
to a place where the life
we used to live cannot be unseen

now you have nothing
but a naked eye
exposed, just to die
now you have nothing
but a naked eye
that lived layers of a lie

Spoken - by Hend Al Hammadi (Photo by Anete Lusina)Photo credit: Anete Lūsiņa


By Hend Al Hammadi

we’re people with problems
become one another’s distraction
with each other’s hope for attention
creates a significant form of attraction

knee over knee
while our minds travel seas
displacing every fear
from our bodies

toxins release
thoughts fly free
found within each other,
our happy

unlike every other time
this felt as if it was a crime
yet we ignored every abiding sign
despite it all, we gave each other peace of mind

We Are The Children of Time - by Anca Mihaela Bruma (photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

We Are the Children of Time

By Anca Mihaela Bruna

We are the Children of Time,
our dew drops mirror our World,
crossing the edges of eternal visions
as strings of inception crossing immortal times.

We move along with and through Time,
seeking the effervescence of future tenses
with stardust desires swirling in cymatic impressions
and the interludes opiating all human sensations.

We dance formlessly in holographic sceneries
with rippled reflections and silent similarities
forgetting our punctuations and connotations
only verbing the noun of our own Existence,
endlessly scrolling through the alchemic gravities
as glittering particles of an Ancient sophic apocrypha.

We paint our stories on celestial canvases
with memories of “Being” rather than on “Having”,
all of our emotions can break all the parenthesis
and build empyrean dreams and Life fantasies…

The hourglass reset its seconds for the Children of Time!

Still - by Ann Lorraine Lames (Photo by Oscar Keys)Photo credit: Oscar Keys


By Ann Lorraine Lames

When it’s too late, 
  the deafening silence begins.

When it’s too late,
  there’s no room for words,
    just an obscure passing of amends.

When it’s too late,
   no reprieve would do 
    to make up for lost, precious time.

When it’s too late,
  all that’s left is melancholic fondness,
    dabbling once more to the unknown.

If only to run away and turn my back 
    on insufferable distress, hurts, 
      and be well on my way to freedom, happiness — to me.

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
Edition XIV
Edition XV
Edition XVI
Edition XVII
Edition XVIII
Edition XIX