Edition XXXI

July 2018


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dɪˈprʌɪvd - by Dominique Cachuela (Photo by Matthew Wiebe)Photo credit: Matthew Wiebe

dɪˈprʌɪvd

By Dominique Cachuela

Only smoke lives inside
this empty chest now.

A book lying in my bed
is the only companion I have
during most nights
and for the following nights.
I can’t confide with it
or exchange words with it.
Only it fills the little gaps,
small spaces that I recently have made room for.

It will take time to remember how to take
a few steps,

it always does, but I’m in no hurry.

One good thing about it is it doesn’t hurt
like it used to;
and I wonder if it really
mattered, all those four years
because I couldn’t feel anything
from it.

I keep having this thought in mind
that loneliness granted for a long
period of time isn’t so bad
after all.

I could use some solitude, some peace, privacy and time and time again
to reflect.

However, loneliness isn’t good for
a heart that chooses to take action on its own.

It doesn’t matter, for I can always cover it up
for as long as I could

There are plenty of women out there,
but now’s not the time for that since
I have no use for relationships built within
the confines of the social
standards,
especially nowadays where, no one wants to keep their happiness to themselves

hold it like some treasure, bury it deep down like you wouldn’t want anyone else
to find it once you get your hands on it

And this poem
is as horrible as, serves as a tribute to
the last relationship
I had.


Sink - by Yaman Nimer  (Photo by Malda Smadi).jpgPhoto credit: Malda Smadi

Sink

By Yaman Nimer

“You ever wonder how deep
you can sink
into
nothing at all..?”

I’m really too young to feel this way,
and it always comes from a pitch-black place, blindsiding me

often times just to wake me up from a state of utter unconsciousness,
like the sound of the subway train after a long steamy day of taking shit from everyone

(well.. I should at least be honest with myself, it’s mostly just my own head)

and you just happen to fall asleep standing up, waiting for the train to come,
and then..

the screeching starts

and you’re woken up, not
to the present,

but to the past.

in just one single heartbeat —

all the love and the memories, and the tears and the blackouts,
all the kissing and the fucking, the pushing and the shoving,

all the stupefying gazes into each others’ eyes

under the frugal shelter of the tree
in the park where
no matter how dark it got
there was always that calming, guiding glimmer there.

All that comes flooding in. All that’s gone.

I flip through my music player and find the song I’ve had on repeat, and I hit play:

“You ever wonder how deep
you can sink
into
nothing at all..?”

Yes, yes I have.


Me, The River - by Henzo (Mahmoud Rashed)  (Photo by Ayah Ballout).pngPhoto credit: Ayah Ballout

Me, The River

By Henzo (Mahmoud Rashed)

Did I stream or have I fallen?
Through your veins, I dug my banks,
flowing in and out your heart
taking control of your senses

Extend your rays and touch my surface
for in your presence I feel warm,
wash your eyes, it’s picture perfect,
in their reflection, I know who I am

With your arms, reach my heart,
when you are absent it’s night and dark,
sit and spend your time with me,
Me, the river,
and you are my sun…


Dime - by Mashaal Effendi (Photo by Clem Onojeghuo)Photo credit: Clem Onojeghuo

Dime

By Mashaal Effendi

A clink and a clunk
Lines the old fools junk
In a pit, in a spot
Lies the old dodger’s art
Another is a blunder
As a little is a lot
Never enough is what’s mine
As an age old dime.


A Game of Chess - by Namal Siddiqui (Photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

A Game of Chess

By Namal Siddiqui

You are love
the purest of its form
I am fear
the strongest of its kind

You are determination
beating with the resolve of the ocean
I am resistance
stubborn like the strength of the mountain

You are hope
resilient in the desperate of situations
I am despair
escaping in an oasis of hope and love 

It’s a vicious cycle.
A game of chess.
A tug of war.
And one of us must lose.


Our Corrupted Structure - by Reham Yeshar  (Photo by Ben Blennerhassett).jpgPhoto credit: Ben Blennerhassett

Our Corrupted Structure

By Reham Yeshar

A failed structure that’s eaten by rust
Ignorance a game to gain our trust
Forced to fit in its colors of copper and brown
Even if we were pure as white or gold as a crown

Born to move freely but metals are placed
A creation of disciplined robots we embraced
A heart that beats among a collection of stones
To be different is a crime, we all must be clones

Repeat the words they stitched on your tongue
If you’ll use your own they’ll stuff it in your lung
Cough and cough, claim you have a cold
Release the dusty lines that were untold

Vaccinate your home before their infection reaches your spine
They’ll rearrange your genes to their design
Branded by DNA, Sneeze and you’ll be a mutation
Who are we if we use their voice and set fire to our imagination?


Free Spirit (Jeep Girl) - by Natalie Jensen  (Photo by Malda Smadi).jpgPhoto credit: Malda Smadi

Free Spirit (Jeep Girl)

By Natalie Jensen

He said I looked like
    the kind of girl
        who drove a Jeep,
  like I didn’t mind knotty hair
     and preferred
    natural blooms in it
        over filtered flower crowns.

He said that when I smiled
    with closed lips
  that I looked like I was
    holding back a secret
  and when I smiled with teeth,
  it made him feel like a kid
    watching fireworks.

I could tell
  that he wanted to kiss me
    and although
        I had nowhere to be,
    everywhere was calling me.


Keepers of the Night - by Rishika Jalali  (Photo by Ryan Holloway).jpgPhoto credit: Ryan Holloway

Keepers of the Night

By Rishika Jalali

Keepers of the night
wherever you may roam
on stranger’s tides or unknown roads

Walking into the calm tornadoes
looking for the Vanilla sky
wandering barefoot into the desert
searching for an honest lie

Scarlet trees that run deep within
trying to reach for the Ivory moon,
withered fingers tracing the journey on your skin;
often met with some open wounds

But they say you are the Orion soul,
the owner of an arduous heart
but little do they know
what sets your soul apart

You are the keeper of the night
and no one will ever know,
but this I promise to you,
those tired feet will find their way home


I Hate Roses - by Shizah Kashif  (Photo by Gian D.).jpgPhoto credit: Gian D.

I Hate Roses

By Shizah Kashif

I hate roses
as I sit inside my car
outside rusty brass gates that
separate the dead world from the undead

I hate roses
as their fragrance fills up my senses
from the petals inside a plastic bag
meant to adorn a grave I wish had never been dug

I hate roses
with their crisp scarlet facades
and their stench of death
plucked out of ugly stems
I wish I can trample all over

I hate roses
because for me they are not beautiful
because for me they smell like agony
because for me they look like a grave
I wish had never been dug

I hate roses
so on my wedding day
or the day I complete my Hajj
or the day I complete my first eiteqaaf
or the day I graduate from college
Do not shower me with roses
Do not bathe me in the souls of my beloved

Because it will pull out of me
a tear
that I wish would never have to fall
onto the soil in which my beloved lies


At The Bar - by Christopher Li  (Photo by Craig Whitehead).jpgPhoto credit: Craig Whitehead

At The Bar

By Christopher Li

There she was, sitting at the dark oak bar,
high top stool to match her high top boots, and her high brow look
There was something about her,
the swish of the metal brush across the jazz drum,
the quiet choreography of the saxophone
that tap danced across the old wood
seemed to linger in the air around her,
You’d even believe the light would bend over her shoulder too
just to see what a girl like her was drinking
When she emptied her glass
he wondered if she was like that crystal, drops of alcohol and warm melted ice
mixed together, diluted, something that used to be strong
or if she was more like spiced rum
rummaging now down in her belly
screaming to push that soft music away from her
and dance loudly;
It seemed to suit her
or what he thought of her at least,
the disjointed music,
the yellow street light coming in through the window,
She was a mystery,
He liked that.


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.

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Dubai Poetics edition
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Join us again in our Poetryhood!!


Enjoy more poems from our earlier editions in 2018:

Edition XXV
Edition XXVI
Edition XXVII
Edition XXVIII
Edition XXIX
Edition XXX