Edition XXXVII

February 2019


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My Love as Art - by Danabelle Gutierrez (Photo by Emiliano Vittoriosi)Photo credit: Emiliano Vittoriosi

My Love as Art

By Danabelle Gutierrez

I know that I’ve had a history of painting you

like you’re the leader of the underworld. Black-horned,

befanged, clawed or tentacled, wielding a pitchfork.

All American Gothic, me looking at you sideways,

but let me just this once be fair to you, I loved

you once, held your hand all red shawl and green dress,

a dove flying over my head with a message.

I’ve kissed you Klimt, all gilded. Sometimes

kissed you

Magritte through white cotton fabric, cried with dots,

on the phone when you told me you had to go

to the hospital, and then again when you said you

would love me forever. I even prayed for you,

I did.

Begged the Almighty, very Rembrandt in chiarascuro light.

I can only say this in retrospect, as I look over

my shoulder, with a pearl earring, the love once

felt draining slowly from my gaze, I’m so sorry

I couldn’t sculpt a better lover for you out of all

this skin,

they’ve taken my arms, there’s not much I can do now,

except to give you this museum of words, all expressed, and

impressed, somewhat derivative, and up for interpretation.


She is Art - by Sabila Siddiqui (Photo by Suz Darkan)Photo credit: Suzanne Darkan

She is Art

By Sabila Siddiqui

She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.

She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she’s vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.

She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.

She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisite chaos.

She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
intricate masterpiece like Picasso’s.

Her body
Her soul
is constantly molding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.

She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn’t built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She’s supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.

For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.


The Rebellion of Love - by Osama Al Hussaini (Photo by Jurga)Photo credit: Jurga

The Rebellion of Love

By Osama Al Hussaini

Floating and suffocating

With a thorn resting at heart

Mind shattered, and soul aching

Yet, this is only the start

The kingdom of hope is lost

And so are thoughts of the king

The hearth fire dimmed in frost

For winter banished the spring

The vicissitudes of fate are bitter

Hence trust not a sentiment

For with hope sorrow would glitter

And grief would hide its monument

It’s the nature of man

Thus not subject to blame

It’s out of what you can

It’s in the frigid breeze, the flame

It’s the army that brought the castle down

It’s the rebel that usurped the throne

It’s the jewel absent on the crown

It’s where your heart in joy, is thrown

It’s the sword that shoved the king dead

It’s the tear on the droughty cheeks

His majesty now bleeds on bed

And his look, in lieu of mouth, speaks:

“Love is but a maleficent creature

And pain is all what it breeds

For your mightiest of walls it’s the breacher

And it looks not upon your deeds

The eyes are catapults, the smile is siege

In union they here shall tear a hole

We know its pangs, yet we’re liege

And therefore it would conquer us all”


Fragile - by Saachi Devnani (Photo by Dynamic Wang)Photo credit: Dynamic Wang

Fragile

By Saachi Devnani

A breath brittle

Keeps life from death

The bridge little

You ever met

This air supple

Rest all forget

Gently crumbles

No refills yet.


- by Farah Chamma (Photo by Hakim El Haj)الفنان حكيم الحج

دعاء

بقلم فرح شمّا

يا رب
خلّينا هيك… سوا
خلّينا أجمل من حالنا
مهما كبرنا منضل نخاف من خيالنا
خلّينا نكون زي طيورك على الشجر
خلّينا نغنّي أوّل ما يطلع الفجر
خلّينا زي المَي و النار و الهوا
يا رب
خلّينا هيك… سوا

ما بدنا نتعلم دروس
و ما بدنا نشوف كابوس
عشان نعرف طعم الحلم
يا رب
خلّينا نحنا الحلم
منخاف من الحرب
فخلّينا السلم

خلّينا هيك …سوا
ما بدنا نتعرّف على العتمة اللي جوّانا
فخلّينا نحنا النور
يا رب
خلّينا ثابتين حتّى لو الأرض بتدور

آمين


Rishika Jalali (Photo by Tiko Giorgadze)Photo credit: Tiko Giorgadze

A Dream

By Rishika Jalali

I have a dream,
to walk amongst the gleaming stars
sail through the thick silver haze
reach out to the ashen moon
while we lay face to face.

I have a dream,
to be the moonflower in a lonely stream
whisper my secrets to the silent trees
to get lost in the city of stars
trace our future in the present through our past.

I have a dream,
to talk about our love under the autumn noon,
hoping to see the indigo sky soon
undress our hearts; talk about our pain, our loss
as the world around us comes to a pause.

But,
now I wander alone in that silver mist
a totem clutched tightly in my fist,
as it spins to blur the line
between all things mundane and divine,
between all things seen and unseen
this dream within a dream.


على شط البحر - by Abdullah Yasin (Photo by Hakim El Haj)الفنان حكيم الحج

زفاف على شط البحر

بقلم عبد الله ياسين

أجلس صامتاً بين الناسِ، لا أحرك ساكناً — فتتجمد ملامحي عند لقائها

فأرى إبتسامة خجولة تغزوا وجهها — ويتفشى إحمرار الزهور في خديها

فتحرك أرمشها برفق كي لا تجرحني — إذ علمت أنني أقمت داخل أعينها

متاهة من الأحاسيس، فحفظتني — من أنوار الشمس الذي أحرقتها

كانت ترتدي ذلك الفستان الأبيض — لحفلة زواجها الذي لطالما كانت تنتظرها

وتحمل بين كفيها باقة زهور منتعشة — حياة وروح لأي شيء قد لامسها

وعند غروب الشمسِ، وقفت بقرب — أمواج البحر الذي إشتخى من الإقتراب منها

حتى أن الغيوم قد سترت البدرُ — إذ لا مكان لنور إلا الذي حملته في فؤادها

أما أنا، فقد أُرهِقَ صوتي من الصريخ — إذ إستنجدت بكل أسمائها

فكنت كما يونس، مقيماً في أعماقها — حتى أنها سقتني اليائس بدمائها

وما صبر أيوب لينفعني، إذ وَلِدتني — ودفنتني في عتمة لا نور في نهايتها

قررت حينها أن ترحل وتترك أمواج — البحر، تاركةً ورائها جميع أسرارها

فقد ألقت الزهور كي ترتوي بماء — مُمَلّح، آملةً بأن تحصد منها أثمار جنتها

ولكنها زرعت شجرةً كما الذي — قطف منها آدم تفاحةً فَهَوت به إلى أراضيها

فعند لحظة فُراقها، عدت إلى قبري — كي أتمايل على نغمات خُلخالها

وجلست أحفر رسائل النجدة على — تُربة البحر الذي محى كلماتي إثر خِشيانها


I Still Pray For You - by Eve Thomas (Photo by Amaury Gutierrez)Photo credit: Amaury Gutierrez

I Still Pray For You

By Eve Thomas

I still pray for you.

I pray you find a love that loves you

the way I couldn’t.

I pray He gives you a woman that

mends your scars without you

demanding it.

I still pray you think of me,

but I pray you let me be

because I don’t think I can keep licking these wounds

with every moment I spend with you.

I pray that your heart is alright

and that you stop trying to fight

the women in your life

that try to fix you. I pray God fixes you.

I pray my scars, they heal

and I pray that one day I’ll feel

again the way I used to about you,

for someone else far more than I did, you.

I pray

that one day,

you can see how much you are worth

and that you are to be loved when you hurt,

because Lord knows I spent an eternity

trying to love a man with no capability

to love himself, and nonetheless

the woman he scared away.

I pray

you find a love greater than mine.

As hard as it is, I pray, the Lord blesses you

as He did, I.


Here is a list of all our editions of 2018:

Edition XXV
Edition XXVI
Edition XXVII
Edition XXVIII
Edition XXIX
Edition XXX
Edition XXXI
Edition XXXII
Edition XXXIII
Edition XXXIV
Edition XXXV
Edition XXXVI