Edition XXXXII

December 2019


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Not Every Rain is Beautiful - by Shizah Kashif (Photo by Matteo Catanese)Photo credit: Matteo Catanese

Not Every Rain is Beautiful

By Shizah Kashif

there is rain inside all of us –
for some what’s blue and soft and slithers down backs like cashmere shawls
is grey and gouging and grates along cavernous ribcages for others
I’ve caught strangers on trains steal their eyes from mine – stern and taciturn,
when sheets of the sky’s tears tore up the papyraceous highways –
caught glimpses of their own sheets, rolled up, rankling and secretive
the rain outside whispered secrets of their own
to ears grown wearied of sweet smiles and goodbyes;
to eyes borne silent by raging seas of unknowing;
to slight limbs still yielding vitality to heavy dreams;
but the rain outside crashed on
the rivulets on their raincoats a facade
for the drought in their minds –
all moisture evades them there
all the water in their eyes
is mixed into the rainwater on their cheeks
sallow, seeping with a decisiveness
rivaling that of shying deciduous maidens
onto the outstretched palms in their laps
and settling there like an unspoken prayer.

the train reaches another destination
we droop off it like dew off leaves.

fastening our raincoats even tighter around our sad waists,
we travel home
while our shoes fill up with the rain in our toes.’


Blank Stares - by Suramay Pidara (Photo by Joseph Gruenthal)Photo credit: Joseph Gruenthal

Blank Stares

By Suramay Pidara

Neither heroes nor villains,
they are just people with blank stares.
Illusioned by a mirage of deceptions
are the souls behind these empty glares.
They wake up to the same sound
and find the same lack of zeal around.

Once in a while, their souls are lit up by a raging fire
and fills them with passion and desire.
It breaks them out of a trance,
and for once they want to take a stance.
For once they want to fly instead of fight,
they want to revert to the just and right,
they want to be a right note in a Bach’s verse,
and immerse their soul into the flow of the universe.
They want to be a breath of fresh air,
and plunge out of death and despair.

In a city of serpents,
they set off to seek a gem’s glow,
on their way they are bit and torn to pieces,
and their journey suffers a deadly blow.

Then the sky falls on them
and crushes the aspirations that had put them to the helm.

So now they climb up the same stairs-
and walk with those same blank stares.


الفراق - by Alaa Samir Ghannam (Photo by Frank McKenna).jpgالمصور فرانك مكينا

الفراق

بقلم علاء سمير غنّام

تفتحت وعودك أشواكَ

يا غائباً ما عدت أراكَ

كيف مضيت في طريقٍ أجهله

و خنتَ شفاهٍ قبلت يمناكَ

غادرت أيامي وأحلامي و غدرتني

و تركتني أناجي الموت علي ألقاكَ

أهكذا يكون العشق يا سيدي؟!

إن الخيانة تفوح من ذكراكَ

 

سامحيني إن كان القدر يحركنا

ما اخترنا نحن البحار و لا مراكبنا

إن الهجر كسر صلابة أضلعي

من قال من يرحل عنا يتركنا!

لازلت حبيبتي كما كنتِ دوماً

و ستبقين حبيبتي لو الموت يدركنا

لا تحزني إن الفراق بداية العشاق

بالفطرة نعشق الأشياء التي تهلكنا


Kid Inside - by Utku Can Gulen (Photo by Kat J.)Photo credit: Kat J.

Kid Inside

By Utku Can Gulen

Who has stolen your smiles, kid?
What happened to your eyes
                                     which turns gloom before rain
                                                                              into spring?
Worst kind of loneliness captured your spirit.
You have even no friends to play with.
Unconscious people
                        around you..
They don’t see your cry
So, they can’t dry your eyes
All people became half.
Whereas,
You should,
               dream to run under the water,
               fall from a tree for eating a bitter plum.
Ah kid..
You should
                smile
                    even in your
                                     sleep..


Untitled #25 - by Kaya SS (Photo by Kaya SS)Photo credit: Kaya (Kavyaa Suryaa)

Untitled #25

By Kaya (Kavyaa Suryaa)

 I internalize my reds
though they find their way out
through the pores of my skin –
each pore, with a voice like a mouth
that’s hungry, that roars and pours
the essence of survival,

do I have to crave life in the chapter of death to feel alive?

Drip by drip, I drip
unknowingly, in solitary,
drip by drip, only to anticipate self-destruction
drip by drip, to become half of who I was
drip by drip, I’ve dripped dry of I
and no one seems to notice the bloodless being
losing the essence of being, a being.


Love is a Storm - by UmmeHaani Fahim (Photo by Tim Marshall)Photo credit: Tim Marshall

Love is a Storm

By UmmeHaani Fahim

love was never meant to be easy.
love isn’t poetry.

it isn’t a fairytale.
love is a mountain to climb
followed by another mountain.

love is a STORM.
love is a marathon.

it’s a fight.
it’s a battle.
it’s an ongoing series of questions,
never straightforward or simple.
never uncomplicated.
never plain sailing.

love is a challenge.
it’s complications and mishaps.
it’s turbulence.
love is everything you wouldn’t think it to be.


Those Little Things - by Reena Remeshkumar (Photo by Cristian Newman)Photo credit: Cristian Newman

Those Little Things

By Reena Remeshkumar

I may be forgetful at times,
I may even have dementia.
but, my mind is filled with these memories,
Splendid reminiscences.
Family, friends and all of those wonderful beauties,
flashes before my eyes.

Each playful dispute,
overcome by such silly jokes.
Family dinners and talks,
competitive games.
On repeat, these memories float.

I may be confused beyond doubt,
a friendly kiss or hug,
relieves me of things you may not know.
Those little things now fill my head,
little things that we don’t heed,
sad yet such joyous memories are constant.
Constantly on repeat.

I am sick and lost,
but these constant little things keep me grounded.
These little things remind me of your fading face,
slowly fading yet on constant repeat.
Embarrassed at the thought of my forgetfulness,
this feeling overpowered by those little things.
Those little things that we do not heed.

Peacefully watching memories of the past,
memories buried deep within.
I may not remember the present,
but the treasured box of those LITTLE THINGS,
keep me content.

A different world,
through the eyes of Alzheimer.


In front of light pavement, literally star-gazing my way through life in and out… - by Laiba Asif (Photo by Pepe Reyes)Photo credit: Pepe Reyes

In Front of Light Pavement, literally star-gazing my way through life in and out…

By Laiba Asif

I’m sitting in the land of thoughts
twizzling through the old waves
quivering in the land of deep Light
and I’m just cozily flowing
and finding myself glowing sometimes
or sometimes I just go totally delusional.
I’m sitting in a wooden brazen little bench with the light blowing on my face and making my eyes looking vaguely unique and grey,
sometimes my hair is blowing away with the sand in my face,
but other times I’m flowing away with the universe and the skies to brilliance.
I can reassure the globe at any time and any moment
and sometimes it’s waging a hinge to redirect me to righteousness.
There comes a time to reflect on our times and the times I’m currently sitting here are the most graceful and poised Moments in my life.
My mother wonders if she can be alone in the sky,
with nothing but herself and her accomplishments and her family beside her and nothing else,
she wants to fly and elope away without harming anyone,
with no depression,
with no sorrow,
with no upsets,
and with no quarrels.

A quarterback in time, I was a young child & a little naive but really daring, sitting in the front seat with no obligation but also with no fear
sitting, sitting, to think driftly
and sometimes a little under-estimating.
Sometimes I just feel I’m on another planet rather digesting in a few bricks in my body
and I’m waving rather rapidly away,
mellifluously and continuously,
Laiba


Check out our previous editions from 2019:

Edition XXXVII
Edition XXXVIII
Edition XXXIX
Edition XXXX
Edition XXXXI

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