Poetry is a window into one’s personal experiences, both internal and external. The sights, sounds, and pulses of life can be immortalized in verses that stir the soul and instill hope, happiness, and sorrow. Remember that words heal as well as hurt.
Together, down a level
he’s overly tense-
Among the “normal people”
with their loud staring silence…
A huge smile on his face
he leans into the track
It’s my only weakness
and I hold him back
He’s laughing for years
Jumps, spins, flaps his hands
tasting the tears
only he understands
Reciting words
breathless and dragged
Before he explodes
however, I’d plead
Help ME Please
Always we huddle
forever in anticipation
looking down the tunnel
for the next one
What I’m learning about women aging
is we don’t do it alone –
everything able to dust gather
lines alongside us, trinkets and trophies
defiant on a cherry shelf,
saved from the fate
of the thrift shop.
We think when someone passes,
this time they’ll look twice,
ask what we knew before now,
where we discovered truth. Beauty.
But mostly we see each other,
silver and heavy in our limited number,
tarnishing into unrecognizable.
Just things atop meaningful things.
Waiting to be remembered.
When he circles the roundabout,
I am pressed against the car door,
And it starts to hurt again.
Bandages coiled around both arms
like tefillin,
Blood as red as wine.
We rush through the night air,
A truly religious experience,
Worshipping in the synagogue of pain.
I pull my cap down over my eyes,
Because the lights, they blur together,
Just like I knew they would.
Just like they do every time.
Her mother told her when she was young –
Be the kind of woman who can keep a family united.
A woman who guards and protects fragile relationships,
who cushions each family bond, so they don’t break.
But no one ever taught her how to fix the broken
pieces of her, trying to keep people together.
Too often are women expected to be the glue –
as if we are born to repair, hold together and rescue.
Too often are women left broken because the only thing
they couldn’t put back together was themselves.
Too often women break because they were never taught
to strengthen their foundations before learning to cement the lives of others.
Sitting in the shadows of misery
Unraveling imprisoned dreams
Wishing I can set them free to the sky
Wishing I gave them my wings,
make them fly
Sitting in the palace of no dreaming
Wondering why there are no ceilings
Wishing my thoughts knew no limits
Wishing my tomorrow is so vivid.
Sitting in the gardens of no feelings
Bury by darkness, no seasons
Wishing the heat could caress my dark skin
Wishing the pages would light my world still
Sitting in the darkness with myself,
I realize the light is in my hands.
and when she told her mother of the “incident”
she was told never to speak of it again.
Silence served as protection. It served
as a convenient denial and an acceptability
of these dirty men are everywhere.
Hers was a sack of body odour she never bothered to
turn around and see, even as he pressed himself
against the back of her thigh, even as she felt him grow
against her, even as she tried to make space in a crowded
local bus filled with people; I was too scared to say something she said.
Hers, lived with them, cared for them,
cooked and cleaned for them, and some nights
he took to servicing himself instead.
I don’t like it when my parents go out at night, the eight-year-old would say,
still feeling his hands in places they should never have been.
Hers happened at markets, in shops, out walking
ignoring a whistle or two, a snide remark till
courage would find his feet, and he would
encroach upon the space she called her own.
I wish I didn’t have boobs; she cried to her friends.
Hers was a doctor, an uncle, the neighbour’s son
home for the holidays with nothing much to do.
The delivery man, her math tutor, the building lift man,
the driver, the electrician her family had used for over
fifteen years, the family priest and that first boy she liked in school.
I am an Egyptian woman
I mean,
I am an exhausted woman
I spend my night in enjoyment till the morning
watching fantasy movies that I do not afford living
and my day passes through many ordinary tasks
that no one counts.
For instance, today,
was too short to give it a name
I cooked Green soup and rice for the hungry kids
who come home from the mangler
I waited for their little mouths to finish chewing,
I prepared to go out,
not for pleasure of course!
however, I wore some red lipstick,
to distract myself from the burdensome doctor’s visit.
I swallow cars’ smoke every bit of the way,
thinking:
Do my kids breathe all that genuine Egyptian momentum?
Do they taste that air saturated with sweat, rage and poverty?
Do they swallow that?
Does my old childhood album hold anything more than
Hours spent in public buses and microbuses,
breathing boredom,
tiredness
and smoke? Couldn’t it be
the smoke of something burnt, someone burnt?
My kids play in the hospital.
In the physician’s clinic, they jump on the sick bed and grant it life.
In the pharmacy too,
they smile while circling their pink balloon
and I,
like any genuine Egyptian mother
swallow people’s looks at them
and throw out orders for my kids to stop living
so that others be happy
whereas my kids are defeated.
Problems lie in knowledge.
A friend once told me that and I did not understand him.
Sometimes man’s knowledge hurts him more than his ignorance,
I know that they have a right
and that I have a right
and that birds should keep flying most of their lives
but when mosquitoes’ bites hurt me,
I banish the birds, inadvertently.
My two birds have slept by now.
They took their medications, in their specific dozes,
those that I recorded
at certain times.
they drank milk just like two playful kittens
now, they want to play a little
or maybe a lot
but it is time for the sleeping train, my dear.
Ended their day quickly
and started my nighty day,
everyday. I prepared
sandwiches, two fruit slices
and some vegetables that they will not eat anyways.
I filled their bottles with love and water
I put some prayers in their bags
and I hid some apologies for my many orders
in the kitchen sink.
I ironed their clothes
that will never stay the same
everyday, my son lies down on the ground after wearing his clothes
my daughter sits to play and draw.
That does not infuriate me anymore
my heart smiles for them only while they are asleep,
like every Egyptian mother!
My heart tries to smile at myself too
some kindness tries to touch my angry soul
and closes her eyes
she says, Hold your thread and create a life,
exchange your angry heart for a young child’s heart,
rock it softly to sleep
now open your eyes again
you are just an exhausted woman.
Your brain is a film
played at 5x speed –
the images barely intelligible,
leave no room for thought, only gut.
Meanwhile, the theater is collapsing
in slow motion.
So you step outside and
begin naming everything you see,
attempt to capture some of the air
you’ve been denied. A half-smile
can turn your day around, some ice
applies to the cheeks can freeze
a spiral.
Dear Man, act fast to improve
this moment. It’s all you have
to share. There never was
a straight road, but trust your
wise mind and I promise
you’ll make it to the third act.
When all else fails, radically
accept yourself. There, before
the climax of every outburst,
you can find a place to stop
and catch your breath.
In the darkened room, where shadows silently creep,
I sit alone, enveloped in solitude, as the night grows deep.
Though voices resonate, laughter fills the air,
Within the crowd, a piercing pain, a burden hard to bear.
A somber figure, draped in midnight’s cloak,
With eyes like distant stars, reflecting my sorrows.
It whispers in my ear, with chilling embrace,
But everything I heard was silence.
In this dim-lit chamber, it dances in the shadows, a solitary waltz.
Amidst the bustling crowd, where laughter’s waves crash,
It wraps me tightly, like an unwanted sash.
I yearn for someone, for a familiar touch,
Yet the shadows persist, a feeling that’s hard to clutch.
It gazes upon me, with eyes that hold such depth,
A reminder of the longing, within my soul’s breadth.
Its hand reaches out, in a gesture of despair,
Inviting me to share in its solemn, silent prayer.
But amidst the darkness, a flicker of light appears,
A glimmer of hope, dispelling the gloom and fears.
In its presence, I learn. I grow. I find strength.
As night turns into day, I rise from this darkness, slowly finding my way.
For I’ll seek the light, where true solace finds.
I emerge, unbroken and strong,
And find my home, where I truly belong.
My jeans are drenched as I look
At the blurred images of you. It is hard to
Remember your face, though, when I can
Look in a mirror, I see you. Every night
When I go to bed, I think
About my life if you were.
I might understand boys better.
Every year, when it’s your birthday, I would
Ask what your gift would be. You
Shrugged,
Million dollars?
A drawing, picture, or a pair of socks?
Every year I want
You in front of me.
Your grizzly arms surrounding
Me. I turn to the earth
And beg
It to swallow me.
