Poetic Blues

Inspired by the soothing, poetic, mellow to my perfect point of soulfulness, Dwele!

A lamentation
A broken reflection
Of rhythms lost before creation
Semantics’ rebellion
Against the throes of a linguistic extermination
In the doldrums,
Discombobulated melodies
Throb in a dysfunctional, dull reverberation.

Ancient as the Mayas & Incas
Magical as the Naguals & Dalai Lama(s)
Deep as the ocean bed & the Earth’s molten core
A beautiful queen is slowly losing her soul
Losing her soul
Mama Poetry is slowly losing her soul



Dejected notes
Eve-tease myopic images
Illuminated thoughts
Doused by distorted syntheses
Literary works
Besiege plots and characters
In a run-of-the-mill realm,
Imagination implodes
Leaving a mental hollowness


Mama Poetry, calluses on her body
Mama Poetry, an epitome of melancholy
Mama Poetry, once bright eyelids now heavy
Mama Poetry, a fading symphony


Lifeless eyes
Deprived by the gluttony of mankind
Bleeding lips
Biting in the pain of children’s silenced cries
Withered hands
Mangled by the soiled handshakes of criminality
Charred flesh
Raped by the blackened beauty of humanity


I couldn’t help her
So I just wept and wept at her deathbed
As the weight of our world caved in on her chest
Kissed her heart
And willed it to palpitate
But ...
My poetic blues
Was the last melody she played!

Esoteric Ravings

I blame Noosy’s "Untitled" poem for triggering this organized mess and so, dear reader, an oxymoron is how the welcoming begins.
Word after word, of her deliciously descriptive verses, has seeped through, plucking strings, which were in abeyance; sometimes, infuriated, other times lackadaisical: Aaah, the conflicts raging in my embittered yet relieved psyche – here I go again with the oxymoronic figure of speech.


Moving on, a few weeks ago, I saw it. I saw the knot!
Black as chimney soot, coiling itself around the crux of my heart like an Anaconda’s deathly grip on its prey, asphyxiating me into limitless obsession and consequently, near madness.
Relentlessly, perturbingly, persistently entwined; a pestering parasite.

Cardiac colonialism is what I call it with clenched fists and gritted teeth!

And there, dear reader, is when and where my self-destruction and salvation began, leaving me Sisyphean-like one day and triumphant the next - grr, an oxymoron but then again, life, stripped to its rudiments, is an espousal of opposing ends wherein balance and moderation are a true jihadist’s elusive, high-maintenance goals.


Deviation aside, the battle continued until, mercifully, last week, deliverance had been attained: The abominable, charcoal knot got unraveled and I, lachrymose, witnessed the defeat and fall of the threads (threats!), piece by piece (peace after peace!).
The rapture in my inner kingdom (or is it queendom?) was gargantuan and life breathed normally again. Or so I thought?


In no time, the mental gremlins started creeping again; however, not as overwhelmingly as when “Freaky Knot” had me ensnared! And, when one day, while driving back home from work, I couldn’t withstand it anymore, I, in despair, addressed the universe with the question of the validity of my current modus operandi, only to find the instantaneous response in the form of a crane! I assure you I am not insane! After I had made my imploration, I looked out of the window of my car and spotted a solitary, mighty crane, beautifully projecting my answer within its iron physique and silence. The crane’s tip was pointing to the direction of my route and was urging me to:

Move Forward,
Move On,
The Denizen of the Past will find no Answer or Peace,
The Future is where the Treasures Await
Waste no Time or Energy on Resurrecting Illusory Memories
Look for the Surprises & Opportunities that Lie Ahead

I smiled and blew a kiss of farewell to the dormant crane, whose conspicuous stillness symbolizes the impact of the financial crisis on the construction industry, where million dirhams worth of projects have been momentarily or God forbid, permanently ceased!


I am well now but a particular set of related questions haunt me from time to time: Why does the subconscious cling to a certain past illusion when its master, the conscious, is fully aware that it is nothing but its literal meaning, an illusion? How can emotions, which are known to be fickle, flaccid and powerless in the face of the powers of intelligence, manage to entrench themselves in the sinews of logic in such a smothering manner? Maybe it’s just me – Pre-dominantly right-brained and lacking the spunk to keep my feelings in check! Oh well!


Speaking of feelings, I now recollect the furor which ensued reading "Che's" letters (Ha-ha not to me! Though I would have been honored).
I couldn’t embrace slumber for days because my soul longed to pop out of my carnal attire, and embody a new persona devoid of my vanity, hesitance, inhibitions, circumstances, bonds and time that ruled my life. I yearned to follow in Guevara’s footsteps, go off the beaten track, and roam the earth, like a revolutionary Dervish, sowing seeds of rebellion and implementing justice wherever I passed. "Omar Al Mukhtar's" biography had the same influential and insomniac effect!
Eventually, I had to compel my infatuation to recede and the vestige of my quixotism, if I may call it so, can be preserved and heard through my hair-spray –turned- microphone:

Let the fire burn until it burns itself out and the beautiful Phoenix may rise again, again and again.

I am jaded
Yet I still see the White Tiger’s gaze on me
Majestically,
It circles around me
Rekindling the flames that are now devouring me…..

My fire of mutiny has, sadly, died now and I have succumbed to my daily, secure routine; back to being bound to the mesh of trivialities & obligations therein. But my White Tiger will always return to remind me of the higher purpose of life and the righteous course that I may have to embark on someday. Sigh!
And so poetry remains my strongest weapon until otherwise is facilitated. Thus, I stand on our living room table-turned-stage and I recite with passion:

Random thoughts provoke these words behind the rhythm
Unwritten emotions flow to capture life’s cynicism
Between human schisms, scheming divisions,
Strong intuition is where poets run to escapism
These worldly prisons made us embrace lyricism……..


To be free from imperialism, ha-ha, cheesy I know! But I don’t have the heart to continue and so the verse will stay a broken chord.


Last but not least, I end my ravings with some incomplete, disintegrated sentiments and observations of my beloved Motherland when I had last visited it in Dec of 2008:


Beautiful blue sky,
Almost entirely devoured by a “brownness” of foreboding
Dulling one’s vibrant heart
Threateningly encroaching upon houses, cars, streets, the Nile..…
Even people’s appearances
I can’t help but smile in awe
Sudan’s sand is inexorable…...

Bridal fashion show,
The first of its kind that I witness
Beauty at its finest
Creativity, talent and colors galore
I imbibe the
Alluringly made-up amateur models
DJ’s dexterity on the turntable
Red carpet
Amazed faces
Chichi chicks in skinny jeans and the sadly clichéd kuffiyahs
I am impressed
But then I go out in the streets…….
The gap between the rich and the poor has grown considerably and conspicuously than that of the last time I have been here

His face,
Forever impressed upon my memory
Mutilated eye, tongue sticking out,
Frozen in mocked irony
Ostensibly inane yet rebellious
His abode is but a cardboard mat and the shade of an unaffordable building,
I approach
I speak
He neither flinches nor looks towards me
Expressionless eyes focused on, what? I wonder,
The magnificence of escapism in to his spun Utopia,
Or is it the fruits of true lunacy?
Anything to make him obliterate the ruthlessness of his reality….


I reflect upon,
My brother’s words, “Home is where the hatred is”
I have sensed it in
The frustration, passiveness & helplessness of the youth
Perpetual reminiscences & bitterness of the elderly
Defeated auras of the fathers
Resigned states of the mothers
Only the elite are reveling in Khartoum’s white washed façade…..

I seal my thoughts with a prayer for what Sudan is going through right now and only hope for the best!

My Chosen One - Part II

“Whenever you smile, it’s sweeter than mama’s homemade. I thought that every man was made the same way, but in a world of smoke & ashes, boy, you are milk and honey….” Purify Me, India Arie

Blessed he
Who saunters tauntingly
In the folds of my dreams

Violet petals
Swirl lazily
On the trail that he leaves

With ardent curiosity,
I try to capture his essence
With my gaze

Heart palpitating feverishly,
As I edge closer,
His elusiveness prevails

DE RAIL ING me
To lows of forlornness
To highs of anxiety
IRONICALLY

EN TIC ING me

To surpass his momentum
To aspire to his altitude

Wait, don’t go

“If heaven had a height, you would be that tall” *


His shadow blinks
Our cores interlink
The moment the manifestation of what he is
Is unmasked


Hands clasped, not an angel or a fairytale prince
But a sweet embodiment of what humanity brings
Flowers & kinks
Betwixt snows & springs, he remains stoic

My home, my fire, my hearth, my king

Apprehensive to disrupt us,
Mother Earth ceases rotation
Makes peace with time,
Explores space
While appeasing disgruntled gravitation
Serene,
It draws its energy from love’s star-studded axis
The world is an ebony stage
HE IS THE SPOTLIGHT


And I, oh I, melt at the sight of his dimpled smile
His candid lips,
Which breathe mornings and nights of acute insights
His lucid eyes,
Which penetrate abrasive times to unlock a sanguine light

And I, oh I, thrive in the paradise enshrined in his mind
Sing lullabies to his wisdom’s child
In an emotional alcove of intellectual delight
Nourish from his embracing kindness
His gentleness magnetizes me towards his spiritual tide

My joy, my rock, my strength, my pride

I relish
How my wounds heal in his presence
How often I take pleasure in tracing the maps of his noble beginnings
& intrepid endings
How Sudan's magnificence is relfected on his brown skin
Candle-lit background with music strumming from his cardiac strings

He is the beautiful soul I yearn to eternally soar with
He is the beautiful heart I crave to cradle under purity’s wings
He is the beautiful mind I desire to grow with

My reason, my haven, my spark, my Chosen One

A Rant About Che Guevara!

En route to work today and moments after my eyes were struggling to watch the cars ahead while simultaneously reveling in the scenic beauty of Flamingoes bathing in a special reserve on the other side of the road, a Land Cruiser, driven by a national, sped and stopped at a stop light ahead of me.
Aggravated at the abrupt interruption, I glared at the monstrous vehicle, only to be completely amazed and amused at the sight of the colors and words adorning the spare tire case. Che Guevara’s renowned & symbolic raggedy face picture was sandwiched between words in bold letters namely “T.N.T” and “ Al Maafia”. I couldn’t help but look down at my paperback copy of “The Young Che: Memories of Che Guevara”, lying on the passenger’s seat, triggering me to ponder and wonder upon the mockery this revolutionary has become.
With my humble knowledge, I ask: What do “T.N.T” and “Mafia” have anything to do with the Soldier of the Americas?
I often see those adolescents or young adults, preponderantly men (or is it boys?) who don Che shirts or have his icon stuck on the rear end of their cars, with absolutely no conception or cognizance of what this man stands for, and merely because that coheres with the “fad” and being “cool” – In retrospect, this reminds me of the market exploitation of the Tupac symbolism and teens obsessing about him without understanding the messages in his music- some of it of course!
Back to Ernesto Guevara de la Serna and my thought: the blind leading the blind. Ironically, the followers would have benefited tremendously if they had exerted a bit of effort to research his background especially since we have a major lacking in living idols and exemplars these days.
And I ask again and with reference to the young generations I see and interact with here: What would he have thought, let’s take the National who started the rant for instance, if he had known that Guevara deemed money as a luxury, and knowledge and intellect as a necessity? Do they know that he hailed from a well-off family yet he chose, despite his young age, to renounce the comfort he was in, in order to bike and hitch hike, with barely any means, around South America, for the mere sake of experience?
What would those spoiled, superficial boys have thought if they had known he had a medical degree yet used to cure the ill pro bono and took an interest and worked in almost every field he could master? Would they have gasped at the image of him spending time with the beggars in the street to learn and grasp their affliction?
“……. No, one does not know a people from this – a way and interpretation of life that is simply a glossy cover; the soul of a people is reflected in the sick in the hospitals, the men in custody at the police stations or the anxious pedestrian with whom one enters into conversation…”*
Would they have appreciated the poetry, metaphors and depth of his thoughts, musings and writings? Would they have revolted if they had known that he starved, strove and fought to free America(specifically the Cuban revolution) and its oppressed from the depraved governments and insidious colonialism of the other America, the same America they worship now & can't make a stand against?
Would they have comprehended the value and meaning of his ideals and how for it he had turned a blind eye to his severe asthmatic attacks and wealthy upbringing?
“Death was not important; what was important is the struggle for one’s ideals”*
Would they have considered “making a difference in people’s lives” and ceased being condescending to less-fortunate ones?

Oh, how I pity many of today’s men (or is it boys?!)

I am aware he is one among innumerable heroes and great men but his biography has moved me vehemently especially his occasional letters to his family.
I admire his mentality, humility, resilience and his fiery ambition to tackle any challenges. Life, to him, had no boundaries and he engaged in every aspect of it without any arrogant compunctions. He craved learning and implementing his knowledge to help make a positive and constructive change. He was ready & willing to sacrifice his soul for the greater good.
I kid you not that if I were given the opportunity to turn into a man, I would have followed in his footsteps( including other amazing historical & Islamic figures). I thank him for doing certain things that I wish I could do or have done, but being a female, I am and have been, unfortunately, shackled!
So next time, Mr. National in the Land Cruiser and your like, don’t adopt something blindly and stigmatize it. The fashion can be beautiful and will help you fit in but at least filter, screen, think and question before you choose to follow a trend.

* Che Guevara

This is what I call "Reformation"

What pleasure it was to have read this today:

Women terrorists 'abandon extremism after counselling'


"Riyadh: An official source at the Ministry of Interior announced that Saudi Arabia was not holding any women terrorists in its prisons.
"All those women who were detained for their extremist links have been released. All of them abandoned their deviant ideologies, thanks to the counselling programmes, organised by the authorities," the ministry source was quoted by Saudi Arabic dailies as saying....."

Mad Musings

Who are you?
No, I’m not referring to the genetical make up that defines you or the roots of a land that intertwine you.

What am I?
Not interested in the skin that has caused divisions or religions claimed to create a clash of civilizations.

What constitutes us?
Spare me your name, his ancestral claim, our history, their ethnicity and the cultural diversity, which may shackle or bless our global communities.

Set me free
From these physical boundaries
These intangible weights
Encumbering human societies


Stop the spinning…………….


Can I, for a moment, invert my eyes inwards to behold the magnificence of the human soul? Can I retrace my steps to that place before my face was engraved in the depths of my mother’s womb? Before my name graced protected pages and life wrapped me in its cocoon?

Could I have been veiled by the drapes of heaven, sunbathing in honeyed lagoons? Or serenading palm trees, sheathed with golden lanterns, to a Ramadan moon?

I wonder…………..

I was in my pure form; a spirit, unblemished; before flesh and sin were born; before selfishness gave way to Satan to adorn my veins and steal my virgin core; before war kissed my cheek and laid me on poverty’s shore;
And he chose to bring me down - claylike- for a purpose and said he was closer than our naval cord.

I am a piece of the earth and a piece of him.
Adam and Eve birthed me, mortal genes formed me
BUT a part of Almighty has been imparted in me.
My soul is my immortal bridge to where I once lived in eternal bliss.
I can’t wait for my carnal dress to shrivel and liberate my true, real self.

Note to mankind:

Rejoice, the divine is in each one of us. Shed your complexions, possessions, nations…look inside then look at each other…we are all the same, only drawn, colored and named differently to be differentiated-to give substance and uniqueness to our identical souls.


A little prayer

Allahuma, I thank you for ‘life’ and for allowing me to feel/see the treasure that you are. However, I am filthy; shoulders burdened with the transgressions of my past and days to come.
At the time of farewell, I beg you to send Angel Izrael (AS) in his best-dressed clothes, with a wide smile, delighted to see me.
I beg you to allow Angel Gibreel (AS) to tightly embrace me with his wings before the Angels of the grave visit me.
I beg you to allow the Angels of Mercy to shelter me from the Angels of Torture, bathe me in musk and dress me in silky attire.
I beg you to alleviate Munkar and Nukair’s wrath and endow me with the confidence to answer the questions that I have memorized by heart.
I beg you to allow me to feast my eyes on you; hug, kiss and bow to you.
Ameen

Basil's Toy

I'm glad that I have finally written something:)

Sparkling eyes, beaming smile
Ebony curls, peppered with sand
3aragi* torn, yet he stood with pride
A child of 10, sailing on a lonely road

At the orphanage’s door, next to my friend’s house is where I first set eyes upon him. Hmm, yes, it was the playful expression dancing on his face, his piercing gaze and the twinkle gleaming therein, that had stopped me in my tracks.
“What’s your name,” I ventured. “Basil meaning brave, what’s yours?” he asked. “Hiba meaning gift,” I teased. “If you’re a gift, why do you look sad & tired? Gifts are supposed to be happy to make those who receive them happy.”
Caught off guard and impressed by his keen insight, I pressed on: “So, what do you know about sad & tired grown-ups?” “I know that they have forgotten how to smile and play. They see the night and forget there is day,” he replied. “Don’t you think the sun is too hot during the day for anyone to smile or play?” I laughed. “You let the sun burn you like you let the night scare you.” Dumbfounded to come up with something witty, I mouthed a “you’re truly brave, Basil. Allah yihfazak*,” and hurried off to my friend’s house.

Father shot in the south
Malnourished mother died giving birth
At the age of 5, his uncle gave him up
Hollow-eyed, devoid of remorse


The orphanage was in a pitiful state and the orphans lived in shabby conditions. The caretakers had to make do with the scraps and donations they were given since their relentless efforts to persuade the government to increase their financing met with no fruition. Anyway, everyone noticed that Basil was special & different. He spent most of his time reading stories, sitting dazedly in Alhosh* or accosting & conversing with adult strangers who passed by the orphanage every now & then.

White is for soul
Green is for mind
Red is for heart
These are the parts that make up Basil’s toy

“What is that thing in your hand that has the colors of our flag?” I asked one day with mock-innocence and failing miserably to suppress a chuckle. By now, Basil had gotten used to my inane sense of humor. How ironic that our roles were reversed!! The doll look-alike was actually broken twigs glued, somehow, together. He used chalks to color his disfigured version of a human toy.
“Ya Hadiya* (this is what he liked to call me). This is my best friend. White is clean like Baba Ahmed’s Jalabiya* when he is praying. Green is the grass in our hosh. Red is the roses I saw in the park that Mama Safiya took us to.”

7 days later, his stomach began to ache
Doctor diagnosed it as an infection
Medication was taken yet nothing stopped the pain
Until his appendix burst open

What can I possibly write after this! Yes, Basil passed away as a result of a misdiagnosis; another beautiful young soul, who could have done so much for this world, lost as a consequence of negligence and error!!! How can I describe the brutality, agony, horror & unfairness of it all? I stand speechless!
After his burial, which was attended by masses of people, old and young, whose lives he must have touched in one way or the other, I asked Mama Safiya for his precious toy. Back then, when he had expounded on the colors, I hadn’t thought much about it. However, now, I have come to fathom their deep meanings:

White (Soul): Keeping the soul clean & pure; being good; having faith & hope.
Green (Mind): The mind is fertile. It is our duty to nurture & cultivate it. We choose to allow the weeds to grow in it or not. We develop it.
Red (Heart): He likened it to a rose. A rose is exquisite yet fragile and so is the heart. Cherish & protect it for it can be easily broken.

A 10 year old taught me so much about life, humans and purity. His toy stands as a symbol of what we should be. Life is, indeed, temperamental, rocking us back and forth with its unpredictable mood swings. To cope with it, one must always find & search for goodness and strength within and to seek that inner power which, to me, is Allah. No matter how circumstances pull you down, try not to bow to it.

This piece is dedicated to those children in Sudan who are wise beyond their age due to what they have/had experienced & who are striving to uphold their values in the face of misery and tribulations

3aragi: A type of Sudanese traditional knee-length white robe, which is usually worn with a sirwal(loose slacks).It is for men.

Allah yihfazak: May Allah protect you.

Alhosh: The court yard/yard surrounding the house.

Hadiya: Gift in Arabic.

Jalabiya: White loose flowing robe worn by men.