These days, I refuse to let you see me
the way I see myself.
I wake up in the morning not knowing
whether I will make it through the day;
reminding myself of the small, small things
I’ve forgotten to marvel in;
these trees, blood-free and bone-dry
have come to rescue me more than once,
but my saving often requires hiding
yet they stand so tall, so slim and gluttonous
refusing to contain me; even baobab trees
will split open at my command, and
carve out fleshless wombs to welcome me.
I must fall out of love of the world
without me in it, but my loves have
long gone, and left me in a foreign land
where once I was made of bone,
now water, now nothing.
--- Mahtem Shiferraw
Showing posts with label English. Show all posts
Showing posts with label English. Show all posts
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 17, 2025
I am not done yet
I am not done yet
as possible as yeast
as imminent as bread
a collection of safe habits
a collection of cares
less certain than i seem
more certain than i was
a changed changer
i continue to continue
what i have been
most of my lives is
where i’m going
--- Lucille Clifton
as possible as yeast
as imminent as bread
a collection of safe habits
a collection of cares
less certain than i seem
more certain than i was
a changed changer
i continue to continue
what i have been
most of my lives is
where i’m going
--- Lucille Clifton
Sep 5, 2025
Additional Sessions Judge Amitabh Rawat - Poem
“Babu pleading for his bail;State opposing tooth and nail.
Summers bygone, winters have arrived;
But crime you did, and Rahul cried.
I am not the one, I am not the one;
Too grave the charge, don’t pretend.
Whom did I attack, where is he;
Oh! That we know, in the trial we will see.
You say I have said & I deny from the first blush;
Rahul may be gone yet Satish said.
Didn’t we say; don’t rush;
Let me go, let me go, even Imran is on bail.
Even then, even then; it wouldn’t be a smooth sail.
Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop;
I have heard, heard a lot.
Mind is clear, with claims tall;
Its my time to take a call.
Babu has a sordid past;
proof is scant, which may not last.
His omnipotence can’t be assumed;
Peril to vanished Rahul, is legally fumed.”
Take your freedom from the cage you are in;
Till the trial is over, the state is reigned in.
The State proclaims; to have the cake and eat it too; The Court comes calling ;
before the cake is eaten, bake it too.
Summers bygone, winters have arrived;
But crime you did, and Rahul cried.
I am not the one, I am not the one;
Too grave the charge, don’t pretend.
Whom did I attack, where is he;
Oh! That we know, in the trial we will see.
You say I have said & I deny from the first blush;
Rahul may be gone yet Satish said.
Didn’t we say; don’t rush;
Let me go, let me go, even Imran is on bail.
Even then, even then; it wouldn’t be a smooth sail.
Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop;
I have heard, heard a lot.
Mind is clear, with claims tall;
Its my time to take a call.
Babu has a sordid past;
proof is scant, which may not last.
His omnipotence can’t be assumed;
Peril to vanished Rahul, is legally fumed.”
Take your freedom from the cage you are in;
Till the trial is over, the state is reigned in.
The State proclaims; to have the cake and eat it too; The Court comes calling ;
before the cake is eaten, bake it too.
--- Judge Amitabh Rawat
Jul 15, 2025
Listen! Faiz,
Listen! Faiz,
Do you know?
The difference
between your and my wait
Is only
A fixed time
Just a few more days
You knew that
Like the gust of breeze
Speechless cloud does not tell
When I ask—
“How many more seasons like this?”
Who knows how many more seasons?
The walls around me,
These four walls,
Have been standing quietly,
Raising their heads high,
Bearing winds and storms, and the scorching sun.
Why do they not speak?
No! Maybe, they do speak.
Do you know?
The difference
between your and my wait
Is only
A fixed time
Just a few more days
You knew that
Like the gust of breeze
Speechless cloud does not tell
When I ask—
“How many more seasons like this?”
Who knows how many more seasons?
The walls around me,
These four walls,
Have been standing quietly,
Raising their heads high,
Bearing winds and storms, and the scorching sun.
Why do they not speak?
No! Maybe, they do speak.
When sand and plaster fall,
They surely say something.
But! The owner repairs them off
silencing their words
One day,
Finally, the weary wall collapses,
And at the same place,
Another silent wall is built.
On the pitch-black night yesterday,
There was a knock on the doors of prison
Of the innocent breezes
Of cries of our dear ones
Even the lightning
Was screaming for help
Asking for our freedom
Even the well-shaped branches
Openly joined in the grief
After failed attempts
And losing control
The delicate tears of rain
Started to pour
Struck against the earth’s crust,
And the rhythm of the drops
Turned it into
A commotion of pleas.
But—
The deaf snakes
Kept dancing
With their poisonous hoods
Laying their web of traps.
And—
The oppressed
Stood with their hands raised
On that pitch-black night…
--- Gulfisha Fatima
They surely say something.
But! The owner repairs them off
silencing their words
One day,
Finally, the weary wall collapses,
And at the same place,
Another silent wall is built.
On the pitch-black night yesterday,
There was a knock on the doors of prison
Of the innocent breezes
Of cries of our dear ones
Even the lightning
Was screaming for help
Asking for our freedom
Even the well-shaped branches
Openly joined in the grief
After failed attempts
And losing control
The delicate tears of rain
Started to pour
Struck against the earth’s crust,
And the rhythm of the drops
Turned it into
A commotion of pleas.
But—
The deaf snakes
Kept dancing
With their poisonous hoods
Laying their web of traps.
And—
The oppressed
Stood with their hands raised
On that pitch-black night…
--- Gulfisha Fatima
Jun 29, 2025
Imaginary Conversation
You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.
But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?
You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.
--- Linda Pastan
From Insomnia, published by W. W. Norton. Copyright © 2015 by Linda Pastan. Used with permission of Linda Pastan in care of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency, Inc.
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.
But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?
You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.
--- Linda Pastan
From Insomnia, published by W. W. Norton. Copyright © 2015 by Linda Pastan. Used with permission of Linda Pastan in care of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency, Inc.
Jun 12, 2025
Hummingbird
Not just how
it hung so still
in the quick of its wings,
all gem and temper
anchored in air;
not just the way
it moved from shelf
to shelf of air,
up down, here there,
without moving;
not just how it flicked
its tongue's thread
through each butter-yellow
foxglove flower
for its fix of sugar;
not just the vest's
electric emerald,
the scarf's scarlet,
not just the fury
of its berry-sized heart,
but also how the bird
would soon be found
in a tree nearby,
quiet as moss at the end
of a bare branch,
wings closed around
its sweetening being,
and then how light
might touch its throat
and make it glow,
as if it were the tip
of a cigarette
smouldering
on the lip of a world,
whose face,
in the lake's hush
and the stir of leaves,
might appear
for a moment
it hung so still
in the quick of its wings,
all gem and temper
anchored in air;
not just the way
it moved from shelf
to shelf of air,
up down, here there,
without moving;
not just how it flicked
its tongue's thread
through each butter-yellow
foxglove flower
for its fix of sugar;
not just the vest's
electric emerald,
the scarf's scarlet,
not just the fury
of its berry-sized heart,
but also how the bird
would soon be found
in a tree nearby,
quiet as moss at the end
of a bare branch,
wings closed around
its sweetening being,
and then how light
might touch its throat
and make it glow,
as if it were the tip
of a cigarette
smouldering
on the lip of a world,
whose face,
in the lake's hush
and the stir of leaves,
might appear
for a moment
May 6, 2025
A poem from the anthology 'The country without a post office'
Yes, I remember it,
the day I’ll die, I broadcast the crimson,
so long of that sky, its spread air,
its rushing dyes, and a piece of earth
bleeding, apart from the shore, as we went
on the day I’ll die, past the guards, and he,
two yards he rowed me into the sunset,
past all pain. On everyone’s lips was news
of my death but only that beloved couplet,
broken, on his:
“If there is a paradise on earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this.”
(for Vidur Wazir)
the day I’ll die, I broadcast the crimson,
so long of that sky, its spread air,
its rushing dyes, and a piece of earth
bleeding, apart from the shore, as we went
on the day I’ll die, past the guards, and he,
two yards he rowed me into the sunset,
past all pain. On everyone’s lips was news
of my death but only that beloved couplet,
broken, on his:
“If there is a paradise on earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this.”
(for Vidur Wazir)
--- Agha Shahid Ali
Mar 20, 2025
The Language School
I
The charges might as well be read out
in Chinese, Bantu or Dravidian
or not be read at all – they drift, they loop
like light that cannot turn a corner
or soundwaves that bend in and out
of some fidelity to the original. To whom
do they cling? Another dumbstruck boy
who does not speak the English they speak
or even hear it – all nape and haircut, sat
folded up in a Jesuit clasp
with hands in his armpits, perusing
with a sort of thick-lipped composure
the platypus-nose of his left trainer, as if it had
evolved out of kilter with the rest.
II
No is the blank, the zero, the lumpy zilch,
the bijou fuck-all the question solicits
and wishes-for: the litany, the plural of no.
It is the answer the question anticipates
before asking itself, surrounding no.
Do you have anything to say in your own defence?
The hiatus, the answer-in-minus scans
the many milliseconds of a second
that hang like a threat, scaring it
way up into the corner of articulation
where it ceases to exist.
Without fuss, or noise, or anything,
without changing expression or looking up
the only yes there is nods to a no.
--- Tim Liardet
The charges might as well be read out
in Chinese, Bantu or Dravidian
or not be read at all – they drift, they loop
like light that cannot turn a corner
or soundwaves that bend in and out
of some fidelity to the original. To whom
do they cling? Another dumbstruck boy
who does not speak the English they speak
or even hear it – all nape and haircut, sat
folded up in a Jesuit clasp
with hands in his armpits, perusing
with a sort of thick-lipped composure
the platypus-nose of his left trainer, as if it had
evolved out of kilter with the rest.
II
No is the blank, the zero, the lumpy zilch,
the bijou fuck-all the question solicits
and wishes-for: the litany, the plural of no.
It is the answer the question anticipates
before asking itself, surrounding no.
Do you have anything to say in your own defence?
The hiatus, the answer-in-minus scans
the many milliseconds of a second
that hang like a threat, scaring it
way up into the corner of articulation
where it ceases to exist.
Without fuss, or noise, or anything,
without changing expression or looking up
the only yes there is nods to a no.
--- Tim Liardet
Mar 1, 2025
For You Who Are About to Give Up
Think of what you'll miss;
the voices of children;
apples, dark wine on a table;
the smell of the spring before you're ready.
Stay.
It doesn't get better, it gets truer.
Winter. Albums. Madness.
Your grief in you like a cello
in its locked, black case.
The lemon-scent of someone who has gone.
Breathe.
Just breathe and be here.
In my darkest night, in the storm before morning,
I heard a voice
that told me it was listening.
Friend, I would sit with you
and listen.
As long as you have breath
you could be song.
As long as you have breath you could be song.
--- Joseph Fasano
the voices of children;
apples, dark wine on a table;
the smell of the spring before you're ready.
Stay.
It doesn't get better, it gets truer.
Winter. Albums. Madness.
Your grief in you like a cello
in its locked, black case.
The lemon-scent of someone who has gone.
Breathe.
Just breathe and be here.
In my darkest night, in the storm before morning,
I heard a voice
that told me it was listening.
Friend, I would sit with you
and listen.
As long as you have breath
you could be song.
As long as you have breath you could be song.
--- Joseph Fasano
Jan 31, 2025
January Night Prayer
Bellchimes jangle, freakish wind
Whistles icy out of desert lands
over the mountains. Janus, Lord
of winter and beginnings, riven
and shaken, with two faces,
watcher at the gates of winds and cities,
god of the wakeful:
keep me from coldhanded envy,
and petty anger. Open
my soul to the vast
dark places. Say to me, say again
nothing is taken, only given.
--- Ursula K. Le Guin
Whistles icy out of desert lands
over the mountains. Janus, Lord
of winter and beginnings, riven
and shaken, with two faces,
watcher at the gates of winds and cities,
god of the wakeful:
keep me from coldhanded envy,
and petty anger. Open
my soul to the vast
dark places. Say to me, say again
nothing is taken, only given.
--- Ursula K. Le Guin
Jun 20, 2024
I am not your data, nor am I your vote bank,
I am not your data, nor am I your vote bank,
I am not your project or any exotic museum object,
I am not the soul waiting to be harvested,
nor am I the lab where your theories are tested,
I am not your cannon fodder or the invisible worker,
or your entertainment at India Habitat Centre,
I am not your field, your crowd, your history,
your help, your guilt, medallions of your victory,
I refuse, reject, resist your labels,
your judgments, documents, definitions,
your models, leaders and patrons,
because they deny me my existence, my vision, my space, your words, maps, figures, indicators,
they all create illusions and put you on a pedestal,
from where you look down upon me.
So I draw my own picture, and invent my own grammar,
I make my own tools to fight my own battle,
For me, my people, my world and my Adivasi self!
--- Abhay Flavian Xaxa*
I am not the soul waiting to be harvested,
nor am I the lab where your theories are tested,
I am not your cannon fodder or the invisible worker,
or your entertainment at India Habitat Centre,
I am not your field, your crowd, your history,
your help, your guilt, medallions of your victory,
I refuse, reject, resist your labels,
your judgments, documents, definitions,
your models, leaders and patrons,
because they deny me my existence, my vision, my space, your words, maps, figures, indicators,
they all create illusions and put you on a pedestal,
from where you look down upon me.
So I draw my own picture, and invent my own grammar,
I make my own tools to fight my own battle,
For me, my people, my world and my Adivasi self!
--- Abhay Flavian Xaxa*
May 16, 2024
I have a country
I have a country
it's invisible
it has no flags
or moonlight
or river
or mountain
or clouds
to understand heaven
or flames
to take desire apart
but in the sadness of its map
there's the answer we need.
--- Nathalie Handal, "Everyday"
it's invisible
it has no flags
or moonlight
or river
or mountain
or clouds
to understand heaven
or flames
to take desire apart
but in the sadness of its map
there's the answer we need.
--- Nathalie Handal, "Everyday"
Apr 3, 2024
MORḠ-E SAḤAR (Dawn bird),
Morḡ-e saḥar, nāla sar kon!
dāḡ-e marā tāzatar kon
z-āh-e šararbār in qafas-rā
baršekan o zir o zabar kon
bolbol-e par-basta ze konj-e qafas dar-ā
naḡma-ye āzādi-e nawʿ-e bašar sarā
w-az nafas-i ʿarṣa-ye in ḵāk-e tuda-rā
por šarar kon, por šarar kon
ẓolm-e ẓālem, jawr-e ṣayyād
āšiān-am dāda bar bād
ey ḵodā, ey falak, ey ṭabiʿat
šām-e tārik-e mā-rā saḥar kon
nowbahār ast, gol ba bār ast
abr-e časm-am žala-bār ast
in qafas čun del-am tang o tār ast
šoʿla fekan dar qafas ey āh-e ātašin
dast-e tabiʿat, gol-e ʿomr-e marā mačin
jāneb-e ʿāšeq negar ey tāza gol---az in
bištar kon, bištar kon, bištar kon
morḡ-e bidel, šarḥ-e hejrān
moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar kon
ʿomr-e ḥaqiqat ba-sar šod
ʿaḥd o wafā pey-separ šod
nala-ye ʿāšeq, nāz-e maʿšuq
har do doruḡ o bi-aṯar šod
rāsti o mehr o moḥabbat fasāna šod
qawl o šarāfat hamagi az miāna šod
az pey-e dozdi, waṭan o din bahāna šod, dida tar šod
ẓolm-e malek, jawr-e arbāb
zāreʿ az ḡam gašta bitāb
sāḡar-e aḡniā por mey-e nāb
jamʿ-e mā por ze ḵun-e jegar šod
ey del-e tang nāla sar kon
az qawi-dastān ḥaẕar kon
az mosāwāt ṣarf-e-naẓar kon
sāqi-e gol-čehra, bedeh āb-e ātašin
parda-ye delkaš bezan, ey yār-e delnešin
nāla bar-ār az qafas ey bolbol-e ḥazin
k-az ḡam-e to sina-ye man
por šarar, por šarar, por šarar šod.
Dawn bird, lament!
Make my brand burn even more.
With the sparks from your sigh, break
And turn this cage upside down.
Wing-tied nightingale come out of the corner of your cage, and
Sing the song of freedom for human kind.
With your fiery breath ignite,
The breath of this peopled land.
The cruelty of the cruel and the tyranny of the hunter
Have blown away my nest.
O God, O Heavens, O Nature,
Turn our dark night to dawn.
It’s a new spring, roses are in bloom
Dew drops are falling from my cloudy eyes
This cage, like my heart, is narrow and dark.
O fiery sigh set alight this cage
O fate, do not pick the flower of my life.
O rose, look towards this lover,
Look again, again, again.
O heart-lost bird, shorten, shorten, shorten,
The tale of separation.
Truth’s life has come to an end
Faith and fidelity have been replaced by the shield of war.
Lover’s lament and beloved’s coyness,
Are but lies and have no power.
Truth, love and affection are but myths
Oath and honour are but vanished.
For thieving, country and religion are pretexts, eyes are wet
Landlord’s cruelty, master’s tyranny,
The farmer’s restless from sorrow.
The cup of the rich is full of pure wine,
Our cup is filled with our heart’s blood.
O anxious heart, cry out aloud
And avoid those who have powerful hands,
Count not on justice.
O rosy-cheeked cup-bearer, give the fiery water,
Play a joyful tune, O charming friend.
O sad nightingale lament from your cage.
Because of your grief my heart is
Full of sparks, sparks, sparks.
--- Moḥammad-Taqi Bahār
dāḡ-e marā tāzatar kon
z-āh-e šararbār in qafas-rā
baršekan o zir o zabar kon
bolbol-e par-basta ze konj-e qafas dar-ā
naḡma-ye āzādi-e nawʿ-e bašar sarā
w-az nafas-i ʿarṣa-ye in ḵāk-e tuda-rā
por šarar kon, por šarar kon
ẓolm-e ẓālem, jawr-e ṣayyād
āšiān-am dāda bar bād
ey ḵodā, ey falak, ey ṭabiʿat
šām-e tārik-e mā-rā saḥar kon
nowbahār ast, gol ba bār ast
abr-e časm-am žala-bār ast
in qafas čun del-am tang o tār ast
šoʿla fekan dar qafas ey āh-e ātašin
dast-e tabiʿat, gol-e ʿomr-e marā mačin
jāneb-e ʿāšeq negar ey tāza gol---az in
bištar kon, bištar kon, bištar kon
morḡ-e bidel, šarḥ-e hejrān
moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar kon
ʿomr-e ḥaqiqat ba-sar šod
ʿaḥd o wafā pey-separ šod
nala-ye ʿāšeq, nāz-e maʿšuq
har do doruḡ o bi-aṯar šod
rāsti o mehr o moḥabbat fasāna šod
qawl o šarāfat hamagi az miāna šod
az pey-e dozdi, waṭan o din bahāna šod, dida tar šod
ẓolm-e malek, jawr-e arbāb
zāreʿ az ḡam gašta bitāb
sāḡar-e aḡniā por mey-e nāb
jamʿ-e mā por ze ḵun-e jegar šod
ey del-e tang nāla sar kon
az qawi-dastān ḥaẕar kon
az mosāwāt ṣarf-e-naẓar kon
sāqi-e gol-čehra, bedeh āb-e ātašin
parda-ye delkaš bezan, ey yār-e delnešin
nāla bar-ār az qafas ey bolbol-e ḥazin
k-az ḡam-e to sina-ye man
por šarar, por šarar, por šarar šod.
Dawn bird, lament!
Make my brand burn even more.
With the sparks from your sigh, break
And turn this cage upside down.
Wing-tied nightingale come out of the corner of your cage, and
Sing the song of freedom for human kind.
With your fiery breath ignite,
The breath of this peopled land.
The cruelty of the cruel and the tyranny of the hunter
Have blown away my nest.
O God, O Heavens, O Nature,
Turn our dark night to dawn.
It’s a new spring, roses are in bloom
Dew drops are falling from my cloudy eyes
This cage, like my heart, is narrow and dark.
O fiery sigh set alight this cage
O fate, do not pick the flower of my life.
O rose, look towards this lover,
Look again, again, again.
O heart-lost bird, shorten, shorten, shorten,
The tale of separation.
Truth’s life has come to an end
Faith and fidelity have been replaced by the shield of war.
Lover’s lament and beloved’s coyness,
Are but lies and have no power.
Truth, love and affection are but myths
Oath and honour are but vanished.
For thieving, country and religion are pretexts, eyes are wet
Landlord’s cruelty, master’s tyranny,
The farmer’s restless from sorrow.
The cup of the rich is full of pure wine,
Our cup is filled with our heart’s blood.
O anxious heart, cry out aloud
And avoid those who have powerful hands,
Count not on justice.
O rosy-cheeked cup-bearer, give the fiery water,
Play a joyful tune, O charming friend.
O sad nightingale lament from your cage.
Because of your grief my heart is
Full of sparks, sparks, sparks.
--- Moḥammad-Taqi Bahār
Apr 1, 2024
The morning after / my death
I know flowers shine strongerthan the sun
their eclipse means the end of times
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
grave.
their eclipse means the end of times
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
grave.
Mar 12, 2024
On Killing A Tree
It takes much time to kill a tree,
Not a simple jab of the knife
Will do it. It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out of it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leperous hide
Sprouting leaves.
So hack and chop
But this alone wont do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size.
No,
The root is to be pulled out -
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out - snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden
For years inside the earth.
Then the matter
Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.
-- Gieve Patel
(From POEMS, published by Nissim Ezekiel, Bombay 1966)
Not a simple jab of the knife
Will do it. It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out of it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leperous hide
Sprouting leaves.
So hack and chop
But this alone wont do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size.
No,
The root is to be pulled out -
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out - snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden
For years inside the earth.
Then the matter
Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.
-- Gieve Patel
(From POEMS, published by Nissim Ezekiel, Bombay 1966)
Feb 2, 2024
We Have Not Long to Love
We have not long to love.
Light does not stay.
The tender things are those
we fold away.
In silence I have watched you
comb your hair.
Intimate the silence,
dim and warm.
I could but did not, reach
to touch your arm.
I could, but do not, break
that which is still.
(Almost the faintest whisper
would be shrill.)
So moments pass as though
they wished to stay.
We have not long to love.
A night. A day....
Light does not stay.
The tender things are those
we fold away.
Coarse fabrics are the ones
for common wear.
for common wear.
In silence I have watched you
comb your hair.
Intimate the silence,
dim and warm.
I could but did not, reach
to touch your arm.
I could, but do not, break
that which is still.
(Almost the faintest whisper
would be shrill.)
So moments pass as though
they wished to stay.
We have not long to love.
A night. A day....
Nov 6, 2023
Leaving Childhood Behind
When I left, I left my childhood in the drawer
and on the kitchen table. I left my toy horse
in its plastic bag.
for my sister's tenth birthday.
I walked with my sister towards our road with no end point.
We sang a birthday song.
The hovering warplanes echoed across the heaven.
My tired parents strolled behind,
my father clutching to his chest
the keys to our house and to the stable.
We arrived at a rescue station.
News of ceaseless strikes roared on the radio.
I hated death, but I hated life, too,
when we had to walk to our prolonged death,
reciting our never-ending ode.
and on the kitchen table. I left my toy horse
in its plastic bag.
I left without looking at the clock
I forget whether it was noon or evening.
Our horse spent the night alone,
no water, no grains for dinner.
It must have thought we'd left to cook a meal
for late guests or to
for late guests or make a cakefor my sister's tenth birthday.
I walked with my sister towards our road with no end point.
We sang a birthday song.
The hovering warplanes echoed across the heaven.
My tired parents strolled behind,
my father clutching to his chest
the keys to our house and to the stable.
We arrived at a rescue station.
News of ceaseless strikes roared on the radio.
I hated death, but I hated life, too,
when we had to walk to our prolonged death,
reciting our never-ending ode.
Oct 26, 2023
We deserve a better death.
We deserve a better death.
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV
Our photos, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade
to our graves.
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.
---Mosab Abu Toha
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV
Our photos, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade
to our graves.
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.
---Mosab Abu Toha
Jul 30, 2023
Black Maps
Not the attendance of stones,
nor the applauding wind,
shall let you know
you have arrived,
not the sea that celebrates
only departures,
nor the mountains,
nor the dying cities.
Nothing will tell you
where you are.
Each moment is a place
you’ve never been.
You can walk believing
you cast
a light around you.
But how will you know?
The present is always dark.
Its maps are black,
rising from nothing,
describing,
in their slow ascent
into themselves,
their own voyage,
its emptiness,
the bleak,
temperate necessity of its completion.
As they rise into being
they are like breath.
And if they are studied at all it is only to find,
too late,
what you thought were
concerns of yours do not exist.
Your house is not marked on any of them,
nor are your friends,
waiting for you to appear,
nor are your enemies, listing your faults.
Only you are there,
saying hello to what you will be,
and the black grass is holding
Jul 22, 2023
Let July be July
Even here, you are growing.
When August is approaching
and you feel a little restless
thinking about how
this month might end
and how
this year might end
and how you are supposed to
start again,
you are growing,
you are growing,
in grace
courage
strength.
And it is okay
if it does not feel like it.
It is okay if there are moments
where you cannot see
the way you have grown,
because far beneath the surface
the seeds have still been sown.
The ground beneath your feet
is still a bed for new beginnings.
So much is changing around you
but you are changing, too.
You are so much more than the brokenness
that you were certain would define you.
It has not been easy for you.
You have worked so hard
to be the positive one.
You have given your best
in areas of your life
where the effort was not returned.
And this has made it so hard
for you to keep going,
and there have been days
where you were not sure
if it was even possible.
But after everything,
here you are,
just a little stronger,
holding on a little longer,
and you still found room for hope.
So take heart
breathe deep
you are still becoming
who you were meant to be.
Let July be July.
Let August be August.
And let yourself
just be
even in
the uncertainty.
You don’t have to fix
everything.
You don’t have solve
everything.
And you can still
find peace
and grow
in the wild
of changing things.
--- Morgan Harper Nichols
When August is approaching
and you feel a little restless
thinking about how
this month might end
and how
this year might end
and how you are supposed to
start again,
you are growing,
you are growing,
in grace
courage
strength.
And it is okay
if it does not feel like it.
It is okay if there are moments
where you cannot see
the way you have grown,
because far beneath the surface
the seeds have still been sown.
The ground beneath your feet
is still a bed for new beginnings.
So much is changing around you
but you are changing, too.
You are so much more than the brokenness
that you were certain would define you.
It has not been easy for you.
You have worked so hard
to be the positive one.
You have given your best
in areas of your life
where the effort was not returned.
And this has made it so hard
for you to keep going,
and there have been days
where you were not sure
if it was even possible.
But after everything,
here you are,
just a little stronger,
holding on a little longer,
and you still found room for hope.
So take heart
breathe deep
you are still becoming
who you were meant to be.
Let July be July.
Let August be August.
And let yourself
just be
even in
the uncertainty.
You don’t have to fix
everything.
You don’t have solve
everything.
And you can still
find peace
and grow
in the wild
of changing things.
--- Morgan Harper Nichols
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