Pain

Pain
Pain
Pain

drips slowly through me
drips slowly ...
a single droplet
every ten seconds
seems like hours

a burning acidity
courses inside
a flame of anguish
and more pain

hollow as the wind through nothing
a haunted ground
unlimited space
dryness in my eyes
wrinkles my heart

and the pain goes on
dripping slower than before
through my eyes,
my head,
my nose,
my throat it skips
and goes to my abdomen

and lays there
focused searing
scathing
tearing
intangible yet very much felt
a weak pain
that remains

and leaves an aftertaste
of sour bile
in my throat
that had been skipped
in my heart,
that has been ripped
a beautiful pain.

مسائلة - قصيدة لأحمد مطر Questionning, A Poem by the Poet Ahmad Matar

This poem reminds me,

of the terror of thought

during a certain dictators rule.

That, at least is over

And now is nought.

قلت للحاكم: هل أنت الذي أنجبتنا ؟
قال: لا… لست أنا

قلت: هل صيّرك الله إلهاً فوقنا؟
قال: حاشا ربنا.

قلت: هل نحن طلبنا منك أن تحكمنا ؟
قال: كلا.

قلت: هل كان لنا عشرة أوطان
وفيها وطنٌ مستعمل
زاد على حاجتنا
فوهبنا لك هذا الوطنا ؟
قال: لم يحدث… و لا أظن هذا ممكنا.

قلت: هل أقرضتنا شيئاً
على أن تخسف الأرض بنا
إن لم نسدد ديْننا ؟
قال: كلا.

قلت: مادمت، إذن،
لست إلهاً وأباً
أو حاكماً منتخباً
أو مالكاً أو دائنا
فلماذا لم تزل،
يا ابن الكذا، تركبنا ؟
... و انتهى الحلم هنا.

أيقظتني طرقاتٌ فوق بابي:
"افتح الباب لنا يا ابن الزنى."
"افتح الباب لنا إن في بيتك حلماً خائنا!"

طلعت تذب الزبل - She Went Out to throw the Garbage

طلعت تذب الزبل
لمعن تراجيها

لو ما أخوها النذل
لأنزل وأحاجيها

She of the Sweet lips asks... (Old Arabic Poem)

تساؤلني حلـوة المبسم

متى أنت قبلتني في فمي

تحدثت عني وعن قبلـة

فيا لك من كاذب متهم

فقلت أعاقدها هل نسيت

فبالثغر كانت وبالمعصـم

فإن تنكريها فما حيلـتي

فها هي ذي شعلة في دمي

سلي شفتيك بما حستـا

من شفـتي شـاعر مغرم

ألم تغمظي عندها ناظريك

وبالراحتيـن ألم تحتمـي

هبي إنها نعمــة نلتهـا

فمن غير جـرم فلا تندمي

وإن شئت أرجعتها ثانيـة

مضاعفـة بالفـم المنعـم

فقالت وغضت بأهدابهـا

إذا كان حقا فلا تحجـم

سأغمض عيني كي لا أراك

وما في صنيعك من مأثـم

كأنك في الحلـم قبلتـني

فقلت وأفديـك أن تحلم

To Die from a Lovers' Hands, in a Lovers Arms

He told me that what he'd want is to die a good death. And to if I were to slit his throat from artery to artery, then that would be a good death; to die from my hands in my arms.

I held that thought for a moment, I paused and my mind went full throttle, why should death be horrible, and if one were to choose a death, then why not by a lovers' hand... We choose many special moments to be taken care of by loved ones, yet the final one that sends us into our holiest and most sacred journey, we dread...?

Let the blood trickle in a last warm embrace... NO! I am not speaking of morbidity, just transferal from one phase to another... he understands me.. And I, him, too.

I speak not of murder or suicide. None of those are a means of going to meet ones creator. I speak of a sending of as in most ancient religions, the blood and knife are mere ornaments... I understand death better now.

Hungry Souls

The Shangri-La, Sheikh Zayed road, Dubai, United Arab Emirates. I have become addicted to coming down at the lobby/lounge after my training to cleanse my mind, ears & soul. I listen to two Iraqi guys playing a couple of instruments. Day one a guy plays an arabic instrument called Al Qanoon, and another plays Al Josa. Day 2 he (his name is Furat I am told; Arabic for Euphrates)plays the Qanoon and his colleague who played the Josa, plays the cello! Day 3 The qanoon with the Electric Organ give a beautiful eastern flavour to western pieces and I am whisked away on this day, my dad's birthday... I dream and writ. I write an email to fellow Iraqi, who is confused by a woman, a material girl.