Cherry red aches and chocolate smudged fingers for valentines

I sat by my espresso

& poured the pain

On your cream couch,

My tears stung your eyes,

You controlled your sighs,

And let me breath,

My discoveries

Did I stain your heart

With cherry red aches,

Of love lost

And family breaks,

Or smudge chocolate fingers

With the bitter sweetness of life?

Did I tie the strings

Of the tassels too tight

Or cut fingers

That stubbed my heart

With each breath of grey,

To say,

I'll be there my friend

As we listened to the king,

With his soul sing,

The few regrets

Or false imaginings,

And watch the doe

Skip across a flickering screen

Of a mute TV

Let us then stay,

As we may,

Comrades of pain,

With a cherry red stain

Of a heartache

And let us smudge chocolate

On cream couches, our way

My brother,

My friend,

When will this end

And we’ll live the tale

That was in letters sent

From memories of yore

And dreams of good intent

My brother my bother

My friend my end

Post it

And let the memories spend

Its moments of glory

In gardens where the sun shines

Happiness of grandfathers’ stories

Where one day I may

Hold the water in the sky

As I spray

The roses and strawberries

That my uncle had drawn for me

With his violin strings

Hidden

Lest it brings

Tears of what may never be

The peace we never knew

Through history

Let us sleep,

Perhaps one day

If I may,

Invite you for tea

Where the four roads meet

Or at the riverside

Where the fish can’t hide

And palm trees sway

To the breeze of yesterday

As whispers breath

And Baghdad sings

In heavens’ wings

Peace

How to Cut a Pomegranate by Imtiaz Dharker

'Never,' said my father,
'Never cut a pomegranate
through the heart. It will weep blood.
Treat it delicately, with respect.

Just slit the upper skin across four quarters.
This is a magic fruit,
so when you split it open, be prepared
for the jewels of the world to tumble out,
more precious than garnets,
more lustrous than rubies,
lit as if from inside.
Each jewel contains a living seed.
Separate one crystal.
Hold it up to catch the light.
Inside is a whole universe.
No common jewel can give you this.’

Afterwards, I tried to make necklaces
of pomegranate seeds.
The juice spurted out, bright crimson,
and stained my fingers, then my mouth.

I didn't mind. The juice tasted of gardens
I had never seen, voluptuous
with myrtle, lemon, jasmine,
and alive with parrot's wings.

The pomegranate reminded me
that somewhere I had another home.

A letter you won’t read

I’ve decided to write you a letter

that you Haven’t read,

remember then

when our Souls met

and you promised

the sun in one palm

and the moon in a net?

Of rainbows

coloured with tears

from my heart

and blood

from your feet,

you walked

Through fields

of a jagged edge

To lay at the ends

of my lashes

Beds

of dreams

and clouds of thread,

to Entangle our thoughts

through history and smile

When we are dead,

to kiss the lips

Of life,

drinking its potent

Nectar

of hopes and regrets,

hold my Breath,

while I count

eternity backwards

Till I come to regret,

in a grey cloud,

that Night

that we never met…

24-11-09

you and I have been away

for a while

when we followed those dreams

we had

along that mile

in a city of old

when poetry sang the streets

and actors along curbs rolled

where the air

was clean

thieves unseen

who stole more hearts

than cinnamon jelly beans

and then back

to discover

as we were told

that we must play nice

when we grow old

or we'll be hurt

and we must learn

the Art of war

and love no more

till we find that

one of a kind

and believe the scene

of that long lost dream

and

then

as

the

hilt

reaches

the

chest

bone

we bid adieu

and welcome

that

all

alone

Nazek Al Malaika - نازك الملائكة

Iraqi Poet Nazek al-Malaika Dies at 85

Renowned Iraqi poet Nazek al-Malaika, who was famous as the first to write Arabic poetry in free verse rather than classical rhyme, died in Cairo, Egypt on Wednesday. She was 85

رائدة الشعر الحر نازك الملائكة في ذمة الله
توفيت في القاهرة مساء أمس رائدة الشعر الحر العراقية نازك الملائكة عن عمر ناهز 85 عاما بعد صراع طويل مع مرض السرطان، حسب ما أعلنته عائلتها. وولدت نازك الملائكة ببغداد في بيئة ثقافية وتخرجت في دار المعلمين العالية عام 1942.

عاشقة الليل

ظلامَ الليــلِ يا طــاويَ أحزانِ القلوبِ

أُنْظُرِ الآنَ فهذا شَبَحٌ بادي الشُحـــوبِ

جاء يَسْعَى ، تحتَ أستاركَ ، كالطيفِ الغريبِ

حاملاً في كفِّه العــودَ يُغنّـــي للغُيوبِ

ليس يَعْنيهِ سُكونُ الليـلِ في الوادي الكئيبِ

* * *

هو ، يا ليلُ ، فتاةٌ شهد الوادي سُـــرَاها

أقبلَ الليلُ عليهــا فأفاقتْ مُقْلتاهـــا

ومَضتْ تستقبلُ الوادي بألحــانِ أساهــا

ليتَ آفاقَكَ تــدري ما تُغنّـي شَفَتاهــا

آهِ يا ليلُ ويا ليتَــكَ تـدري ما مُنَاهــا

* * *

جَنَّها الليلُ فأغرتها الدَيَاجــي والسكــونُ

وتَصَبَّاها جمالُ الصَمْــتِ ، والصَمْتُ فُتُونُ

فنَضتْ بُرْدَ نَهارٍ لفّ مَسْــراهُ الحنيـــنُ

وسَرَتْ طيفاً حزيناً فإِذا الكــونُ حزيــنُ

فمن العودِ نشيجٌ ومن الليـــلِ أنيـــنُ

* * *

إِيهِ يا عاشقةَ الليلِ وواديـــهِ الأَغــنِّ

هوَ ذا الليلُ صَدَى وحيٍ ورؤيـــا مُتَمنِّ

تَضْحكُ الدُنْيا وما أنتِ سوى آهةِ حُــزْنِ

فخُذي العودَ عن العُشْبِ وضُمّيهِ وغنّـي

وصِفي ما في المساءِ الحُلْوِ من سِحْر وفنِّ

* * *

ما الذي ، شاعرةَ الحَيْرةِ ، يُغْري بالسمـاءِ ؟

أهي أحلامُ الصَبايا أم خيالُ الشعـــراء ؟

أم هو الإغرامُ بالمجهولِ أم ليلُ الشقــاءِ ؟

أم ترى الآفاقُ تَستهويكِ أم سِحْرُ الضيـاءِ ؟

عجباً شاعرةَ الصمْتِ وقيثارَ المســـاء

* * *

طيفُكِ الساري شحـوبٌ وجلالٌ وغمـوضُ

لم يَزَلْ يَسْري خيالاً لَفَّـه الليلُ العـريضُ

فهو يا عاشقةَ الظُلْمة أســـرارٌ تَفيضُ

آه يا شاعرتي لن يُرْحَمَ القلبُ المَهِيـضُ

فارجِعي لا تَسْألي البَرْقَ فما يدري الوميضُ

* * *

عَجَباً ، شاعرةَ الحَيْرةِ ، ما سـرُّ الذُهُـولِ ؟

ما الذي ساقكِ طيفاً حالِماً تحتَ النخيـلِ ؟

مُسْنَدَ الرأسِ إلى الكفَينِ في الظلِّ الظليـلِ

مُغْرَقاً في الفكر والأحزانِ والصمتِ الطويلِ

ذاهلاً عن فتنةِ الظُلْمة في الحقلِ الجميـلِ

* * *

أَنْصتي هذا صُراخُ الرعْدِ ، هذي العاصفاتُ

فارجِعي لن تُدْركي سرّاً طوتْهُ الكائنــاتُ

قد جَهِلْناهُ وضنَــتْ بخفايــاهُ الحيــاةُ

ليس يَدْري العاصـفُ المجنونُ شيئاً يا فتاةُ

فارحمي قلبَكِ ، لــن تَنْطِقُ هذي الظُلُماتُ

4-4-1945