عندما لا نستطيع التعبير عن ما يؤلمنا

أتتناثر في روحك الكلمات؟ كالأوراق المتساقطة بعد أن هزّت الرياح أغصانها

أيبعثرك اللّوم؟ أتتفتح حولك عباراتهم اللاسعة كالزهور السّامة

أتتقلّب بداخلك الفصول؟ أتتأرجح بين الموت في جليد بلادتهم، أو الاحتراق في جحيم جهلهم

أتشعر كالأمواج الهائجة المنطلقة كالثيران الناطحة، فقط لتتكسر وتتلاشى عند أصابع أرجلهم

أتتعالى دقّات قلبك إلى حد الصياح، حتى تُصم من شدّة تدفّق الدماء في رأسك

أتنام؟ أتنام؟ عندما يفجعك قبح هذا العالم، ولا يتبقى لديك سلاح سوى أن تغمض عيناك اللتان تيبّستا من كثرة البكاء

أتحاول تقطيع صور المشردين، الموتى، المعذبين، المهاجرين الذين يعيشون في مخيّلتك، بالمشرط الذي كنت تقص به صور أبطال طفولتك

أتلوّح فأساً ثقيلاً يميناً وشمالاً، تريد تحطيم جدران أحزانك، وأنت تعلم أنه لا سماء وراء كل هذا الظلام

أتتوسّل للقدر، للأيام، للدهر، أتخاطب الهواء.. أتتمسك بضحكة صادقة أطلقتها يوماً خالية من المجاملة و النفاق، كالغريق الذي يتمسك بقطعة خشب مثقوبة

أتمزقك ابتسامتك التي تواجه بها الوحش العملاق الذي يجثم على صدرك، كما يمزّق البرق الليل

أيصعقك ضعفك؟ أيسكتك خوفك؟ أينقش الخذلان على جلدك بإبرة من نار؟ أتتفجر همومك فيك كالبراكين؟  

أتغرق؟ أتغرق باسمترار؟

أنت الوحيد الذي يعرف

قد تكون مشرداً، بالرغم أن لك بيتاً

ووحيداً، وأنت محاطاً بالوجوه والأجساد

قد تكون بلا وطن، رغمَ الأوراق والثبوتياّت

قد تكون صامتاً ساكناً، والكلمات تتزاحم في داخلك، تبعثرك

أنت الوحيد الذي يعرف، لماذا يطلع القمر ناقصاً، بالرغم أنه قد سبق له الاكتمال

أنت الذي تتحاشى صخب النهار وضجيجه، وتأمن لِسكون الظلام وأنينه

تقول أنك لا تعرف لِمَ لا تستطيع الرد على هاتفك الذي يرن.. يرن.. يرن

بالرغم أنهم يبعثون الرسائل: كيف أنت؟ أين أنت؟ لِمَ لا ترد؟

وبمرور الوقت.. تتلاشى الرسائل تدريجياً، وتتبدل لغتها شيئاً فشيئاً، من حميمية إلى ودّية، إلى لامبالية، إلى معاتبة، إلى ساخرة، إلى غاضبة، إلى "لقد خذلتني"، وأخيراً "الوداع"

أنت الوحيد الذي يعرف لماذا لا تستطيع البقاء

لا تملك تفسيراً، لماذا حبهم لك يزعجك، أو كيف أن حبهم لك يزيدهم سمنة، ويزيدك هزال

لن تبوح لهم، أنك لا تستطيع أن تشكرهم، فحبهم لك، ليس إلاّ فوز آخر لهم، وخسارة جديدة لك

أنت الوحيد الذي يعرف أنهم ما أحبوك، إلاّ بحثاً عن سبباً ليحبوا أنفسهم، وأنهم عندما أشاروا لِجمال عينيك، كانوا ينظرون لانعكاس صورهم فيها

أنهم عندما أصرّوا إنهم بحاجة إليك، كانوا يقصدون أنهم بأمس الحاجة لأن تحتاج إليهم

أنت الوحيد الذي يعرف كيف تحملهم بداخلك، كالعصافير المغفلة التي تدخل الأقفاص بإرادتها

أنت الوحيد الذي يعرف شعور الطير الذي يصطدم بالنوافذ، ظناً منه، أنها امتداد للسماء

12 years ago

Twelve years ago

The most wonderful thing happened to me

I searched and search for a perfect happiness, a happiness without a hole in it, until you came

I told you time and time again that your birthday is the best day of my life

You never cease to amaze me

How so many generations, had to be created, and destroyed so the marvel of you can finally be perfected

It’s hard - I think - for you to perfect your role, hiding your shrewd brilliance under your childlike face, under your perfectly girlish body

I gave you the diary I wrote when you were still in my womb, notes about your birth, stages of your development, and poems I wrote you as I watched you grow, when you started walking, when you first spoke.. and as soon as you read it, you pointed out my misspellings!

In my mind, you’re the only persons whose name resonates with fresh flowers, vibrant rainbows, colourful balloons, warm sandy beaches, and clean air. Somehow, you are the only real person to me 

When mothers talk about how amazing their children are, I think they must be crazy. I know I’ve got the best one. 

Why did you go?

He came to see me

Asking for a recommendation letter

My ex-student. My wonderful ex-student

Tall, and perfectly built.

His wholesomeness shadowing everything around him

Why did you go? He kept asking

I avoided his intense, intelligent eyes

Like two universes they were. Liquid, glistening and full. Full of

something close to understanding. But I would not believe it.

I looked away from their forceful light, from their terrible darkness.

Pretended to search for a piece of paper, with unsteady hands

How’s your family? I stammered, needing something to say

Under the sky of his stern gaze, the minutes were long

His austere eyes followed me.

I’ll leave the letter with the secretary for you to collect

And everything that could not be said

was compressed. In his soft persistent

Why did you go?

A Year

Not just a year

Not just 365 sunrises

365 sunsets

Not just four seasons

Not just numerous fallen leaves

But a distance

An in-between

As poignant as that between a poet and her finished work

As sorrowful as the longing birthed in between lovers’ quarrels

Something like a profound trike of the chisel that’s shaping us

We like to believe that we move on, with new faces, our hearts

sheathed in a thicker crust of robust gleaming armor

And nearer to the next finish line, at the first sign of a curled-up leaf

we falter.  

We’ve been here before,

we’ve been here before.

All we’ve done was survive

we never lived.

He

He rages wars

He invades homes

He kills in the name of God, honor and patriotism

He makes guns

He profits from violence

He takes what isn’t his

He solicits greed

He boasts about rape

He molests children

He enslaves the weak

He abuses the environment

He spreads corruption

He champions hate

He advertises bigotry

He supports destruction

He obstructs justice

He forges facts

He obscures truth

He legalizes what serves him, he

criminalizes what does not.

He makes sure women are paid less than he,

have less opportunities than he,

are appreciated far less than he.

Just when I think this man, this cruel barbaric beast, cannot cause more harm, I read the news:

“man kills rarest butterfly”.

The Day

Is it finally over?

The day.

The tiresome day.

With its noise, and its bustle, and its meaningless chatter.

Is it finally over?

The day.

The weariness of bones, the treacherous tongues, the monotonous insincere greetings

The obscure intensity of eyes meeting, of eyes hurriedly looking away.

The mundane work, the laden footsteps, the wretched paths we tread.

The day is finally over.

The bitter fruit consumed, the oversized core spat. 

The Terrible Long Arm

On a day like today

I fold, and put myself away,

like the crumpled, tossed garments in the hamper

worn and tired looking. I’m a misshapen sac, without a soul in it.

A sagging deflated balloon.

I want isolation. The confinement of a dark, musty drawer.

To be shut away from the world, while a storm went brooding outside.

The insane spikey crowns of palm trees jostled, and buffeted by a mad wind.

I needed the familiar, the mundane.

Ironing school uniform creases, scrapping burnt rice from the blackened bottom of the pot,

polishing shoes, piling papers, books, time, and people into some kind of vague order.

Can tidying the external, compensate an internal chaos?

The fuming gale continued to hurl dust, and scatter trash onto roads, sidewalks, and faces.

While passersby endured, bracing themselves, with bent heads, and squinted eyes.

The strange and terrible long arm of the past reached out, and lay its heavy hand on my shoulder.

The sad, who sleep.

We sleep when we are sad, 

Not only because our bones are bashed old train tracks, no

amount of rest will ever mend.

But as a way of refusing life, 

shutting our eyes to its colossal ugliness. Numbing our minds to its tyranny.

So helpless are we in the face of its excruciating tragedies, the only way to survive

is not take part. To reject it with lack of presence, and absent consciousness.

Turning our vision away, towards the plunging dungeons of slumber.

Decline engaging in the mockery of what it means to live, and be human. Which is 

the precise opposite of living, and the literal contrast to humanity.

The things that wait for us

Back in my teaching job at university. Back in my cozy red painted office, on my black leather chair. My old books, papers, and pens, dusty and worn. The vintage clock that stopped ticking long ago, half past one, was the last hour it struck. Old Post-it notes reminding me to prepare for this class, or see the dean about that issue. I’m astonished. How things can wait for us? Despite years of absence, they sit still, wrapped in a sad, almost resentful sense of loyalty.

We’re all still here, where you left us, as you left us, years ago.

The same old feeling of belonging, and not belonging there at all. The excited young faces of second year law students, still deciding who they want to be, what they want to be. The freshness of their young souls. Still unscarred by life’s disappointments. Still, not quite broken. The smell of hope, and passion for chasing dreams, like young tree leaves slowly unfolding in Spring, knowing nothing of Winter’s harshness. The quickness of their emotions, the clarity of their expressions, their confident, forthcoming steps, the ghost of melancholy walking behind them, almost catching up. The years that come like ocean waves, taking from us what we naively believed was ours to keep.