Verse

Beauty – (for dverse)

Beauty

is an

airplane

in raindrops of time

Eyes that bewitch, dreamcatcher eyes with multicoloured stories inside

gina

A flower of a smile reaching deep

A memory of  fish and chips trees wrapped in newspaper leaves 

The curves in the sand dunes

the waves when you bathe

And your coffee on my lips, when you walk away again

For beauty is the sky, the goodbye, the flame in a story we let melt.

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¤
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Magpie Tales

new york restaurant 1922 edward hopper

new york restaurant 1922 edward hopper

in a charming old bistrot
in the time it took to taste my tea
whirl the leaves
a newspaper in front of me
and find out
Ghandi’s son raped his eight
year old girl

its fashionable to not talk about such things
at a restaurant with such fine trimmings
such richness of discussion
coy eye blinks, a-flutter above tilted cup
but I saw his letter to his son
where he talked about what horror had been done
and the pain of an eight year old daughter

so in the time it took
to put down my tea
my faith in the world dissolved around me
and my sympathy for various vagrancies
became undone

I became a murderer in my heart
and passed you the milk
I ordered you a cupcake
and pondered on fate
for if Ghandi’s son can commit such a murder
of faith
then anyone can do asunder to another
and most likely will

 

for magpie tales

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Verse

After The Storm

After the

s

              t

                               o

                                              r

                                                             m

She walked

t

a

l

l

Kept well to the

c

e

n

t

r

e

of the

s

t

r

e

e

t

             Felt

the

                 fresh

surface

                under

the

                soles

of

                her

feet

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dVerse – Let It Rain

soft rain
takes me home

to watch drops
roll on a window pane

grey skies
waves caress sand
-a background refrain

I walk the forest
bathed
hesitate not
in my step
it leads me away
from where I came

the passion
of the Amazon has gone
the storm that lashed my skin
nectar of native fruit sinned

her arms tightening
under the lightning

I know
I’m not tamed

for the soft shores of a final destination
that to roam is my home

that my peace is found
in the eye of the monsoon

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An Endless Migration In Us…The Fourth Qasida

Taha Muhammad Ali (1931-2011) wrote most of the poems for his first book in 1982 and 1983, when the Israel Defense Forces were invading Lebanon, leading to the massacres at Sabra and Shatila.  But it was in 1948, in Muhammad Ali’s village of Saffuriya, captured by the army of the newborn Jewish state, that the seeds of  The Fourth Qasida were probably planted.

Along with most of the village’s population, the teenage Muhammad Ali and his family fled on foot to a refugee camp in Lebanon, where his 12-year-old sister, Ghazaleh, died of meningitis. They were able to sneak back a year later and eventually even to obtain Israeli residence cards, but were never to return to their ancestral village, as Saffuriyya had been razed to the ground and turned into Tzippori, a moshav or Israeli settlement. Taha Mohammed Ali  settled in Nazareth instead, where he opened a souvenir shop for Christian tourists.

In his poem “The Fourth Qasida,” Muhammad Ali addresses Amira, the girl to whom he was betrothed in childhood, but whom he was not able to marry because she ends up on the wrong side of the Lebanese-Israeli border. Amira’s mysterious departure, never to return, can be equated to the events around Saffuriyya, but is left open for the reader’ s own interpretation at the same time.

The deeply moving poem is full of the flavour of what used to be known as ”Asia Minor’, with its references to nature and fruits, which add tragic appeal. The Fourth Qasida can thus almost be tasted, and is a poem, like many in Arabic tradition, that should be read or ”thought” aloud.

With each reading one discovers more, as always, and for me, in the latest reading, it is when a sudden ”powerful feeling” grows, that Amira might return, and then the sudden shout of ”Amira!” of the last stanza, that echoes still now. Enjoy the read. 

The Fourth Qasida

When our loved ones leave
Amira,
as you left,
an endless migration in us begins
and a certain sense takes hold in us
that all of what is finest
in and around us,
except for the sadness,
is going away—
departing, not to return.

The pomegranate trees
whose flowers you loved,
drooped and their shade withdrew,
and the path, and the china bark tree,
and the brooks—
all departed
after you left
and won’t return.

~

During the winter
strange birds seeking refuge arrive,
among them quails
and songbirds with colorful wings,
and also birds of prey,
and some that are sad and frail
and hold you spellbound in their goodness
gathering pebbles and grain,
and trembling in the tremendous cold
and out of a sense of profound strangeness—
though all of a sudden together they leave.
They come as one in winter suddenly,
as with it they suddenly flee.

~

I have, Amira, a strange and powerful feeling,
which grows still stronger in winter,
becoming increasingly forceful
and strange,
and I sense that you’ll arrive
one day with these birds,
an olive’s dove—
enchanting,
sweet-smelling,
graceful and gentle,
and restless,
alighting near
the almond tree in our garden.
A dove whose feelings of cold are fatal,
whose sense of strangeness can kill,
whose longing for the olive
grove is lethal;
a dove who smiles,
her eyes holding gardens of sadness,
while joy’s remains linger on in her coo.
The minute I see her, I’ll know her,
and recognize, too, catastrophes’ rings
hanging from her tender neck.
I’ll know her clear, springlike glance,
her dewy gaze
like the dreams of lakes.
I’ll know her shy, velvety steps,
her measured paces,
like breaths taken by seedlings of lettuce.
And I’ll know her sweet, singular, lilac voice,
which—every time I heard it—
I sensed was coming from deep within me,
a remote place within my soul,
lost and unknown—
this voice that reaches me
and which I greet
and embrace before my hearing stirs.
I will not mistake it,
for I can distinguish between
the voices of all the doves of the world
gathered together in a single garden.
And when I see her, my feet will set out
for the heart’s site within my breast.
But I will not let her see the tears
welling up in my eyes,
neither the tears of my joy for her,
nor the tears of my fear for her,
and not the tears of years of sadness,
nor my years of pain.
My blood will rush in my veins
to meet her then and welcome her.
And she will know us as well,
our sadness will lead her to us,
our anticipation will lead her to us,
the longing will lead her,
the evenings, the ardor.
The night will guide her,
and the clouds and grass
and the forest will show her the way,
the seasons and rivers
and paths—
all will guide her towards us.
And she will know us and cry
remember us and weep,
gather the greens and grain
and sob,
tremble from the force of the cold
and the depth of strangeness,
and weep,
We’ll tell her of the fields of thorn,
the colocynth fruit
and crimes of the wind,
the fangs of dispersal,
the mill of night and its cruelty,
the ardor of evening;
we’ll speak to her of defeat,
of bitterness and the loss—
and remind her of the olive buds,
as she weeps on and on.
She’ll neither find us strange nor fear us,
and she will not draw back from us,
but suddenly she’ll depart
as suddenly as she appeared,
and the winter that brought her
with it when it arrived
that morning will pass from our garden
swiftly like a train.
Waking from her slumber
in terror then, she’ll cry
and hanging from one of its coaches’ windows
she’ll weep,
withdrawing into the distance,
the tears filling her lovely eyes.

~

Amira!
When our loved ones leave us,
as you left,
an endless migration in us begins,
and a certain sense takes hold in us
that all of what is finest
in and around us,
except for the sadness,
is going away,
departing, not to return.

There Was No Farewell
We did not weep
when we were leaving—
for we had neither
time nor tears,
and there was no farewell.
We did not know
at the moment of parting
that it was a parting,
so where would our weeping
have come from?
We did not stay
awake all night
(and did not doze)
the night of our leaving.
That night we had
neither night nor light,
and no moon rose.
That night we lost our star,
our lamp misled us;
we didn’t receive our share
of sleeplessness—
so where
would wakefulness have come from?

Should you wish to ”hear” some more from Taha Mohammed Ali, please do click on this poetry reading of ”Revenge”, read by the poet in Arabic, then by Peter Cole in English (just before the 4th minute), a pearl of an experience.

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dVerse – Where Is She Now?

Where is she now?
The girl whose picture I found
Posing just after the last snows
Fresh, in her Yakutian meadow

What were her dreams, back then?
Among the flowers that only bloom in Spring
When she posed so long ago
The dark nights so short, the days so slow

Did she spend each spring in her field?
And did her memories leave with the end of summer?
I hope she slipped out of her heels
To walk barefoot in the grass, among scented heather

Did she pluck one wild flower to take home and press?
The girl from Yakutia whose photo I found
In the antique chest I bought last night
From the silver-haired woman, whose eyes shone so bright

 

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At Rat’s Creek

the sailing boats have sunk
down at rat’s creek where a summer
was not complete without
at least one great big furry rat bite

where knees were meant to be skinned
and where Josie taught me
how to have sinned
down where the water rose each spring

where summer we dared each other
to swim the length of the pond bared
to the midday sun
nothing on except water

and where in those Autumn days
the sun sent its last golden rays
and one by one the boats clogged with leaves
till there was only my one boat left sinking 

so I grew up too
loved and lost and left town
and rat’s creek is now frozen 
every time I’m there in the snow

all the sailing boats have sunk forever
Josephine’s doesn’t even recognise me anymore
glass in her hand when she answers the door
the boats are all sunk – and  there’ll never be anymore summers


written for the wonderful http://dversepoets.com/ page – (topic Childhood Toys & Games), a truly beautiful bi-weekly challenge. My apologies for not getting the reading done I want. But I will.

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My Forest & I

Prayer Time

033

There should be no doors to a church
No nails to a cross on which a victim is hung
In order for us to chant a hymn
No priest in sacrilegious sacraments
No virgins to satisfy the inability of some

There should be no lord no saviour
Except a deep understanding of nature
No commandments
No flock to follow
Deaf, blind and dumb

No teacups or mugs
With the picture of the pope
No creedence to the belief in any holy goat
No masses to join to whitewash any guilt

Stop believing someone from a fantasy they call history
Has a role for you
Spend a little time in the freedom of natural rhythms
Do not be tamed into becoming sheep

Do not be shamed, into becoming sheep

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Verse

It’s Raining Today

dark-clouds-valley

 r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                n                                  a                     i                      n                    r                     a                  i                             r         r                                        i                  n                     r                a                  i               n             r        a               i             r                     a                     i                        n                     r                a               i           n            r                     a                     i                         n                     r                a                  i                    r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                  r                     a                     i                       n                     r                a                i          n                 r                   a                 i                    r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                n                                  a                     i                      n                    r                     a                  i               r             a                                    i                  n                     r                a                  i               n             r        a               i                                  a                     i                        n                     r                a               i           n            r            a                     a                     i                         n                     r                a                  i                    r              a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                  r                     a                     i                       n                     r                a                i          n                 r                   a                 i              n        r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                n                                  a                     i                      n                    r                     a                  i                       n            r                                        i                  n                     r                a                  i               n             r        a               i             r                     a                     i                        n                     r                a               i           n            r                     a                     i                         n                     r                a                  i                    r                    a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                  r                     a                     i                       n                     r                a                i          n                 r       puddle                                    puddle        puddle              puddle             puddle puddle                  puddle  puddle  puddle      puddle         puddle     puddle   puddle      puddle

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