…wildly knocking on an open door,
crazy colours, glittering halos,
sea’s roaring, smashing with the wind…
in the disagreement of You
pillars leaning in history,
it’s there, a pull deep in despair….
…wildly knocking on an open door,
if it’s a daughters smile,
Allaahumma salli ‘alaa Sayyidina Muhammadin
wa ‘alaa ali Sayyidina Muhammadin
are they all the same?
Embracing , desperately seeking a home.
On a sidewalk a mother combs a child’s hair,
the sun disappeared with her dreams.
We place her in Arequipa, Tower Hill, Konya.
Is it more, is it less we have?
She is excavating for her something.
Plastic carrier bags of cotton buds,
block ears to the sound that pulls.
She clips her hair back and finds her fierce eyes.
We are her, recognised by worn shoes and a new dress catching the moonlight.
(Image: David Joaquin)
Gritty I think,
sometimes a little oily.
The dust I am sure I cleared.
It’s an old thing.
Not so much of left behind,
but the parts that become
as useful as my bones,
I wonder, is it really so useful
Clarity, like a gazelle in the far distance
it runs at sight.
It’s too late.
Once you see clarity
seems to work.
is the sponge dry?
Every ounce, every drop is precious.
When you lay your head down,
will you say,
Did I squeeeeze every drop?
How many pearls roll into the gutter…
The chorus will sing to her last breath,
oh heart, turn and say –
Squeeze, every ounce, every drop is precious.
Oh my I, my me, my who, my questions,
tangled in spaghetti words we are…
take the discarded me, and the well kept I and say;
Squeeze – every ounce, every drop is precious.
As harsh as wires wrapped tightly around my wrists,
her throat is dry
You look down, pen to paper but even with the dearest heart it’s gone.
We gamble an hour and somewhere,
And they are present, immersed in writings,
decaying in open fields,
humming ‘we were here, we stood in flight’.
Oh heart, turn and say – it’s only a single dance,
i would return it all
even the pieces that shine in the dark
so I bought some stuff
things and rings
books and pencils and pens
i turned it all upside down
and the inside came out
i wrote letters and emails and stories and essays
songs that would make an ocean cry
it took days and years
before I knocked on the door
my breath lost its point
so I returned with medicines and cures
pills and rejections
rulers and scars
it was a few more years before
i knocked on the door
my breath got caught on a fishing line
i was spinning
and all of me fell on my head
i took out my list of many thousand questions
“this is it, all of me
may i return it?” –
‘No’, You said
so I stood, in all of me
and not one questioned remained
1. having qualities or an appearance traditionally associated with women, especially delicacy and prettiness. ”the snowdrops gave a feminine touch to the table”
2. synonyms: womanly, womanlike, ladylike, girlish, female; soft, delicate, gentle, tender, graceful, refined, modest; informal girly; archaic feminal “a very feminine young woman”
of or denoting a gender of nouns and adjectives, conventionally regarded as female.
1. the female sex or gender. ”the association of the arts with the feminine”
a feminine word or form.
It began with a burning in my chest,
a scream bound by control,
they want me in a box,
Smiles brought a fog,
the fog brought the missing.
cascaded pieces, swimming, jolting…
In pockets we are here,
in the joints absent,
I won’t be pleased,
I won’t smile,
I won’t hurry,
take back your arms,
I am held,
held by freedom.
I am angry
I am silenced
I am the womb
and that’s kind.
Voices tied to poles,
anchors locked in a vault,
they sold us with magicians and roses.
Distracted by care I fell,
what is yours?
Desire displaced in make believe,
your veils, not mine.
Responsibility packaged carefully in a cage,
you take the room
you take the space.
We are parts, pieces, extensions
plastered by clay
caught to watch.
I won’t be pleased
I won’t smile
I won’t hurry
take back your arms
I am held.
arched back, curled neck, eyes begging an ocean
turning to your waves,
…..breathing your quakes
hearing your creaks,
…knowing your loss
………..walking your wants,
embodying your like
to be seen, to be seen,
to be seen by you
where am I when you have already left the room?
who am I when my name slipped your gaze?
vision thinned to a single thread
heart encased in a bottle
encrusted in jewels, beautified with hope
…elegant gestures with perfect rhythm
………..polished and gleaming she shines
but nothing she will do
will be seen by you
in the gateways of Grace
she falls to be heard
angled in position, waiting…
tired, she is home
with tears and blankets the days slip
its many years before
………..before she agrees,
not to be seen by you