IN ENGLISH

DAY 4 // HAYAT

in ,

I know how is it like for your thoughts to be so detached from the now that it drives you to your own recklessness, George. 

I sat on the toilet and thought about you, felt the lighting of the bathroom around me, I went on on my day as I read about how you lived your last and it was all awfully still and ordinary. I suppose this is why you dealt with it so casually, the whole life thing, without clinging too much to the waves of rage and happiness that caught you. And letting a younger body catch you off a real wave that could have killed you and made you from the past like your lover way before you drank that scotch before bed. 

I went to the park and read you, George. It was all so much yet it flowed; kids running, people going off with their day, men like you were jogging. You were moving as they were, I was just in-between the world and your thoughts, while smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee. 

CELESTIAL // MAHMOUD NASR

in ,

Love thy self 
Kill your conscience
Rest your mind
Feed your fire
Water your heart
Let your roses sprout
Miracles are abound
If only you come down
So you can look up

You drench me in splendor
And I reply with a poem
A drizzle
A sigh
A laugh
Not enough
Never enough
I shed my wings for you
But I now ache for the sky
God cursed you and me
I don’t think we can ever be


I look up and scream “why” in anguish
I look up and smile in gratitude
God loves me 
He loves me not
God loves me 
No, he does not

Count your blessings
Wipe your tears
Hide your pain
Silence your mind
Don’t say it out loud
People will hear you
God will burn you
Don’t they know?
Hell is within
And heaven is not for me

TOUGHER THAN THESE OTHER GIRLS // QUTOUF YAHIA

in ,

I don't flutter my eyelashes.

Matter of fact I barely have any eyelashes left from all the mascara I've been using just to keep up with your standards but that's beside the point

I don't laugh like a lady,
by that I mean I do not swallow my joy
until it lumps in my throat so I always laugh like I mean it. 

I don't act like I don't understand your dirty jokes. 

Like I don't really know what الله يكرمك means
Like y'all don't say it 24 times a day 
Like y'all even smart enough to go over my head. 

I don't whisper on the phone
I do not plan my outfit a day in advance
I do not need help crossing the road and I do not panic in times of crisis.

Frankly,
I don't know what other character impediments I have failed to acquire on my journey to womanhood but hey
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

But don't call me a tomboy
Don't call me bro
Do not fist bump me
I am clearly not one of the guys
Do not disregard my feelings because I'm tougher than these other girls. 
Do not compare me to the girls you patronise
and phrase it like I still have something to be ashamed of
I am not tougher than these other girls

I am just more proud
I have been raised by a man who does not make too many mistakes
so I have never been taught to complain
I was not taught to ask for what I deserve because it was never at question
I do not throw tantrums
Or pretend to hurt more than I actually do
Pain is not a sound 
You can't make a mouth do what eyes were created for 
So I will never associate my voice with your shortcomings 

I will not weaken to help you grow
I will not ask you to treat me like the weight of the heavens rests on the back of my tears
And every time you make me cry the earth and seven skies fall out of equilibrium
Like I can hold the galaxies in the brown of my skin and hide the deep of night between the gaps of my ribcage

I will not teach you what your mother should have.

I have been raised like the Ancient Greek
named the four elements after the tips of my fingers
I have been raised to make the earth orbit the gravity of my language
To be the winds that pierce holes into clouds, just to make way for light
To be the fire that does not burn under the mercy of God
To be water that breaks itself in half just to save the men she can not leave behind 

You are surrounded by so many girls
And I have been raised to be a woman

DAY 3 // HAYAT

in ,

I’ll share a piece of cake with you, call your name differently than I call others’, shake my shoulders indicating the little party in my heart when I look at you whenever we share a glance in a crowded room. 

I’ll make you coffee before I leave for a long day that I have nightmares of, I’ll doodle your curls in class, hum your phone’s ringtone while running errands. 

Such things, certain things that we can survive without but do anyway, like drinking tea in the blue mug only, coffee in the whites. 

I’ll call after I hang up shouting at you to leave me alone, I’ll come back home to you even when I know I’m coming home to a fight, I won’t be upset when you forget that I do all of this for you. 

I’ll leave and come back, I’ll leave for a day and then call in the middle of it to ask you if anyone had made you smile to be jealous for two seconds and make you giggle about it, I’ll leave for a month and ache for weeks, I’ll call you and admit to you my helplessness, I do such things, I don’t leave, I do such things instead.

I’ll love my words more, my solitude, my dawns, my songs, all more than you, sometimes. 

I’ll still come back, I’ll still call back, I’ll still share the last cigarette in the packet with you, I’ll still look at you mid chapter while we’re both reading and smile at you. I will I will I will. 

YOUR MOTHER, YOUR MOTHER, YOUR MOTHER... YOUR FATHER // MOHAMMAD

in ,

Six books.
Six books you were given by God to raise, nurture and fill up as you desired.

So you wrote on them the most graceful of lines, the deepest of poems and the most beautiful of stories.
You painted us a canvas of absolute beauty and minimum imperfections.
Drawings of ease and hardship outlined by love and affection.

Colours so vivid they could elate us when we’re down, treat us when we’re ill, have me bounce around and also stand still.

My father is more than an architect of structures, he is an architect of character.

He designed us, built us, made us into the greatest masterpiece he has ever worked on. Of course, that took a few beatings.

I’ve always wanted to be my father.
From the first time I tried to mimic his signature to all the times I got so giddy when people said we look the same. So yeah, thank you for the good looks.

My mother. My mother. My mother.
Funniest woman I know. She’d probably make fun of this poem if she heard it.
She blessed me with charm in the form of a smile, wit and satire you can see from a mile. Her hugs and laughs give me life and she cooks a really mean molah.

My love and gratitude for my parents would exceed the desert and the seas if every grain of sand and every drop of water was a simple “I love you and thank you”.

Biologically, they gave birth to me
Spiritually, they taught me all that I stand for
Mathematically, they’re 12 and I’m 144
Chemically, they’re the catalyst of my success and joy
Metaphorically, an old man’s last wish and a kid’s first toy

Ultimately, they’re the Thierry Henry to my Arsenal, except they never left.
There’s a statue of them inside of me that keeps me going.
That drives me to be
Half the man my father is
And to find half the woman my mother is

For I am their son, the greatest trophy I’ll ever achieve in my life.

GREY // MAHMOUD NASR

in ,

Red, stark amidst the swarms of grey. Colossal white walls. A deluge of indistinct faces. And then—red.

It shouldn’t have been there; grey was the only color allowed within this white immensity. I still wonder how she managed to keep it on, that little girl with a red ribbon in her hair. Did the clothing officers fail to notice it? Or did they let it pass, granting her a miserable last jot of luxury? 

It was this red that woke me up, pointing out the monstrosity that reigned within me. When it was all grey, it was easy. It was normal. It was a mere cleansing of the dirt from all the white, producing it anew and shimmering—purified.

But now, how can I destroy this red ribbon? This innocent, fiery, and zestful color.

And then my hands were red. Their faces were red. Their clothes were red. I only saw red. At the back of my eyes, it was flashing red. My ears were blaring, ‘RED’. The confines of my mind were swamped with red. My heart seeped in red. I was bathing in red. Despite all the blood that I’ve shed, I’ve never seen this red. 

Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . . Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One. 
I pressed the button—red. I heard the screams—red. 
And then I saw no red. Wiped. Cleaned. Gone.

White.

SANDSTORM // HANAA MANSOURI

in ,

"Don't breathe with your nose and mouth uncovered"
And when you do it tastes like burnt bread
You feel like the inside of an old old box
Your stomach bounces against your diaphragm
Your esophagus is half its normal size
There's a stone stuck between your lungs
Rocks rattle inside your skull
Sending scorpions
Snakes
Cacti
Sand swishing
Around like rocks in a jar
Somewhere in the middle 
There's a palm tree
But it gets held onto until it dissipates
Disappears
Disintegrates
Like that mirage you saw five minutes ago
"Don't think about it"