The Ringing is up at Billy's!

The Poetry Carnival is back, this time under the name of Ringing Of The Bards!

This week's host is Mayor of Poets101.com, Billy Jones, AKA: Billy The Blogging Poet. Check out this weeks sampling, which includes some of the finest voices on the web!

Next week's host, my dearest katy!

For more information, check out the links above.
The logo is an invert of that by Shirley Whiting Allard of House Mouse.

Reading Cancelled

Hello again,

I am sorry to let you know that today's reading at InFusion has been cancelled. If you were planning to make it to it, I hope you read this before you leave. I apologize for any inconvenience.

Ashraf

Stuff Happening

I have just realized that I've been featured in Vol. 19 of the Other Voices International Project. Many thanks to Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore for making that possible.

Also, I will be reading next Sunday, June 25 from 4:00pm - 6:00pm as part of the In The Red series at InFusion Coffee & Tea in Mt. Airy (7133 Germantown Avenue, Philadelphia, PA 19119 - Phone: 215-248-1718). I hope you can make it!

Ashraf

Not Now

Not now;
I have sunk too deep already
into the pity of my self.
I have opened that hole one more time
and jumped, mouth first.
I have finally perfected the art of falling,
listening to the chatter of grass,
and the deep thud of your stare.

Not now,
I have buried too many stories
beneath my speak,
I have told the same tale
many times under,
and heard in your hoarseness
the same song sung.

Not now.
I have walked to the edge already,
seen the line crumble
and the end blur.
Not now...

I have told you before
of my suitors
but the visited are never cured.
I have already dragged you with me--
if only the damned had a plea in heaven...

Autobiography

This one has been languishing for a while, but it doesn't seem to be going anywhere. So here it is...


I was born where the earth meets the sky,
I was born in the land where it all began.
I was born as stars fell from heaven
and burned the ground in a history of man.

I grew up on mattresses underground
while adults deciphered
the whiz of bombshells above.
Heavy artillery was just another snow day.

And then the fire died
and the phoenix rose from the ashes—
or so they liked to say.

But my ghosts were elsewhere
conjuring a life for me to possess,
a spread of white and street signs.

I am here now in the shadow of the green
where I trade words for family.
I am here chasing a dream that
died long before it began.

Straddling the ocean like the Colossus of Rhodes,
a foot in each heart,
looking down at what’s in between.

It is there that I find my reflection
in the water that swallowed
cities and men.

Blasphemy!

This is actually not that old, but perhaps explains the hiatus...


Poetry… must be the dullest, most laughable hobby—as I would never have the masochism it takes to call it a profession—ever. Even dead butterfly collectors are more interesting—way more! God, even stamp collectors are something of a rarity these days. But poets? I guess there is nothing cheaper than words, after all. And we are all so special, every single one of us unique. And needy. And lamentably self-absorbed. Oh, but we are supportive: scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. All the leftover nerds in the world have found a hallway narrow enough to hear their thoughts echo. Magic! Pure magic, this camaraderie of spirit, of words! The only magical thing about it is that we actually believe it. But we’re not the first to believe; there will always be God ahead of us, attracting more wayward souls. Or less. Oh, what difference does it make? What does it take to wake us up? Our death served on a bill? And wake up to what? I’m going back to sleep; Kathy Griffin is waiting.

Human Wreckage

Below are a few entries from my journal that never made it here...

I have often looked at human wreckage with the awe and anticipation born out of a fear of the very real possibility, if not likelihood, that one day I could join the ranks.

حزن أجيال/عند المساء

أنا حزن أجيال في بسمتي
و لهفة أمم في نظرة منّي
أنا من رغب الحياة في لقمة
و أسقط العمر كأشلاء كذبة بيضاء

حين أهيم فوق الأفق
تقطر بسمتك في فمي
تخبرني أنّ المياه لمّا تزل
تسيل في الغد الأوّلي

عند المساء،
ماذا يتسرّب من اليوم؟
ماذا يمضي نحو الأمس؟
و ماذا يترسّب إلى الغد؟
عند المساء،
أتسمع صوت الصمت؟

يوماً ما
سأضمحلّ كالصوت
سأكسر الأفق و أمضي
نحو صمت أعمق

In/different Cities

To Roland

Back to square one,
the one where we don't know
each other.
We sink into the background
and the days flood in front.

The city didn't miss you this time.
It had more time to fold onto itself
like entrails around a neck.
But it grew ugly without you.
Maybe it was uglier with you,
I just didn't notice.

The same streets
abandoned you as they did me.
Like the traffic
they ran you over a thousand times.
And you didn't even flinch
because you were no there.

I am certain your new city ignores you
as all cities ignore.
We think we belong
but they only belong to themselves.
The rocks, the trash, the parking lots spreading like religion,
they all despise us, as we do each other.
They are just silent, like your absence--
silent and angry.

Back in Philly, and...

just found out that both Katy and I have been selected for Outside Voices 2008 Anthology of Younger Poets!