arch.memory

"Laguna Beach Breakdown" by Joe Bolton

2011-11-29T00:12:00.000-05:00

You had come searching for a second chance,
But trying to break through, merely broke down,
Until at last any sense of purpose
Seemed nothing more than something else to lose.
You let it go and, seeing no reason to mourn
What you could no longer name, kept silence
Under the vast vacuum of heaven
Someone had nailed stars up to to hold in place.
You were hoping maybe a change of season
Might help, but there was none. You woke at dawn
Shuddering in the indifferent embrace
Of your own arms, unable to turn or return,
Dreaming of drowning, neutral as a seaweed in the war
The sea continually waged against the shore.

-from "The Last Nostalgia"

Interruptus

2011-11-21T17:33:00.001-05:00

There was honking outside,
rare, but reminiscent
of other more vocal towns.

There was an image inside
of what you could see
in such a place.

There were footsteps and barking,
the sounds of my silence;
there was me nodding and moving,
if only for the sake of motion.

There is this never-ending floor
and you somewhere dying -
- are you breathing still?

There is this scar, refusing to heal,
itching like an absence...
If I hold my breath, would you feel it?
If I hold still, would anybody notice?

Somewhere else, something else,
another...
If I leave this unfinished,
would -

"..Open City"

2011-10-07T13:13:00.001-04:00

"Today I want to see your eyes without anger
Brown city, growing on the hills.
Poems are short tragedies, portable, like transistor radios.
Paul lies on the ground, it's night, a torch, the smell of pitch.
Impatient glances in cafés, someone yells, a small heap of coins lies on the table.
Why? Why not?
The roar of cars and scooters, hubbub of events.
Poetry often vanishes, leaving only matchsticks."

--Adam Zagajewski, from "Eternal Enemies"

It Was Me

2011-10-05T13:42:00.002-04:00

I only try to kill time
so that it wouldn't kill me.

Here, in the shadow of affluence,
the city waits in a deep ravine
where lives tick by methodically.

Their faces turned, expressionless,
climbing the cold step of a tram,
or shattering on steely waters.

Their throats clear familiar sounds
rendered foreign and hurried
and full of phlegm.

I wait behind curtains
the color of freeze-dried spring;
at some point you'll be back,
closer perhaps, though the distance persists.
It isn't you who's kept it this time--

somewhere over there I linger.
In the flurry of departure, it turns out,
that thing that kept nagging me,
the thing we forgot to pack,
that which stayed behind--

it was me.

"قصة أغنية "وحدن

2011-02-02T09:49:00.004-05:00

I received this as a chain email from my dad this morning.. I usually quickly dismiss much of the chain email I receive, but I had to read this as this song happens to be my favorite song in Arabic, if not of all... I'm not sure how true this story is, but it makes perfect (poetic) sense. I normally don't care much for the story behind the art I love, preferring it to speak on its own terms. But I somehow find that this story adds rather than detracts from the poem, and it adds a layer of clarity than makes Haydar's cryptic words resonate on a whole other level... And somehow, it seems strangely appropriate at this time of turmoil in the Arab world...

كاتب هذه القصيده هو الشاعر اللبناني طلال حيدر وغنتها فيروز فاحتلّت مكانة كبيرة في نفوس وقلوب ملايين المستمعين بينما لا يعرف حكايتها إلا القليل منهم.

تفيد الحكاية بأن شاعرنا الرومانسي الكبير طلال حيدر اعتاد أخذ قهوة الصباح من شرفة منزله المطلِّ على غابة جميلة يستقبل بها نهاره بمزاج عالٍ ويتفاءل بالسعادة.. وكان لا بدّ له من توديع شمس لبنان برشفات من قهوة طيّبة عند الغروب طالما سنحت له الظروف.

لفترةٍ لفت انتباه طلال حضور ثلاثة شبّان صباح كلّ يوم بتواقت مع قهوته إلى الغابة وخروجهم مساءً. بعد أيام انتبه الشبان إلى نظرات طلال فراحوا يحيونه كل صباح وإن رأوه مساءً ودّعوه بتحية لطيفة بادلهم إياها متسائلاً بصمت.

وكبُر التساؤل في نفس طلال الذي قرّر أن يكسر صمته فيكلمهم علّه يعلم سرّ العلاقة مع غابة قريبة من منطقة الحدود.

في صباح لطيف النسمات ألقى الشبان التحية على طلال الذي تردّد في أن يفاتحهم بتساؤله فأرجأه إلى المساء عازماً على المكوث بعد العصر مترقباً مراقباً محضّراً الكلام ومهيّئاً نفسه لما قد يفاجئه ومحيطاً نفسه بشيء من الفرح ظنّه سيشبع فضوله غير التطفّلي.

غابت أجساد الشبان بين أشجار الغابة وسافر طلال بخياله وتصوراته عما سيصل إليه عند الغروب بعد تحدّثه معهم وهم خارجون.

انتظر طلال غروب الشمس بترقّب وأفول الضوء بشوق لقهوة مختلفة حملها بيديه إلى الشرفة وراح يثقب بناظريه عتمة تتزايد مع تزايد تضييقه حدقتين استنفرتا في التواصل مع جملة عصبية انشدّت أوتارها مع ظهور بوادر الخوف المشوب بالحذر والملون بالمزيد من الفضول.. ما السرّ في هذا الأمر؟؟.

عتّمت الغابة وغابت جميع الأصوات ما عدا بعض الصرير أو العواء أو حفيف أوراق الأشجار بفعل الريح.. ودخل طلال غرفة نومه.. إلا أنه ما استطاع النوم تلك الليلة.

قلقُ طلال استمرّ عدّة ايام ولم يصارح أحداً بالموضوع.. إلى أن قرأ خبراً في صحيفة يفيد بأن ثلاثة شبّان فلسطينيين تسللوا الحدود وقاموا بعملية فدائية وسط "اسرائيل" استشهدوا فيها.. وكانت صور الشبان الثلاثة معروضة تمكن طلال من التحقق من وجوههم التي حفظها خلال أيام التحضير للعملية ومرورهم تحت شرفة بيته.

تأثّر الشاعر الكبير بالحدث والحكاية فكتب للشبان قصيدته اللطيفة التي غنّتها السيدة فيروز فأحببناها.

**********

وحدن

شعر طلال حيدر
غناء فيروز

وحْدُن بْيبْقوا

مِتِلْ زهْر البيلســان

وحْدُن بْيقِطفوا وْراق الزّمان

بيْسكّروا الغابي

بيضَّلهُن متل الشتي يْدقّوا عَلى بْوابي

عَلى بْوابي

يا زَمــــان

يا عشِب داشِر فوق هالحيطان

ضوّيت ورد الليل عَ كْتابي

برج الحمام مْسَوّر وْعـالي

هجّ الحمام بْقيْت لَـحـالي لَحالي

يا ناطْرين التّـلج

ما عاد بدكُن ترجعوا

صرِّخْ عَلَيهُن بالشّتي يا ديب

بَلْكي بْيِسْمَعوا

وحْدُن بْيِبْقوا مِتِلْ هالغَيم العتيق

وحْدُن وْجوهُن وْعتْم الطّريق

عم يقْطعوا الغابي

وْبإيْدَهُن

متل الشتي يْدِقُّوا البِكي وْهنِّي عَلى بْوابي

يا زمــــان

مِنْ عُمِرْ فَيّ العشبْ عَ الحيطــان

مِن قَبِلْ ما صار الشجر عالي

ضوِّي قْناديل

وأنْطُر صْحابي

مرقوا

فلُّوا

بْقيتْ عَ بابي لحالي

New year, new beginnings!

2011-01-01T22:34:00.000-05:00

Just like one year has to end for another to begin, new beginnings often mean new endings, as well. I have finally handed over the reins of PhillyPoetry.com, and the new administrator of the site, Sherone, has kindly featured me as the Spotlight Artist of the month.

Thank you, Sherone, for that, and for taking on this labor of love. I wish you the best of luck with the site in the New Year & beyond! And I kindly ask all of you to continue to use and support the site so that poetry may continue to flourish in Philadelphia.

"Everybody" by Pablo Nedura

2010-10-15T15:14:00.000-04:00

I, perhaps I never will be, perhaps I was not able,
never was, never saw, don’t exist:
what is all this? In which June, in what wood
did I grow until now, being born and born again?

I didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?

In doorways, I repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked for myself, with wonder,
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
I was always arriving late.
I had traveled far from who I was,
I could not answer any questions about myself,
I had too often left who I am.

I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
I traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you, for everybody:
and where I was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.

Why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?

That is how I found out
that I was exactly like you
and like everybody.

-from "The Sea and the Bells"

Letter To N.Y.

2010-09-21T16:00:00.000-04:00

Just heard this on Fresh Air; it reminded me why I love poetry so...

In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,

and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,

and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,

and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.

--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.

-Elizabeth Bishop

PhilaNOMA Art Expo 2010

2010-09-14T12:04:00.001-04:00

I'll be showing some of my artwork (wax collage / conceptual sculpture / video installation) tomorrow at the PhilaNOMA 2nd Annual Art Expo and Networking Event. That'll be at Triumph Brewery in Old City; so you can grab some good locally grown organic food and a couple of their great craft beers, as well, while you’re there:

PHILANOMA ART EXPO 2010
@ 6:30 PM - 9:30 PM
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Triumph Brewing Company (2nd Flr Gallery)
117 Chestnut Street - Philadelphia, PA 19106

This unique exhibition showcases works of art created by some of Philadelphia's finest urban architects, artists, photographers, graphic artists, fashion and interior designers.

Enjoy complimentary hors d'oeuvres while networking amongst entrepreneurs and artistic individuals from various professions. There will be something for all art lovers to enjoy, including photography, illustration, paintings, poetry, fashion and more! COME to browse, buy or just mingle amongst friends...

Happy hour drink specials are available until 9:30pm.

MAKE SURE TO RSVP!
Admission is $5 donation* at the door WITH EVENTBRITE RSVP.

*Proceeds from this event will help benefit PhilaNOMA's CAMP Sustain.Ability program for 8th & 9th grade students interested in architecture. Visit http://philanoma.noma.net for more information.

I hope you can make it!

I’ll Be (Nothing)

2010-09-10T16:51:00.000-04:00

I’ll be nothing, that’s what I’ll be
I’ll be the limbs breaking on the ice
I’ll be desire melting onto itself
I’ll be the longing that possesses me
That I’ll never possess

I’ll be nothing, that’s what I’ll be
I’ll be the vicious hope that rides me to death
I’ll be just another breath, another step
To nowhere

(Originally posted on December 06, 2004)

Handing over the Reins

2010-08-16T05:41:00.001-04:00

Since I haven't been very active in the Philadelphia poetry circles recently, I've been thinking of handing over the Philly Poetry website, calendar and Facebook group to someone else who's more involved these days. And as readers of this blog, I thought I'd offer you this opportunity and see if any of you would be interested in taking it on.

The calendar and the website are still the no. 1 & 2 search results on Google for "Philadelphia poetry", so they get some decent exposure. I currently pay $30 every 6 months for the web-hosting of the site (along with my own personal site, through 1&1). I have ads on it, but I have to say I have yet to collect any revenue from them. We can figure out how to transfer the hosting of the site and other details, if you're interested. Let me know...

"Diet Man"

2010-06-22T21:15:00.006-04:00

There's a belly in heaven that I love.
It wriggles with satisfaction
like a Buddha's would
at the sight of Jello and whipped cream.
______It doesn't give a damn.
There's a belly in heaven that I miss.
______It jiggles with beer.
It's great for a hug and a squeeze.
It devours cakes, cookies, and pies.
It shakes, rolls, and giggles at bad jokes.

______Get out of my sight diet man.
Take a hasty trolley to hell
______mean man,
______lean man,
______bean man,
______exacting man.

______Scram
new man,
reasoning man,
jogging man,
calculating man,

______whose thoughts you won't reveal,

sly man.

by Angela d'Arista Solli
from Regrets Only: Contemporary Poets on the Theme of Regret

Teta

2010-05-05T11:03:00.000-04:00

It's 8 years today...

http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2005/05/you-lie.html
http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2005/06/here.html
http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2006/05/vacancies.html
http://archmemory.blogspot.com/2009/05/missing.html

Well Done

2010-04-07T23:05:00.000-04:00

In "celebration" of "Poetry Month", I'm reviving this old favorite (originally posted on 4/15/06)...

I am done with poetry.
Henceforth, I write postmortem.

I am done with poetry
that doesn’t sound like poetry,
and poetry that reads
like grocery lists and Hallmark cards.
I am done with wisdom about life,
and lack of wisdom about life.
I am done with writing nobody reads.

I am done with readings where nobody listens,
where the only voice anyone wants to hear
is their own.
(But I should have guessed—
they are, after all
called Readings, not Listenings.)

I am done with my cynicism,
and with yours.
I am done with the silences
between my words.
I am done with magazines and journals
nobody reads—not even their publishers,
and I am done with publishers.
I am done with the guilt of not reading
other’s work—Who reads anyhow?
And why should anyone?

Here is to Poetry month! Here is to
Poetry Blogging! Here is to
Laureateships and the New Yorker!
Here is to expectations
that always need to be lowered!
And here is to words nobody reads,
and site nobody visits!

I am going back to wax,
back to baking my mother in the oven.
I am going back to my silence,
and to collecting dust bunnies
where the wall meets the floor.
I am going back to knowing
I am nobody,
and you are nobody,
and nobody’s listening…

My Beirut (Song of Eternal Damnation)

2010-03-19T12:52:00.004-04:00

Forgive me
for writing to you in a language foreign to you,
not that I know what language you speak,
you who speaks them all in silence…

Forgive me
for writing from a distance,
for writing reluctantly,
for writing seldom…

I only write because he asked me to,
he who loves you,
he who lives you.
I write because I’m incapable of refusing him such a request,
and because, yes, I miss you…

But I’m not sure I got anything left to say to you.
I feel that I’ve said it all, and I’ve said it often.
Some have heard it, many have not.
But you, I don’t know if you can hear…
I’m not sure anymore if you exist,
for who are you but those who haunt you?
And those who haunt you are mad, and I’m one of them
even if I’ve abandoned you…

Did you mourn me when I left you?
I did, for the both of us.
But sorrow moves on,
like everything, with time it all does,
as the old song goes…
And what remains when the sorrow’s gone?
Is it love? Or is it only a stale bitter anger?
Sometimes they taste the same…

What I fear is what’s left when even that anger passes;
for that, too, shall pass…
I fear because I do not know the reasons for my anger;
but what is anger if not the lack of reason?
It may not be your fault or mine,
but I’m angry at being treated like a second-rate human
solely for being born to you.
I’m angry because I can’t seem to live with you,
as I can’t seem to live without you,
to quote another old song…
I’m angry because your inhabitants are mad,
and your drivers are mad,
and your leaders are both murderous and mad…
I’m angry because your beauty is invisible,
and no one will take my word for it,
for I too, like the rest of them, am mad…

I look to other cities:
they too are ugly and beautiful at once,
and they too are all mad.
I look to other people;
they are all maddening
and stupid and proud.
But your people have made of chaos an art,
and have made you anything but dull…

I still don’t get it, Beirut.
I don’t get why I insist on addressing you as a person;
I don’t know why we all do.
I don’t know if any other people address their city as we address you.
For you are nothing but our very own collective being,
you are what we call us.
And we love ourselves,
and we hate ourselves,
and we, ultimately, do not understand ourselves…

I shall return to you,
forever and again,
you, my song of eternal damnation.
For I still don’t get you, and I don’t get me, and I don’t get them…
And yet I love you, and I love you, and I love you,
and yes, despite all, I love them, too…
For they are you, and you are them,
my Beirut.

Like This

2010-03-18T20:01:00.006-04:00

A great poem by Rumi, selected by the incomparable Tilda Swinton as the inspiration for the latest Etat Libre d'Orange perfume, Like This:

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.

-From Essential Rumi (translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne)

Make sure you listen to Swinton's incredible reading of this poem on ELdO's website: www.etatlibredorange.com

Language Rooms @ Wilma Theater: Special Offer!

2010-02-23T11:23:00.009-05:00

The Wilma Theater presents the world premiere of Yussef El Guindi's LANGUAGE ROOMS, March 3 - April 4, a riveting dark comedy directed by Blanka Zizka about misguided patriotism and the true meaning of 'loyalty.'

Tickets start at $36, and the Wilma offers discounts for students and those in their 20s. Get $5 off full price tickets with code "Al Bustan" (not valid on Sat or Opening nights, cannot be combined with any other offer or applied to tickets previously purchased).
Click here to read an interview with playwright Yussef El Guindi who is of Egyptian heritage.

Thanks to Al Bustan!
Parental advisory: thematic content not appropriate for children.

2:22 am

2010-01-10T02:49:00.002-05:00

It's late, and I'm spent. And yet I cannot sleep. I seek recluse, as I often do these days, in that book that fell into my life by accident (does anything ever happen by accident?) and has been my bedside companion ever since: Joe Bolton's exalted "The Last Nostalgia". I read it with the pain of knowing that Bolton won't write another (since he took his own life at the age of 28 soon after finishing it). I read it with the fear of finishing it, like the work of Dalida that I dread to know entirely because I am aware of its finiteness and its finality. I wrote in my review of it on Amazon that it would be the one book I'd take to a deserted island--and it's only because I can't commit all of it to memory. Now I understand people who want to commit the Quran to memory: to love a book so much, to find its construction so perfect as to want to make it a part of your self. I turn every page in awe and in anticipation of that voracious humanity, that attuneness to life that proved to be overwhelming. I jump over the words hoping to find in them that which would still that little void perched right above the lungs, at the base of the throat, croaking at the end of the night, longing to be whole..

"Contemporary Arab Thought: Cultural Critique in Comparative Perspective" by E.S. Kassab

2009-12-07T09:29:00.010-05:00

A new book by a former (and favorite) professor of mine, the wonderful Elizabeth Suzanne Kassab, has recently been published by Columbia University Press: Contemporary Arab Thought: Cultural Critique in Comparative Perspective

The book is a study of contemporary Arab debates on culture. It examines the analyses presented by prominent Arab thinkers in the second half of the twentieth century regarding questions of cultural malaise, cultural decline and cultural renaissance. It puts these debates in the historical context of modern Arab thought spanning the last two centuries and focuses on the post 1967-defeat (in the war against Israel) period that witnessed a mounting polarization between holistic ideologies on the one hand and self-reflective critiques on the other. It breaks new ground in the understanding of contemporary Arab intellectual life by viewing it from three original perspectives:

1. First by focusing on the self-reflective critical turn at a time when attention has been almost exclusively devoted to the ideological side of this intellectual life, whether islamist or nationalist.

2. Secondly by recognizing and examining the political understanding of the cultural malaise among critical thinkers, an understanding that has been systematically overshadowed by a culturalist reading of the malaise, by actors and observers alike.

3. And thirdly by breaking the isolation to which the production and study of the Arab debates on culture have been hitherto confined, by putting them in a comparative post-colonial perspective. Indeed, more than any other region, the Arab world has been consistently stigmatised with exceptionalism.

Hence the main questions the book explores are the following:

1. How has contemporary Arab critique approached questions of cultural malaise? Which issues has it addressed and what shape has this critique taken?

2. To what extent and in what sense have Arab critical thinkers of the post 1967 era seen the cultural crisis as a political one? How old is this political perception of cultural problems in modern Arab thought and what are its implications for the democratic struggle in the Arab world?

3. How do the concerns expressed and approaches adopted in these Arab debates compare with debates in other post-colonial regions of the world such as Africa and Latin America? What patterns of thought does such a comparison reveal across regions, cultures, religions and races? What does it tell us about the post-colonial nature of the Arab debates and what significance does this telling have for our understanding of contemporary Arab thought?

(From Press Release)

"August Elegy"

2009-12-03T08:15:00.003-05:00

You write that you are tired,
That even language has failed you,
That each sentence doubts itself halfway through.
I start to type, "This rage
For order..." but run out of words,
And the letters fall to pieces on the page.

Monday arrives wordless,
Sun-struck, August wind in the chimes
As birds flit past, elusive as their names.
Last week a black guy bigger
Than me, and much to my surprise,
Pronounced me to be an "artificial nigger."

Otherwise, there's no sound
Of anyone else's voice for days
On end, save yours through the splice and fray
Long distance. I watch, I
Wait for the mail to come around,
Then stand there disappointed under the sky.

This living alone is
Endless language left unmeasured,
And the slow coming of sleep a pleasure
Sadder than being young.
I wake to speak, and the word was
Breaks sweeter than any berry on my tongue.

-Joe Bolton
from "The Last Nostalgia"

Queer Literary Festival in Mt. Airy

2009-11-09T08:36:00.004-05:00

The queer literary community of Philadelphia is at the forefront again in Mt. Airy's second annual Queer Literary Festival at the Big Blue Marble Bookstore on Saturday, November 14, 2009 from 11am to 3:00pm. Diverse selections of prose, poetry, and creative non-fiction will be presented by writers Ashraf Osman, Jane Cassady, Laura Neuman, Nathan Long, Misia Denea, Saida Agostini, Kelli Dunham, Cassendre Xavier, and Janet Mason. The festival is free and open to everyone.

A special collaboration for this year's festival is the partnership of Mt. Airy's independent Big Blue Marble Bookstore and Philadelphia's premiere GBLT bookstore Giovanni's Room. Big Blue Marble Bookstore will give a percentage of the day's proceeds to Giovanni's Room to add to their fundraising efforts for the massive renovation project of the store's building. A schedule of the readings and biographies of the readers are below:

11:00am- Ashraf Osman
11:20am-Jane Cassady
11:40am-Laura Neuman

12:00-12:30pm-Break (Literary Lunch)

12:30pm-Nathan Long
12:50pm-Misia Denea
1:10pm-Saida Agostini

1:30-2:00pm-Break (Open Mic)

2:00pm:Kelli Dunham
2:20pm-Cassendre Xavier
2:40pm: Janet Mason

For bio info on the readers, please check the event listing in the PhillyPoetry Calendar. For more information on the Queer Literary Festival or for picture requests please contact Maleka Fruean, events coordinator: 215-844-1870, maleka(at)bigbluemarblebooks(dot)com.

The Symposium: Identity, Community, Race, Sexuality and Philly Poetry

2009-11-06T16:55:00.004-05:00

On Sunday, November 8, 2009, I'll be part of the Poetic Arts Performance Project (PAPP) 2nd Symposium on Identity, Community, Race, Ethnicity, Sex, Sexuality and Philly Poetry. The symposium will be moderated by Debrah Morkun, and will include Alyesha Wise, Frank Walsh, and Frank Sherlock.

Where: University City Arts League, 4226 Spruce St.
When: 2:00 - 4:30 pm
Cost: $3.00 (some proceeds to benefit Rubye's Kids)

I hope you can make it!

This day, refusing to end.

2009-10-02T17:47:00.001-04:00

If I were a day, I too would refuse
To walk gently into that good night.
Clinging at the edges of the frame,
I too would have clawed and scraped
Like a brat denied for the first time.

Stopping for a moment, I lift my head,
See the backs of heads bowed in compliance,
In silent anticipation of the end—of day,
Of a week, of something vague and prickly.

The dark gathers at the corners of our vision
Like a bad photo in need of a retouch.
Looking down can’t stop it, nor slow
The ruthless comfort of the night.

The lamps turn a yearning shade of yellow
That curls up your insides fetal and
Wraps you under covers on a couch somewhere.

You try not to slip, not to go down
That familiar road which always ends
With the same hue of blue.

You lift your eyes and let
The cold purple air wash over your face.
Somewhere the crisp smell of laundry
Warms up the sidewalk, a longing
For a hug at the door.

Rabih Alameddine at the Central Library!

2009-10-02T17:32:00.011-04:00

One of my all-time favorite authors (and my dear friend), the incredibly talented Rabih Alameddine will be at the Central Library in Philadelphia on Tuesday, October 6, 2009 at 7:30 pm. Rabih will be reading from his latest highly-acclaimed novel, The Hakawati.

The Hakawati takes readers from the shimmering dunes of ancient Egypt to the war-torn streets of 21st-century Lebanon. "If any work of fiction might be powerful enough to transcend the mountain of polemic, historical inquiry, policy analysis, and reportage that stands between the Western reader and the Arab soul, it's this wonder of a book," according to the New York Times Book Review. Alameddine is the author of Koolaids and I, the Divine, as well as the story collection The Perv.

Reading at Media Borough Hall

2009-09-17T14:41:00.007-04:00

On Friday, September 25, at 7 pm, I’ll be joining a group of exciting poets and musicians for a reading at the Mansion Parlor of Media Borough Hall (3rd & Jackson St.- Media, PA):

Poets:
Ashraf Osman
Brian Sammond
Lisa DeVuona (accompanied by Joseph Nocella)

Musicians:
Tom Mullian
Johnny Never
Silver Wind (Jackie Newman & Mike Mascia)

Hosted by Arlene Arlene Bernstein, the formal program will be followed by an Open Mic. Refreshments will be served, and you’ll be able to converse with congenial and interesting people. Come join us & bring your friends! There's lots of Parking!

Co-sponsored by the Media Upper Providence Library & Mad Poets Society.

SCORCHED Receives 12 Barrymore Award Nominations!

2009-08-06T16:33:00.008-04:00

SCORCHED, the Wilma Theater's production of the play by acclaimed Lebanese-Canadian playwright Wajdi Mouawad, received 12 (well-deserved) Barrymore Award nominations, including Outstanding Overall Production of a Play and Outstanding Ensemble in a Play!

Blanka Zizka received a nomination for Outstanding Direction of a Play, and 4 of the actresses received nominations for Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Play:

Jolly Abraham (as Elhame/Sawda)
Jacqueline Antaramian (as Jihane/Nawal 40-45)
Aadya Bedi (as Nawal 14-19)
Janis Dardaris (as Nazira/Nawal 60-65)

The production also received 4 nominations for artistic production:

Outstanding Original Music by Amir ElSaffar
Outstanding Set Design by Ola Maslik
Outstanding Lighting Design by Thom Weaver
Outstanding Sound Design by Jorge Cousineau

And last but not least, the exhibition hosted in the lobby of the theater during the running of the play received a nomination for Award for New Approaches to Collaborations between The Wilma Theater & Moore College of Art and Design.

(Click here for the overall list of nominees.)

Congratulations to the entire Scorched team! It was such an honor and privilege to be even a small part of this production. Thank you!

"It's Fine."

2009-07-22T10:39:00.003-04:00

"Little Testament" by Joe Bolton

2009-07-01T23:34:00.006-04:00

Whatever the night is,
I’d tell you it’s the heaving mass
Inside somebody’s kicked skull,
A dark so dark that intricate things begin to shine
Like a snail’s trail,
Like the lights strung out like cheap beads
Along some city street
Where people work and dream and die.
I don’t say live.
___________From a distance,
The city looks like broken glass
You see in any city lot
Under the faint, faithless chant
Of streetlamps.
___________South of the city, too,
The Spanish chapel without faith—
Is merely sad and lovely as the flowered dress
Of the girl who sweeps the chapel steps at dawn,
Or as the girl herself whose eyes
Won’t meet your eyes, or as the dust
That seems to resurrect itself
Wherever she’s just swept.

You can already tell I have nothing
To offer you beyond this flash of hope, this echo
Fading as it ranges westward
Across a continent that can, at night,
Still seem nearly empty.
_________________Mine is the one
Window left lit as you walk
Through this neighborhood and through this night
That quicken your step.
_________________And the night
Keeps coming back, as if you were the one
Returning to it—moments
When you hear what sounds like hell’s orchestra
Blasting from a car,
Or when what you’re afraid of seems to drift
Close to the shore of whatever river
You love:
_______Ohio, Mississippi, Rio Grande.

When now fails,
Was is all there is;
Elsewhere we lose always.
My cigarette smoke floating off in the night
Is the fire of my autobiography in ashes.

We only win at trying not
To be.
_____But anybody
Can tell you that—can call escape pride,
Meanness humility,
The arc and hiss of a match flicked into the water
The deep brief love they once felt for the world.

What little they find in my pockets
When it’s over,
___________You can have.

-from "The Last Nostalgia"

"Prelude: Late Twentieth-Century Piece" by Joe Bolton

2009-06-26T01:08:00.006-04:00

And after pain, the calm—dark records on dark shelves:
Some notion of romance we never got over,
Some sweet past theme we kept trying to recover,
Some concept of ourselves as more than our lost selves.

If we cannot be lovers, we will be players,
Throttling sharp-dressed and muscled, guns in our pockets
For good luck, through the new cities of the tropics--
Deco, palm, flamingo, blues and greens in layers.

This is the dead end of the end of the dead day.
Starlit, remembering what we outlived, we lie
Watching old films of us sweep the ceiling: the sigh
Of flesh on flesh, the cut, and the turning away.

-from "The Last Nostalgia"

"Tropical Watercolor: Sarasota" by Joe Bolton

2009-06-26T00:52:00.007-04:00

Summer sings not far away, and we both know
The errors we've made. The sloped shoulders
Of those palms in the middle distance
Darken; the palms stand solitary as guards.

Summer sings, and against those walls
The late May light has sweetened, the palms
Sigh a little, fronds swaying in the breeze,
Making a sad watercolor of the square.

A mackerel sky frames the square, the square
We dreamed failed us in this place we'd come to
To find ourselves again as in a mirror.
Love, this is the square that failed.

I broke myself trying to make myself strong
For you. Dusk gilds white buildings, and smoke
From my cigarette floats toward the stars
That aren't there yet, the stars we used to desire.

They are a vast absence, reminding me
I don't believe in anything anymore except
The difficulty of everything for men and women.
Your remembered ghost is the ghost of my grandmother

Walking here endlessly in a black dress,
Shadow lost among the shadows of palms
On this square that failed, blocks from the sea.
I have run out of life, for what?

I have run out of life from the repetition
Of our moving only from mirror to mirror,
Catching our reflections in shop windows
And finding them less real than mannequins.

-from "The Last Nostalgia"

Missing

2009-05-05T01:16:00.002-04:00

Life, in its grandeur,
flickers at the corners of my eyes.
Arms screaming wide,
chests heaving to the skies,
the salty smell of warm sweat
threatening to break out;
I hear a buzz,
a hum, an excuse of being.
Life is elsewhere,
some other time, somebody else,
a fantasy of pixels and skin.
Not me—
this doesn’t count.
And yet the ticker never quells.
All that is left is to observe:
elongated moments,
the relentlessness of nightfall,
others living.
The dead recede
into a memory of features
and stories half-recalled,
less vivid than a dream.
Tomorrow I’ll remember you:
your weathered face, your thinning hair
matted with sweat and anger,
sitting on the kitchen sofa,
the paint chipping off its cheap metal frame,
its florid fabric heavy with the weight
of too many tales unfurled.
And the silence you left behind,
echoing cold off the terrazzo floors.

This time I didn’t visit you
because you aren’t there.
I hate to think of you watching
all this and longing.
It’s the longing, always the longing…
Like I long for this smell
antiseptic as a vinyl hospital hallway
under fluorescent light:
brash, ominous and thumping.
At the end of the hallway
a window looks over the parking lot—
this is what you’re missing:
another day coming to an end,
the hazy twilight of an ugly city.
And this—my anger,
always the anger,
at your not being there.

Blend @ Blue Bananas Café

2009-05-03T10:10:00.002-04:00

Poetic Arts Performance Project Presents:
Blend @ Blue Bananas Café
(A new series featuring poetry, spoken word, and music;
1st Thursdays of every month)

Ashraf Osman & Brian Markley
May 7th, 2009 @ 7:30 – 9:30 PM
$5 for entry

Blue Bananas Café is located next to the Laff House, 223 South Street, Philadelphia PA. Their website features their tasty menu as well as directions to the restaurant:
www.bluebananascafe.com

Ashraf Osman was born and raised in Beirut, Lebanon and has been living in Philadelphia since 2002 where he works as an architect. Ashraf has been engaged in online poetry since 2002: in addition to his award-winning personal poetry blog, arch.memory, Ashraf hosts a website of Philadelphia poetry links and calendars called PhillyPoetry.com. His poetry has been featured in the Mad Poets Review, Comstock Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal and Islamica magazine, and has been selected for inclusion in several anthologies including Queering Language and The Other Voices International Project.

Brian Markley is an emerging song writer and musician from South Jersey. While being classically trained on the trumpet for over twenty years, Brian has studied and explored other instruments such as the guitar, mandolin, piano, and harmonica, as well as various tribal instruments such as the didgeridoo and wooden flute. His musical journey has taken him on both American and European tours and has afforded him opportunities to work with and learn from accomplished musicians such as Frank Foster, Dennis DeBlasio, Maynard Ferguson, Nathan Davis, Toby Lightman, and other rising South Jersey artists. These experiences have inspired him to pursue a very eclectic approach to music incorporating acoustic, funk, spoken word, bluegrass, political folk, hip-hop, reggae, rock, country, blues, and of course jazz.

* To sign up for the open mic, or if you have any questions please email allavilnyanskaya@earthlink.net
* Blue Bananas Café can validate parking at Abbott Square Parking Lot, 3rd & South. ($4.00 to park all night!)

This Sunday: Playgrounds for Palestine's Gala Dinner & Concert for Gaza, featuring sublime Lebanese Singer, May Nasr

2009-05-01T11:24:00.004-04:00

What:
Playgrounds for Palestine is hosting a Gala for the benefit of the children of Gaza. The evening will feature a concert by renowned Lebanese singer/songwriter May Nasr. (You can listen to her music online. Her voice is mesmerizing!) Trained by Zaki Nassif, a composer for Fairuz, she is one of the few artists who can truly sing Fairuz songs with their full meaning and liveliness. It was the knowledge of this potential that brought Zaki Nassif out of retirement upon hearing May’s voice.

Why:
Because we want to bring joy to children in Gaza.
Because we believe that they deserve to play.
Because they have suffered what no child should suffer.
Because we have so much to give, even in this economy.
Because building playgrounds is an act of Love.

When:
Sunday, May 3rd @ 4-9pm

Where:
ACE Conference Center
800 Ridge Pike
Lafayette Hill, PA 19444
610-825-8000

How much:
Adults: $85
Children, Seniors, Students: $50

What else:
Dinner, raffles, silent auction, children's activities, music, community, awards, and more.

For more information, go to http://www.playgroundsforpalestine.org/news.php?ID=46 or call 267.391.5386.

And Yet

2009-03-23T08:34:00.000-04:00

Just because the stitches in my back are itching
doesn’t mean they want to heal.
You should know better,
you who’s been itching for years
and yet…

It flashed on the screen
in the corner of the room
like the shape of a desire that was.
You almost recognize it,
masked like the face of an old lover
by time.
The room brightened a bit
and everything darkened around,
like silhouettes against a sinking sun.
You stood there, paused in half-turn,
and stared—zipper undone, index finger
on the remote’s “Power” button—
and yet…

The rest of the night packs itself away,
a force of habit:
mugs in the sink, keys in the lock,
phone off and plugged,
the routines of a day ready to turn in.
Gingerly you lift the back of your hand
to your face and inhale.
At that point you don’t care
if it makes you nauseous,
if it smells like spring
or just the soil beneath.
You fill your lungs hoping
—you’re not sure what for—
and yet…

"Scorched" at the Wilma

2009-03-01T21:47:00.004-05:00

Today I had the great opportunity to see a preview of the Wilma theater's upcoming East Coast Premiere of Scorched, a tour de force from highly-acclaimed Lebanese-Canadian playwright Wajdi Mouawad. Directed by the Wilma's incomparable co-Artistic Director Blanka Zizka as part of the theater's 30th Anniversary Season, Scorched is a deeply affecting play of mythical proportions. Superbly cast, the production boasts lush original music, a brilliantly minimalist stage set and inspired artistic direction. It's only the second U.S. production of the play, and it will be playing at the Wilma from March 4th till the 29th. And it is a must-see show: if you are to see only one play this year, make it this one!

The Wilma Presents the East Coast Premiere of SCORCHED 2/25 Thru 3/29

Fabulous Fundraiser for the Courageous People of Gaza

2009-02-16T11:56:00.004-05:00

Saturday February 28 from 5-8pm
@ Calvary Church
(48th & Baltimore Streets - Philadelphia, PA)

Featuring: Middle Eastern Food

Presentations: Dr. Labiq Syed & Dr. Labib Syed, brothers out of John Hopkins & members of the Islamic Medical Association of North America, who recently traveled overseas to provide care in war-torn Gaza and will share information about their trip.

Informational Loop Presentation created by Aine Fox

Spoken Word: Poets Aysha El Shamayleh & Ashraf Osman

Music by: Paddy Corcoran (of Paddy and the Hostages)

Tickets:
$10 - General Admission
$25 & Above - Solidarity
$5 for unemployed & students

Call 215-724-1618 or email phillyiac@action-mail.org for ticket information or to make reservations.

All proceeds go to the Emergency Gaza Appeal of the United Palestinian Appeal

Sponsors:
Philadelphia International Action Center
EON (End Oppression Now)
PRAWN (Philadelphia Regional Anti-War Network)
FIST (Fight Imperialism Stand Together)

Joe Bolton: The Last Nostalgia

2009-02-06T12:48:00.005-05:00

The Story

If it rained tonight
I’d lie down
For a thousand years.

—As if nothing had happened;
As if the story
Wouldn’t tell itself forever:

No more mother, no remembered loves, and my pulse
Purified, the only sound
As I lowered myself into the depths…

But the bells are ringing up the hill,
Punishing bells,
Recounting all the arguments against me.

If I’ve created the story of my life,
Why not now the story
Of not having ever lived at all?

Maybe then there wouldn’t be this burden
Of what was lost
Almost before it had arrived.

Maybe then there wouldn’t be this weight
Of what is
And what I can feel myself already losing.

Two Songs of Solitude and Lament

1

There’s nothing to celebrate this evening.
I’ve come home tired
To a mailbox gorged with junk it can’t
Digest, to a room bereft
Of any hope of getting put into order,
To a radio gone numb
With humming the old tunes and passing along
The old gossip: a breakthrough,
A disaster, the economy’s rise or fall, a war
Going on somewhere.

No one will come by, no one will call,
No ex-friend or –lover
Materialize from my wired-out memory.
Boredom is dangerous:
It gets easier with practice. The streetlights,
As if in celebration
Of nothing, erupt the off-shade of cheap champagne,
While in the bedroom
The clock I can never think to wind
Ticks down like a bomb.

2

Dozing to the tugging drone of fans
These summer afternoons,
The haunt of memory surrounds and inhabits me
Like a siege on some ruined city.
Runners of sunlight manage to twist their way
Through a full-leafed maple,
And the shadow-splotched walls of this room are suddenly
The blush of blood
Across the skin above your breasts
When you came.
Or it rains, and everything the rain streams down
Remembers your hair.
We were in each other’s arms then, but now
We are in the arms of the wind.
The proud ancient warriors, in hopeless bondage,
Would kill themselves
By biting their tongues in two, so as to bleed to death.
I wake in the dark
And walk out onto the balcony to watch the stars
That won’t touch down on the rooftops.

Days of Summer Gone

It’s too late to go back to that apartment
In Bowling Green, Kentucky, where we slept together
So many nights. I wonder if whoever lives there now
And fucks in that bed ever wonders about us?

If memory’s any good gauge, the place
Must be ghosted with us even now—
Where I read aloud to you the love stories
Of other languages, and where there was no part
Of your body my tongue couldn’t locate in the dark.
Don’t try to tell me you’ve forgotten.

I can’t let them go, those days
Of summer gone, for under my eyelids you move
As you moved through the changes of light in that room.

But it’s raining tonight
In Houston, Texas, and how is your weather
In Berkley? What happened to us?
Westward is the world’s motion, and time’s,
If not memory’s.

azure letters

2009-01-22T14:07:00.004-05:00

Joe Bolton wrote in Departure:

"And if poetry is a bond between
Two hearts, it is a bond too frail:
That night words failed, I too, was lost--"

Poetry may be a frail bond, but sometimes it is the strongest we have. Which is why, when we are lost, a good friend finds us in a poem...

azure letters
by Katy Acheson

Thank you, dear, again and again...

Joe Bolton: Excerpts from "Departure"

2009-01-20T18:11:00.002-05:00

...

Left utterly alone, there is nothing
The heart can invent to numb itself.
All around you on the hardwood floor,
Your old life darkened in cardboard boxes.

...

If love is an awkward, scriptless scene
To be played out between two people,
I cannot write it: I am a pattern
Of breath and sleep that city will outlive.

And if poetry is a bond between
Two hearts, it is a bond too frail:
That night words failed, I too, was lost--
To whiskey, memory, a photograph.

East of that city, the green fields
Are winding away beneath your gaze,
And here, west of that city, there is
No water deep enough to let me forget.

If I could look forward, I could see us
In Houston, in Atlanta--that South
No train will take us to, that South
We lost ourselves in so long ago.

And those cities, so far removed
In distance and time--can our small stars
Survive those bright lights? Our language
Be heard above the din of the million?

Tonight, a hundred miles away,
Our city, made of circles and squares,
Must be much the same as it was:
The bars, the buildings, the streets empty of lovers.

It is a city we can never
Return to--a dream, a green light,
An unfound door closed upon the past.
Our words echo through it and fade.

Mou'sif (poème pathétique)

2009-01-13T17:40:00.001-05:00

(give me i'll give you #10):
http://somethingkaty.blogspot.com/2009/01/
mousif-pome-pathtique-give-me-ill-give.html

The Comstock Review

2008-12-03T11:10:00.005-05:00

I am thrilled to let you know that, amid all the rejections I garnered this fall, I had one bright spot of good news: my poems Tired and The Coming were chosen by the Comstock Review as Poems of Special Merit in the 2008 Muriel Craft Bailey Award Contest. They were two of the twenty-six poems that were sent on to the final Judge this year, one of my all time favorites, the incomparable Marie Howe!

Here's an excerpt from the e-mail from the Comstock Review's Managing Editor, John M. Bellinger:

We had an outstanding group of poems this year, and to land anywhere near the top of the thousands of entries we received is an accomplishment to be proud of. All of the top poems ranked very closely in overall score, and I am certain Ms. Howe will have a tough decision on her hands in awarding the top three prizes.

As Poems of Special Merit, my poems will be published in issue 22.2 of The Comstock Review, due out in January of 2009. You can find a list of all Winners, Poems of Special Merit, and Finalists on the journal's website at:
http://www.comstockreview.org/contestwinners.html

You can see me read Tired here. Thank you, Comstock Review! Please support the journal by subscribing today.

Reading at Robin's

2008-11-09T02:15:00.002-05:00

I will be reading at Robin's Bookstore on Tuesday, November 11 at 6pm. The reading is part of the bookstore's Moonstone Poetry Series, features Hanoch Guy, and is coordinated by Justin Vitiello. An open reading will follow:
http://www.robinsbookstore.com/events/111108.html

Death by Water

2008-10-30T11:19:00.001-04:00

"Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
_________________A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
_________________Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you."

-T. S. Eliot

Mad Poets at the First Friday Main Line

2008-10-03T08:20:00.004-04:00

I will be reading tonight, Friday, October 03 2008, between 6:30-10:00 pm, part of the Mad Poets Society at the Main Line First Friday. The reading will be at:
Suburban Office Equipment
49 E. Lancaster Avenue
Ardmore, PA 19003
610.896.7022

I will be reading along with RICHARD S. BANK, DAVID W. WORREL & EILEEN M. D’ANGELO, Editor of the Mad Poets Review and Director of the Mad Poets Society. For more information, see: www.firstfridaymainline.com/events.asp

Mad Poets Festival

2008-10-01T13:41:00.002-04:00

I will be reading at the Mad Poets Festival, which is on Sunday, October 5 2008, from 12 pm - 5 pm at the Media Borough Hall (at 3rd & Jackson Streets in Media, PA). I'll be in the last set which features Leonard Gontarek, Richard Bank, Ray Greenblatt, Alison Hicks, Amy Laub, and lots of other great local poets!

Since 1987, the Mad Poets Society has proudly hosted the Festival on the first Sunday in October, in conjunction with the Media Food & Arts Festival (which packs State St. in downtown Media with a wide variety arts, crafts, live music, and fresh food). The Mad Poets Festival features five hours of short readings (approx. 5 minutes) by 40 locally and nationally known poets, followed by a reception.

There will also be munchies. But you can walk up to State Street (only two blocks or so) and be at the Media Food Festival where there's lots of good food, bands in the streets, etc. So come to town early, catch some poetry, run up to the fair, eat yummy stuff, and be back in time to hear me read! It’s a party, get together day.

And if you want to read your work at this special event, contact Eileen D'Angelo at madpoets@comcast.net.

East Falls Rise: A Multi-Cultural Extravaganza

2008-09-30T14:36:00.002-04:00

Join me on Saturday, October 11 2008, from 1:00pm - 3:00pm at McMichael Park in East Falls (Henry Ave & Coulter - Philadelphia, PA 19129) where poets from nearby neighborhoods gather to celebrate the diversity of our community. Here's the schedule:

1:00 -- Intro/Welcome/General Plug for author books, etc.

1:05 -- PETER KROK, editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal and humanities/poetry director of the Manayunk Art Center

1:15 -- PHYLINDA REYNOLDS, native Oklahoman and current Germantonian

1:25 -- SYDNEY COFFIN, East Falls resident and University City High School English teacher

1:35 -- YOLANDA WISHER, Germantown Friends School English teacher

1:45 -- ASHRAF OSMAN, Mount Airy resident and administrator of PhillyPoetry.com

1:55 -- Catch-up/Reintroduce event/Plug author books, events, etc.

2:00 -- DONNA WOLF-PALACIO, UArts workshop leader and author of an Academy of Fine Arts’ Print Award-winning book of translated and illustrated Chinese poems

2:10 -- MIKE COHEN, host of Poetry Aloud and Alive at Big Blue Marble in Mount Airy

2:20 -- MELISSA DEGEZELLE, Manayunk resident and new mother

2:30 -- HAL SIROWITZ, author of Mother Said, the best-selling translated book of poetry in Norway

2:40 -- TRAPETA MAYSON, Germantown resident and Pew and PCA fellow and Leeway awardee

2:50 -- Closing/Plugs/Spillover/etc.

For more info:
www.eastfallscommunity.org/fallfestschedule08.htm

In Memory of Mahmoud Darwish

2008-08-10T10:39:00.009-04:00

In fond memory of the great Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who passed away just a few hours ago, below are a few of his own words...

إلى شاعرٍ عراقي ...

( 1 )

أُعِدُّ لأَرْثيكَ ,
عِشْرينَ عاماً مِنْ الحُبِّ ,
كُنْتُ وَحَيداً هناكَ
تُؤَثِّثُ مَنْفى لسَيَّدَةِ الزَّيْزَفُونِ ,
وبَيْتا ,,, لِسَيِّدِنا في أعالي الكَلامِ .
تَكَلَّمْ لِنَصْعَدَ أَعْلى..وَ أَعْلَى ... وَأَعْلى ...
على سُلَّمِ الْبِئْرِ ,
يا صاحِبي , أَينَ أَنتَ ؟
تَقَدَّمْ لأَحْمِلَ عنكَ الكَلامَ ..
وأَرْثيك

... لو كانَ جِسْراً عَبَرْناهُ ,
لكنَّه الدَّارُ والهاوَية
وللقَمَر البابِليِّ على شَجَرِ اللَّيلِ مَمَلَكَةٌ لَمْ تَعُدْ
لَنا , مُنْذُ عادَ التَّتارُ على خَيْلِنا
والتَّتارُ الجُدُدْ يَجُرُّونَ أَسْماءَنا خَلْفَهُم
في شَعابِ الجِبالِ ,
ويَنْسَونْنا
وَيَنْسَوْنَ فينا نَخيلاً ونَهْرَيْنِ :
يَنْسَوْنَ فينا العِراقْ

أَما قُلْتَ لي في الطَّريقِ إلى الرِّيحِ :
عَمَّا قَليل سَنَشْحَنُ تاريخَنا بالمَعاني ,
وَتَنْطَفِئُ الحَربْ عمَّا قَليل
وَ عمَّا قَليل نُشَيِّدُ سُومَرَ , ثانِيَةً , في الأَغاني
وَنَفْتَحُ بابَ المَسارحِ للنَّاسِ والطَّيْرِ مِن كلّ جِنْسِ ؟
وَنَرْجِعُ مِنْ حَيْثُ جَاءَتْ بِنا الرِّيح ...

(.... )

( 2 )

لَنا غُرَفٌ في حَدائِقِ آبَ , هُنا في البِلادِ الَّتي
تُحِبُّ الكِلابَ وتَكْرَهُ شَعْبْكَ واسْمَ الْجَنوبِ
لَنا بَقايا نِساءٍ طُردْنَ مِنْ الأُقْحُوانِ
لَنا أَصْدِقاءُ من الغَجَرِ الطَّيِّبينَ .
لَنا دَرَجُ الْبَارِ .
رامبو لَنا ,ولنا رَصيفٌ مِنَ الكَستَنْاءِ .
لَنا تكنولوجيا لِقَتْلِ الْعِراق

تَهُبُّ جَنُوبيّةٌ ريحُ مَوْتاكَ , تَسْأَلُني :
هَلْ أَراك ؟
أَقولُ : تَراني مساءً قَتيلاً على نَشْرَةِ الشَّاشَةِ الْخامِسَة
فَما نَفْعُ حُرِّيَّتي يا تَماثيلَ رودانَ ؟
لا تَتَساءَلْ ,
ولا تُعَلِّقْ على بَلَحِ النَّخْلِ ذاكرَتي جَرَساً .
قَدْ خَسِرْنا مَنافِينا مُنْذُ هَبَّتْ جَنوبِيَّةَ ريحُ مَوْتاك...

.... لا بُدَّ مِنْ فَرَسٍ لْغَرِيبِ ليَتْبَعَ قَيْصَرَ , أَوْ
ليَرْجِعَ مِنْ لَسْعَةِ النَّايِ .
لاَ بُدَّ مِنْ فَرَسٍ للغَريبْ
أَما كانَ في وُسْعِنا أَنْ نَرى قَمَراً وَاحِداً لا يَدُلُّ
على امْرَأَةٍ ما ؟
أَما كان في وُسْعِنا أَنْ نُمَيِّزَ بَيْنَ البَصيرَةِ ,
يا صاحِبي , والبَصَرْ ؟

( 3 )

لَنا ما عَلَيْنا من النَّحْلِ وَالمُفْرداتِ .
خُلِقْنا لِنَكْتُبَ عَمَّا يُهَدِّدُنا مِنْ نساءٍ وَقَيْصَرَ ..
والأَرْضِ حِينَ تَصيرُ لُغَةْ ,
وَعَنْ سِرٍّ جلَجامشَ الْمُستَحيلِ ,
لِنَهْرُبَ مِنْ عَصْرِنا إِلى أَمْسِ خَمْرَتِنا الذَّهَبيِّ ذَهَبْنَا ,
وَسِرنْا إلى عُمْرِ حِكْمَتنا
وكانت أَغاني الحَنينِ عِراقّيَةً ,
والعِراقُ نَخَيلٌ وَنَهْرانَ ...

... لِي قَمَرٌ في الرَّصافَةِ .
لِي سَمَكٌ في الفُراتِ ودِجْلَةْ
ولِي قارِئٌ في الجَنُوبِ ,
ولِي حَجَرُ الشَّمْسِ في نَيْنَوى ونَيْروزُ
لِي في ضَفائِرِ كُرديّةٍ في شَمالِ الشَّجَنْ ...
ولِي وَرْدَةٌ فِي حَدائِقَ بابِلَ .
لي شاعِرٌ في بُوَيْب,
ولي جُثَّتي تَحْتَ شَمْسَ العراق

(....)

( 4 )

... قَبْرٌ لِباريسَ , لُنُدنَ ,
روما , نيويورك , موسكو ,
وقبر لِبَغْدادَ ,
هَلْ كانَ من حَقْها أَن تُصَدِّقُ ماضيَها المُرْتَقَبْ ؟
وَقَبْرٌ لإِيتاكَةِ الدَّرْبِ وَالْهَدَفِ الصَّعْبِ , قَبْرٌ لِيافا ...
وَقَبْرٌ لهِوميِّر أَيْضاً وَ لِلبُحْتُرِيِّ ,
وَقَبْرٌ هو الشَّعْرُ, قبرٌ من الرِّيحِ ... يا حَجَرَ الرُّوحِ ,
يا صَمْتَنا !

نُصَدِّقُ , كَي نُكْمِلَ التَّيهُ , أَنَ الخَريفَ تَغَيَّرَ فينا ..
نَعَمْ , نَحْنُ أَوْراقُ هذا الصَّنَوَبَرِ , نَحْنُ التَّعَب...
وقَدْ خَفَّ , خارِجَ أجسادنا , كالنَّدى ... وَانْسَكَب
نَوارِسَ بيضاءَ , تبحثُ عن شُعَراءِ الْهَواجِس فينا ..
وعَنْ دَمْعَةِ الْعَرَبِيِّ الأَخيرةِ ,
صَحْراء ... صَحْراء....

(....)

ولا صَوْتَ يَصْعَدُ , لا صَوْتَ يَهْبِطُ , بَعْدَ قَليل ..
سَنُفْرِغُ آخِرَ أَلْفاظنا في مَديحِ المَكانِ ,
وَبَعْدَ قليل سَنَرْنو إلى غَدنا , خَلْفَنا , في حَريرِ الكَلامِ القَديم
وسَوْفَ نُشاهِدُ أَحْلامَنا في المَمَرَّاتِ تَبْحَثُ عَنَّا
وعَنْ نَسْرِ أَعْلامِنا السُّود ...

( 5 )

صَحْراءُ للصَّوْتِ , صَحْراءُ للصَّمْتِ ,
صَحراء للْعَبَثِ الأَبَديّ
للَوْحِ الشَّرائِعِ صَحْراءُ , للكُتُبِ الْمَدْرَسِيَّةِ , للأَنبِياء وللَعُلَماءْ
لَشيكسبير صَحْراءُ , للباحِثينَ عنِ الله في الكائنَ الآدَمِيّ
هُنا يَكْتُبُ العَرَبيُّ الأَخِيرُ : أَنَا العَرَبِيُّ الَذي لَمْ يَكُنْ
أَنَا العَرَبِيُّ الَذي لَمْ يَكُنْ

قُلِ الآنِ إِنْكَ أَخْطَأْتَ , أَو لا تَقُلْ
فَلَنْ يَسْمَعَ المَيتونَ اعْتذارَكَ منهم , ولَنْ يَقْرَؤوا
مَجَلاّتِ قاتِلِهمْ كَيْ يَرَوْا ما يَرَوْنَ ,
ولن يَرْجعِوا إِلى الْبَصْرَةَ الأَبَدِيةِ كَيْ يَعْرِفوا ما صَنَعْتَ بأُمِّك ,
حِينَ انْتَبَهْتَ إلى زُرْقَةِ الْبَحْر ...

(....)

سَأُولَدُ مِنْكَ وَتُولَدُ مِنّي .
رُوَيْداً رُوَيْداً سأَخْلَعُ عَنْك أصابعَ مَوتايَ , أَزْرارَ قُمصانهمْ.
وبطاقاتِ ميلادهمْ وتخلعُ عنيِّ رسائلَ مَوْتاكَ للْقُدْس ,
ثُمَ نُنَظِّفُ نظَّرَتَيْنا من الدمِ , يا صاحِبي ,
كَيْ نُعيدَ قِراءَةَ كافْكا ونَفْتَحَ نافِذَتَيْنِ على شارِعِ الظِّلّ ...
... في داخِلي , لا تُصَدِّقْ دُخانَ الشِّتاءِ كثيراً
فعمَّا قليل سَيَخْرُجُ إِبْريلُ مِنْ نَوْمِنا ,
خارِجي داخِلي فلا تَكْتَرِثْ بِالتَّماثيلِ ...
سَوْفَ تُطَرِّزُ بِنْتٌ عِراقيِّةٌ ثَوْبَها بأَوَّلِ زَهْرَةِ لَوْزِ ,
وتَكْتُبُ أَوَّلَ حَرْفٍ مِنَ اسْمِكَ
على طَرَف السَّهْمِ فَوْقَ اسْمِها ....
في مَهَبِّ الْعِراق ..

(من ديوان " أَحد عشر كوكباً " 1992)

To an Iraqi poet

(1)

To elegize you
I bring you twenty years of love.
You were alone there
furnishing exile for our lady of lime,
a house for our master at the height of speech.
Speak for us to ascend higher and higher
along the well’s spiral stairway.
O my friend, where are you?
Step forward,
let me bear the burden of your speech,
let me elegize you.

If it were a bridge we would have crossed it already,
but it’s a home, it’s an abyss.
The Babylonian moon has established a kingdom in the trees of the night that is no longer
ours, since the Tatars returned on our horses.
Now new Tatars drag our names behind them
through the dust of narrow mountain passes.
They forget us.
They forget palm trees, the two rivers
and the Iraq in us.

Didn’t you tell me on the way to the wind
we’d soon be filling our history with meaning?
That the war should soon be over,
that we’d build Sumer in song again,
soon open the theater doors to everyone and to every kind of bird?
That soon we’d return to where the wind first found us?

(.... )

( 2 )

We have rooms here in the gardens of August,
in a country that loves dogs but hates your people and the name of the south.
We have remains of women banished from daisies,
our good Gypsy friends,
the stained steps of bars,
Rimbaud, a sidewalk of chestnuts,
and enough technology to wipe out Iraq.

The wind of your dead blows northward.
You ask me, “Do I see you?”
I say, “You see me dead on the five o’clock news.”
So what good is my freedom, O statues of Rodin?
Don’t wonder
and please don’t suspend my memory like a bell on our date palms.
Our exile’s been lost since the wind of your dead blows northward.

There must be a horse for the stranger so he can trail behind Ceasar
or return from the sting of the flute.
There must be a horse for the stranger.
Couldn’t we have sighted at least one moon
that didn’t signify Woman,
couldn’t we have seen the difference,
O my friend, between sight and foresight?

(3)

We have what veils us of bees and words.
We have created to write about what threatens us of women and Ceaser,
earth when it becomes speech,
the impossible secret of Gilgamesh,
the escape from our era to the golden yesterday of our wine.
We walked toward the life of our wisdom,
our songs of nostalgia were Iraqi songs,
about palm trees and the two rivers.

I have a moon in the region of al-Rusafa,
I have fish in the Euphrates and the Tigris,
I have an avid reader in the south,
a sun stone in Nineva,
a spring festival in Kurdish braids to the north of sorrow,
a rose in the Gardens of Babylon,
a poet in the southern province of Buwayb,
and my corpse under an Iraqi sun.

(.... )

( 4 )

A grave for Paris, a grave for London,
a grave for Rome, New York and Moscow,
a grave for Baghdad.
Was it right for Baghdad to take its past for granted?
A grave for Ithaca, the difficult path and the goal,
a grave for Jaffa, for Homer and al-Buhturi.
Poetry is a grave, a grave of wind.
O stone of the soul, O our silence!

To complete the labyrinth, we think Autumn’s lodged within us.
We are pine needles,
fatigue bathing our bodies like dew,
pouring forth in floods of white gulls
looking for the poets of foreboding in us,
looking for the Arab’s last tear,
looking for the desert.

(.... )

No voice rises, no voice lowers.
Soon we’ll be uttering our last praises of this place,
gazing at tomorrow with silks of old speech trailing behind us.
We’ll see our dreams in corridors looking all over for us
and for the eagle of our blackened flags.

( 5 )

A desert for sound and a desert for silence,
a desert for eternal absurdity,
a desert for the tablets of the law,
for school books, prophets and scientists,
a desert for Shakespeare,
for those who look for God in the human being.
Here the last Arab writes:
I am the Arab that never was,
the Arab that never was.

Either say you have erred or keep silent.
The dead won’t hear your apology,
they won’t read their killer’s journals to find out what they can,
they won’t return to Basra the Eternal to find out what you did to your mother
when you recognized the blue of the sea.

(.... )

I’ll beget you and you’ll beget me,
and very slowly I’ll remove the fingers of the dead from your body,
the buttons of their shirts and their birth certificates.
You’ll take the letters of your dead to Jerusalem.
We’ll wipe the blood from our glasses, my friend,
so we can reread Kafka,
and open two windows onto a street of shadows.

My outside is inside me;
don’t believe winter smoke.
Soon April will emerge from our dreams.
My outside is inside me;
pay no attention to statues.
An Iraqi girl will decorate her dress
with the first almond flowers,
and along the top edge of the arrow
drawn just above her name
she’ll write your name’s initial letter
in Iraq’s wind.

-from Eleven Planets
(English translation published in The Adam of Two Edens)

Synthesize

2008-08-02T11:19:00.004-04:00

When all is said and done,
what have I given
and have you taken?
When one day we sit across the room from each other,
legs crossed, the silence suspended in the air
like a ray of light on a late winter afternoon,
what will there be to say to each other?

There will be the fleeting memory
of that evening in Florence,
returning home from the supermarket,
plastic bags of cheap wine in hand,
there was a dirty-blond guy our age
sitting on the sidewalk,
right across from the automatic doors,
begging for money or food.
I gave him my half-eaten focaccia,
and he thanked me not knowing
how much more than a grazie I wanted.
You weren't there.

Or the time that,
walking back from the same supermarket,
in that underpass beneath the tracks,
two guys were attacking a woman,
and I just dropped my head and hurried by,
hoping they wouldn't hassle me.
I pretended not to understand what she was saying,
even though cries for help in all languages are the same.
You weren't there.

When that day we sit across from each other and look back,
will it weave together in a sprawling tapestry
just coming to light?
Or will the strands and loose ends only clutter the room,
piling like dust bunnies underneath the couches
and in the crevices of their folds?
Will we look back thinking,
Yes, that was a good life we lived together.
Or will we despise one another
for having wasted each other's?

Now, late at night,
as you and the animals lie asleep around me,
and I scramble for a coherent thought,
for meaning in your pattern of breath,
for something to sink my teeth into,
I wonder as I push sleep aside...
And then, exhausted,
I let it take over me.

Back, with a limp

2008-07-26T16:49:00.002-04:00

It wasn’t for love;
that much I know now.
Looking at your face,
an echo of what I was,
my pretenses falter.
The corners of your smile
still wrinkle with the same abandon;
your eyes, holes in my fabric.
It wasn’t…

It was for my defeat in you that I sang,
falling gloriously all the way
and climbing up again.
You were only an excuse for my loss,
a reason for shattering.
The void in me where you nestled
was older than us.
And for being so blind,
I seek forgiveness.
You did not earn
the wrath I sprung on you;
you were not worthy of the venom.

Glitter on, like I never happened.
Soak the life I dreamed in you,
and bask in my absence.
I continue limping,
lifting the shadow that I cast,
unfurling.
I have yet to fill
what I thought you had left.
And I have yet to name it.

The Hakawati

2008-05-18T22:13:00.007-04:00

I am so glad to see that the latest masterpiece, The Hakawati, by my friend, the sinfully underrated Rabih Alameddine, is finally getting some of the attention it so greatly deserves:

Sunday Book Review, May 18, 2008
Once Upon Many Times
If any work of fiction might be powerful enough to transcend the mountain of polemic, historical inquiry, policy analysis and reportage that stands between the Western reader and the Arab soul, it’s this wonder of a book — a book not about a jihadi but a hakawati (Arabic for storyteller). “Listen,” Rabih Alameddine invites. “Allow me to be your god. Let me take you on a journey beyond imagining. Let me tell you a story.” (Read More)

All Things Considered, May 18, 2008
The Pull of the 'Hakawati'
Rabih Alameddine discusses his new book, The Hakawati. As the protagonist sits by the bedside of his dying father, the reader is pulled into an otherworldly web of stories inspired by Arab legend, Greek myth and the Bible. (Listen Now)

يا زمان الطائفية

2008-05-14T21:28:00.007-04:00

يا زمان الطائفية
طائفيةِ وطائفيك
خلي إيدك ع الهوية، وشد عليها قد ما فيك
شوف الليرة ما أحلاها
بتقطع من هون لهونيك

ويازمان الطائفية
طائفية وطائفيك
والله الأوضة بألف ليرة
بشارع صبرا وبالكسليك
حامل ليرة بتسوى ليرة
درزي، بوذي أو كاتوليك

وليكو التاجر يا جماعة
بكل ميلة عندو شريك
شو ما دينك الله يعينك
بياخد منك ما بيعطيك
تعلّم منو العلمانية
نقدي ولا بموجب شيك

ويا ساكن بالأشرفيةِ
أشرفيةِ وأشرفيك
شو أخبارك، كيف أحوالك
والله عم فكر فيك
الزودة طلعت عندي وعندك
لا بتكفيني ولا بتكفيك

يا رواد الأبجدية والشيمية والفيزيك
يللي قطعتو السبع بحور
وسبقتو كولومبس ع الأمريك
وشلتو اللون الأرجواني
عملتو قزاز عملتو قناني
شو بدكم بإسم العيلة،
بالأحرف بالألفابتيك
حلو عن إسمي وحروفو
حرفيا، حرفيةِ وفيك
شو هالجرسة العالمية
يا رواد الأبجدية
بدينت بتريك لحن ع أحمد
تيرد أحمد مع بتريك

ولي عمي حاج رايحه معكم
بالأونطة والتفليك
عنا هالأرزة ع راسي
وغيرا شو عنا يا شريك؟

في التفاحة يا ما شاالله
إن شا الله ما يضربها الله
وفي عنا البيض بأورمة
السودة نية و المعاليق
فينا نخلّص بكل لغة
وفينا نزرزق بالإبريق

عنا حجرة عليها سمكة
بعلبك، صور، و "بيت الديك"
في عنا سنسول مسائب
فرجة كل ما إيجي ترانزيت
عنا حرية - أجلّك
إذا فضلا الله يخليك
عنا مواسم طائفية
بتغيب بترجع قوية
ويا زمان العلمانية،
متى أشوفك؟ - ميتافيزيك

الأغنية: "يا زمان الطائفية"، من مسرحية "فيلم أميركي طويل" لزياد الرحباني، 1980

Absolution

2008-05-10T22:13:00.000-04:00

To every Lebanese fighting another

I absolve myself of you.
I absolve me of the anger
dripping morbidly from turbid eyes;
of the hatred, loud and raucous,
and stupid;
of the ignorance engulfing you
like summer haze:
humid, and sticky, and slowly reeking.
I absolve me of your sins.

I absolve me of your children,
dull and arrogant,
and devoid of hope.
I absolve me of your tongue,
its beautiful words
gone blind.

I absolve me even of myself,
this guilt of being,
this exhaust of writing,
this ball of fury in your throats.
I absolve me even of this,
the need for absolution.

(Originally posted on May 21, 2007)

Here we go again...

2008-05-08T21:34:00.003-04:00

From my sister, today at 12:25pm:

"Hey 7abibi, how is your day? Ours is not so good. Beirut is very similar to how we see in the Civil War movies. Streets are dirty, there are gunmen, tanks and sand-bags everywhere. The terrible silence is only interrupted with the sound of bullets, RPG, bombs and explosions... We've closed all windows and doors to keep the scent of burning tires out of the house. We're back to sitting in front of the TV watching the whole country go crazy, and praying that this ends, one way or another."

Fairmount Arts Crawl

2008-04-26T22:20:00.004-04:00

I will be reading tomorrow, Sunday April 27th, at 3:00 pm at the Fairmount Arts Crawl's "Poetry Corner" at Ward Park, on 24th & Aspen Streets. You can find a full listing of the program at the Events page of the site. I hope to see you there!

Program:

Poeticians

2008-04-18T22:06:00.004-04:00

Last month, during my trip to Lebanon, I was graciously invited to read at an event by a wonderful poetry group called the Poeticians (you can see the group's Facebook page here). Here's how I described the evening in an email to a friend:

I was a bit anxious and apprehensive about it, as I hadn’t read in so long, and I’ve never read in Lebanon. I decided since my mother was going to be there that I’ll read half of the poems in Arabic (since her English is rudimentary). So I translated a few poems, and picked the couple that I thought worked best in Arabic. The reading went really well. It was in this nice hip café in an old house in the city, with large vintage stills from old Arabic movies and stars on the walls. The crowd was predominantly young (around our age), the music was familiar and nostalgic, and the people were sipping araq (a liquor like ouzo or sambuca) while listening… It felt like a homecoming of sorts. Even though most people read in English, a few people came afterwards to tell me that they liked my Arabic poems better and were surprised to learn that they were originally written in English. My brother’s theory is that because my spirit still “feels in Arabic”…

Here are links to the poems I read:

And here are links to the poems on the 4 postcards:

I was very grateful for such a wonderful night, and thrilled to meet such an impressive group of poets. Thank you, again, for inviting me to be part of you...

عابرون

2008-04-18T21:48:00.005-04:00

يعبرون مدججون بالليل على اجنحتهم،
الليل المثقل برائحة الهال و النعناع
والنسمة المفعمة بالسهر...

يعبرون، صدورهم عارمةٌ بالغناء،
شفافهم منشقةٌ للكلمات الهاربة،
كلماتٍ همست قبل أن يلفوا الزاوية،
ينظرون خلفهم مرةً أخرى
على العالم كما كان،
على وجوههم، مصداقةٌ و مجلة
ومتأملة...

يعبرون بأسماءٍ محفورة على أياديهم،
تتشح بملمس كل شيء،
تترك اثاراتٍ من الناس
على حواجب الأبواب، ورخامات المطابخ،
و فوق مرايا الحمامات المتغشية بعيونٍ هائمة،
تترقرق دامعةً وندية
وراقصة...

يعبرون، ريشهم جليد،
فوق طرقات فارهة كأفواهٍ تتثاءب للسماء
وترتجف،
فوق تلالٍ خضراء و فارغة
و مشتاقة لأناسٍ وأحاديث،
ليس أصداء، مدويةً وسارحة...

ارجعوا
إلى حيث الأيام صاخبة
و الليالي مبهرة
و في فوضى الشوارع
و الخوف و الضجيج
تنبض الحياة أعلى من السلم

ارجعوا
إلى حيث حتى اليأس يعيش في أمل...

(The original poem in English can be found here.
This Arabic text was typed using Yamli.)

أحلام بوهيمية

2008-04-18T21:29:00.007-04:00

عام وصلت لم تكوني هناك.
كان منك بقايا
ملتصقة بجدران حنجرتي
تتشبث بصوتي كما لو تمتلكه.
كنت هناك، عيوناً جاهرة،
استوعب كل شيء، بعد سنين،
دائماً خلف الحدث.
كنت أتساءل أين أضعت بسمتي،
و هناك وجدت مدفنها...

أراها الآن،
في الناس يهرعون عبر القطارات،
نظرتي محدقةً خلالهم.
أراها الآن، آخر مرة ضحكت،
ملتصقة كالشعارات إلى الغبار...

إن كنت أمشي مع شبحك
قد لا يكون عادلاً؛ لكن فوق الأدراج،
و المدينة مشروحةٌ في الأسفل
كجثة هائلة على جليدٍ رمادي،
لم استطع حتى أن ابذل دمعة.
أدع عازف الكمان يقطعني عريضاً
من كل سحبةٍ لقوسه؛
كان يعرفها جيداً، تلك الأغنية
التي كلنا ننزف إليها...

ظننت انني خسرته صوتي،
لكنه كان يصبح أجش
حتى ما عدت أتعرف إليه،
كأنني مقلدٌ لنفسي.
لكن التوق للأغاني لا يكل،
كما أمي لا تزل تحاول الرقص كل رأس سنة،
ركبتاها النافرتان تنثنيان تحت كبر روحها.
تتشبصني هناك الرغبة بالغناء
حيث الحمام يطير هرعاً.
تتملكني في منتصف الجملة
بغصة كما الخوف؛
لكنني أوضبها كأشلاءٍ على مسرح الجريمة،
أجرها هنا، مقطعة دامية نيئة،
هنا حيث لا أحدٌ يرى،
لا أحدٌ يسمع، لا أحدٌ يشرئب،
و اطلقها...

(The original poem in English can be found here.
This Arabic text was typed using Yamli.)

Where the heart is...

2008-03-11T09:17:00.001-04:00

I will be in Lebanon from March 8-23. Hopefully that'll inspire me to write some...

Caramel

2008-01-26T14:31:00.000-05:00

Caramel, a Lebanese movie about 5 women that work in a beauty salon, and Lebanon's official selection for the 2008 Oscars, will start playing in Philadelphia at the Ritz Theatres on Friday, February 1. Here is a preview:

And here are a Variety review and a Herald Tribune article on the movie.

Silent Night

2007-12-26T14:44:00.000-05:00

Here, where the silence is delicious,
the end is garbled in fragments of song
—repeated, stale, and resounding—
echoing in corners of rooms dimly lit
with lights on a string, stars
—dangling and scratched—
like lives spilled into kitchen sinks.

Here, where the drain chokes with leftovers,
a cat snatching a piece of half-chewed meat,
and a voice telling of what should have been,
I fall through the cracks of the silence,
a promise broken at the end of the night
when acquiescence is no more than lack of resistance,
and nods are all there is.

Here, not because it is,
but because the memory of it resides
nestled underneath my breath,
peering from behind my fevered eyes
at the moment as it lapses.
Here, where we persist,
you and I, stumbling eternally,
aimless drifters in a world half-lit.

MAD POETS REVIEW (Volume 21)

2007-12-01T09:22:00.000-05:00

..Book Release Party is today, Saturday, December 1 2007 at 11:00am, at the Delaware Co. Institute of Science, 11 Veterans Square, Media, PA 19063.

The new issue features work by RENEE ASHLEY, BARB CROOKER, DAVID KOZINSKI, MARIA FAMA, ANNA EVANS, RACHEL BUNTING, COURTNEY BAMBRICK, PAUL MARTIN, HARRY HUMES, LOUIS McKEE, CA CONRAD, FRANK SHERLOCK, and others, including:

WINNERS OF THE 2007 MAD POETS REVIEW COMPETITION:
KATE NORTHROP was the Judge for the 2007 Mad Poets Competition. In a field of 425 poems, Kate chose 12 to recognize. This year's winners are:

1ST PRIZE - KATE WILDING
2ND PRIZE - KIM GEK LIN SHORT
3RD PRIZE - BARBARA TORODE
4TH PRIZE - TAMMY PAOLINO
5TH PRIZE - MARGARET ROBINSON
6TH PRIZE - ASHRAF OSMAN (for Seasons)
7TH PRIZE - RICHARD S. BANK
8TH PRIZE - KATE WILDING
9TH PRIZE - CAMILLE NORVAISAS
10TH PRIZE - DIANE GUARNIERI
11TH PRIZE - MARGARET ROBINSON
12TH PRIZE - HANOCH GUY

Patagonia Remota

2007-11-15T01:09:00.001-05:00

For the next 10 days, this is where I'll be. No internet, no blogging; nothing but the land, the sky, and words...

BENEFIT FOR ACTION AIDS

2007-11-03T01:33:00.000-04:00

I would like to invite you to a benefit for Action AIDS at which I’ll be reading. Action AIDS is an invaluable Philadelphia resource for those living with HIV. They need our help to keep their doors open, and we've created a fantastic night of MUSIC, POETRY and PERFORMANCE for you!

NOVEMBER 13TH, 2007
STARTING AT 8PM
THE BALCONY
(UPSTAIRS AT THE TROCADERO)
1003 ARCH STREET
CHINATOWN, PHILADELPHIA

http://www.actionaids.org

BRING YOUR FRIENDS! We're asking a sliding scale of $5 to $20, but if you can afford more, PLEASE BE GENEROUS, this is an important night!

HOSTED BY AD Amarosi, CAConrad, and Betsy Andrews

THE EXTRAORDINARY TWO-HEADED DIVA MCs FOR THE NIGHT WILL BE
NEEDLES JONES
&
THE DIVINE MS. JIMMI

PERFORMERS INCLUDE:

THE FEVERFEW
THE ABSINTHE DRINKERS
MY INVISIBLE
GEMINI WOLF
ISH KLEIN
JASON ZUZGA
FRANK SHERLOCK
THEY ARE BIRDS
ASHRAF OSMAN
DOROTHEA LASKY
TARA MURTHA
MARALYN LOIS POLAK

We are the clumsy passersby

2007-10-24T22:48:00.000-04:00

When words fail me (or I fail them), sometimes the only consolation is the realization that I will never approach the greatness of what's been said:

We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,
with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,
we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down
in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.
We are all guilty, we are all sinners,
we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,
this might be our last clean shirt,
we have misplaced our tie,
yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,
sons of bitches who move in the highest circles
or quiet types who don't owe anything to anybody,
we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes,
or in solitude's: we are the poor devils
who earn a living and a death working
bureautragically or in the usual ways,
sitting down or packed together in subway stations,
boats, mines, research centers, jails,
universities, breweries,
(under our clothes the same thirsty skin),
(the hair, the same hair, only in different colors).

-Pablo Neruda

I Thought We Were

2007-10-05T17:17:00.000-04:00

To Charles and Serge

I thought we were endless,
raging against the night,
laughing life in the face,
and running.

I thought we were shameless,
masters of our indolence,
wasting time like we owned it,
and yawning.

I thought we were spotless,
dazzling and daring,
and dreaming of one day,
and dashing.

I thought we were painless.

I thought we were later:
first grandparents,
then parents,
then us.

I thought we were future,
till the past piled on,
today slipped by,
and now…

I think we are naked,
humbled and defenseless,

standing in the wind, and bowing,
seeing our feet for the first time, and culling

what remains of us, scattered
and huddled, and hoping…

Loving Beirut

2007-09-27T09:36:00.000-04:00

Finally, after more than 9 month hiatus, a new post on Dear Theo,:
http://dear-theo.blogspot.com/2007/09/loving-beirut.html

No Longer

2007-09-19T19:50:00.000-04:00

Observe.
This is how it shall be
when you are
no longer.
Murmurs of the everyday
mumbled;
just another picture
with you
behind the frame.

Come close,
feel the warmth
of his cheek.
Close eyes, don’t inhale,
just a film of heat.

Nothing

2007-09-15T22:21:00.000-04:00

Nothing is needed.
The realization came quietly,
as a bird sits on your shoulder,
its relief almost forgiving in its lightness.
The absolution of a world expecting nothing,
because it is not paying attention.

Nothing to live up to,
no rock to roll up the hill.
Only strolling, rock on leash,
casually rolling by your side,
sometimes gingerly,
sometimes mischievously.
But even if it were to dash free on its own,
it’s not like it’s anything to miss.

Nothing but the grass, the sunlight,
equally unreliable, equally uncaring,
and yet there.
Soon, when the grass gets hidden under a sheet of nothing,
and the sun is nowhere to be seen,
and you’ll be missing them more than they’ll ever miss you,
there’ll remain nothing—
nothing waiting,
nothing wanting,
only you smiling,
for no reason,
at nothing.

A Day

2007-08-23T17:52:00.000-04:00

Going through the day as if it’s endless;
looking—always looking—just beyond.
Blinders on, senses off,
trudging, oblivious to the sun.
And there it goes, somewhere else,
the same day, out of sight.
A thought crosses, reaching—
arms extended, fingers clasping
at the air.

If only an awareness of the littleness of it,
elsewhere:
a fridge opening, legs stretched over coffee table,
the door unlocking one more time.
The familiar hum of a TV almost muted,
head turning, a familiar face sighs,
a greeting grunted and a nod.

Listless and looking, out at the city,
from the backseat of another cab:
the underside of a bridge, mouths muted by the glass,
and then a cloud.

If thoughts could bind us, we’d be together then,
strewn across the day, on different faces of the earth.
But thoughts remain solitary, drifting
yet resonant;
and for now, again,
make do.

Lesser Creatures

2007-08-18T01:09:00.000-04:00

Splayed
before you,
pluck them, the stars,
one after the other
from me.
For such things of brilliance
do not belong
in a soul so dark.

We are lesser creatures,
you and I,
from those up there.
And yet this beast in me
will not make peace
with its lower self.
It beats
at the cages of my being,
tight and ragged,
and raging.

Crossings

2007-08-13T19:52:00.000-04:00

To the new Syracuseans

“You, waiting for the snow,
Don’t you want to come back anymore?
I cry out for them, in the rain,
In hope that they are listening…”

-Talal Haydar, from “Wahdoun (Alone)”

They cross over, armed with the night on their wings,
the night laden with the smell of mint, and cardamom,
and air thick with company.

They cross over, chests brimming with song,
lips parted just so, enough for words to escape,
words whispered right before they turned the corner,
looking behind one more time
at the world as it was,
at their faces, brave and adoring,
and hopeful.

They cross over with names written on their hands,
smearing at the touch of nearly everything,
leaving smudges of people on door frames, and kitchen counters,
and all over bathroom mirrors, fogging up with hazy eyes,
trickling down, dewy and damp,
and dancing.

They cross over, feathers frozen,
into roads open wide, like mouths yawning into the sky
and shivering;
into hills, green and empty, and missing things
and people, and chatter—
not echoes, resounding and rambling…

Cross back
to where the days are dazzling
and the nights are blinding,
and in the chaos of the streets
and in the fear, and the noise,
life throbs louder than peace.

Cross back
to where despair lives in hope…

Hypochondriac

2007-07-23T19:50:00.000-04:00

He doesn’t know what ails him;
it will not rest until it has a name.

Or he forgets.

He thinks his knees are aching,
or his calves might be swollen.

He thinks he’s got a fever,
or a cough.

He’s tired of thinking.

It crosses his mind
that it might be his mind.

“But it doesn’t make it
any less real,” he says.

He thinks it might be the new job,
or the boredom;

a pill—any pill—would do.

He thinks he’s lucky,
and he’s sorry,

and he counts his blessings in one breath.
“I have you, and her, and her—

don’t make me cry!”

But it still doesn’t have a name.
Only sometimes it doesn’t need one.

We Did

2007-07-23T19:32:00.000-04:00

We would extend our arms from car windows,
palms open, fingers stretched,
hands flapping against the wind—
that was the sound of our happiness.

The sunshine, the air,
the world supine at our feet,
the smiles that would never end,
and Amália singing of honey and water,

our names under her breath.
Parked in the middle of a field,
the country was just waking up,
smelling the dawn on our skins.

We stood over a rock
by a lake forced into being,
leaning away from each other,
arms taught, hands clasped, eye unwavering—

we would have fallen had we let go.
And we did.

First Friday at Milkboy Coffee

2007-07-04T12:18:00.000-04:00

Bring your poetry and come join us on Friday, July 6 for what my friend Alrene so aptly described as "love-in" for "the battle-scarred veterans of so many open mics"! It will be an open mic, including but not limited to poets from the Mad Poets Society, Friends of Poetry and PhillyPoetry. We're scheduled to begin at 7 pm, and the address is the new MilkBoy Coffee at 824 West Lancaster Ave in the Bryn Mawr Film Institute.

i-Outlaw 2.6

2007-07-03T12:35:00.000-04:00

My poem, Naked on the Inside, is now featured in the most recent episode of i-Outlaw, 2.6 featuring Annie Finch. Please give the episode a listen!

You can also enter a contest to win a free book of poetry; listen to i-Outlaw now and find out how...
http://i-outlaw.blogspot.com/2007/06/
i-outlaw-26-featuring-annie-finch.html

And the Carnival is Back in Town...

2007-07-02T08:31:00.000-04:00

Well, it's not so much that the Carnival is back, as much as it is that I'm back to the Carnival. So, jump over to Billy the Blogging Poet's home-turf:
http://www.musecrafters.com/bloggingpoet/926/A+Bard+Birthday+Party.html
..wish him a Happy Birthday, and sample the sweet poetry offerings at the party!

Cover Your Eyes

2007-06-26T08:23:00.000-04:00

It wasn't for the lack of trying.
It was for the stillness in the night
when you called me your life.

But now, he sits there, oblivious,
my life,
and I wonder at your persistence,
as I wondered at the concept of evil—
some things even God falls for.

It is in this insistence of the everyday
that I most indulge your absence,
I let it fill me, like a rag soaks kerosene
right before it catches fire.

I still chew the ragged edges of my fingernails
hoping that in the dead skin
I can taste your insides again.

I have confiscated our words,
set them to oblivion,
that generations to come
would fall in their sweet trap.

I invented love in you.
I ignited you like an Indian widow,
bright flame dancing on supple skin.
And only when your float,
far adrift down the river,
burst the spleen of the night in color,
did I hear the wailing.
And it wasn’t yours;
one can hardly recognize
their voice in tatters.

Still scourge those edges,
the banks I’ll never be.
I have tried to bury your eyes in the mud.
But they look up, beyond me,
as evil and docile as the day I buried them,
luring others with their stare.

Yes, I have learnt to forgive
ever since I saw my smile in the waters,
innocent and twisted,
and still covering your eyes.

Naked on the Inside

2007-06-10T00:47:00.000-04:00

It’s on nights like this
that the wall of smiles crumbles,
dimple by sparkling squint,
with a only a faint sigh to be heard
as it crashes.
How is it that things so labored
falter so quietly?

As the roads spread ahead of us,
vast and dim,
lit half-heartedly and glistening
with the sheen of a promised storm,
the night, worn out of shopping
late at resoundingly vacant stores,
hung lifeless and limp,
an expanse of exhaustion,
over our worn out being.

Nothing was left for us,
not the comfort of pretense,
not the thrill of acquisition,
not even the recurrent name of a friend.
There we were, naked on the inside,
bereft of even the effort of joy.
We had only for company,
in that unforgiving night,
the loneliness of each other.

Monstering

2007-06-06T16:38:00.000-04:00

“Daddy, help me!”
“They made her stir a burning pot of shit until she passed out.”
“They tied his arms behind his back and hung him from them.”
“You could hear the screams all the way down the hall, she said.”
“They even had the human pyramid as a screensaver in the detention office.”

“And now to Mary Cantell with Shadow Traffic.
Mary, how’re the roads looking out there?”
“Ah, John, it’s a real nightmare on 76…”

The Other Way

2007-06-03T17:08:00.000-04:00

I remember you vaguely,
an early story of those days when
the world was expanding still.

I remember your name before
it shed a few letters, back when
the night was dark still,
and engulfed us, ignorants,
in its conspiring siren song.

I remember, vaguely, the way
I must have felt about you when
my body was uncharted yet,
and you found it,
and didn’t know what to call it.

Your voice, in those days
before it learnt its modulations,
when I prayed for it on the hour
and God was immortal still.
Now reaches me,
lilting and leaden,
and I forget to recognize it.

And in the silence between
when you extract yourself from
the loudness of your days, now,
and the reverberation of my name,
we say all that we will ever say again:
the love subtle and passing,
the memories all but inconsequential,
and the two of us long estranged.

I still ponder, with that fresh amazement,
at how it’s come to this.
At the full circle of anonymity,
and these dates that compel us still
to reach across the great divide
that has grown between us,
leaving us looking,
always, the other way.

Love Eviscerated

2007-06-02T13:31:00.000-04:00

When I killed you, I didn’t cry.

I just looked down, at your head
listless, your hair wiry, your eyes
glazed.
_______I just looked down
with a semblance of pity, or perhaps
regret.
_______It wasn’t everyday
that I got to love this much.

When I killed you, a lop-sided smirk
dawned on my face, a smile
that was almost tender.

I didn’t look back
to see if you’re done.
I just assumed the best,
which never happens.

And now I find you’re very well
and alive.
There are worse things in life,
I imagine.
But the nightmare never ends,
out of boredom.

You'll get it in the mail
someday,
and it will be old and stale
and delicately fragrant,
and mildly haunting.
Like a piece of the cross,
arcane, and blood-soaked,
and generally irrelevant.

Such is our story,
mostly myth.

Does Poety Matter?

2007-05-18T08:34:00.001-04:00

http://www.madpoetssociety.com/blog/2007/05/17/who-cares

Traumatique

2007-05-13T15:26:00.000-04:00

It is, as such.
Long expanses, and then.
One after.
Endless-ness.
Falling. from.
Again.

It is, as it to be.
Unfolding, after the fact.
Rolls of skin, and.
Incessant-ly.
Always. from.
It is—feel it!
As such.

Start again,
from where sentences flow,
from whence the clothes hit the carpeted blankness,
gingerly,
and then.

Start, from the end.
Skip all that happened,
and say, nothing at all.

Start from where it doesn’t need to be said,
from the night breaking off on the windshield,
shattering, renouncing,
boundless.

Start from after,
the return, the happy ending,
as if nothing.
Start.

Pointless

2007-05-02T12:38:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, just like that,
they land--
no purpose, no excuses,
not even a clearing of the throat.
They just settle, and insist on being written.
No point--except the blankness of the night.
No value--except the nagging of the void.
Nothing.

And they lodge--
like her words, like that word,
like stuffed animals in tree branches.

Everybody is Pocahontas but me--
I clean chimneys,
I wait on the corner, expecting the rain.

Like that, just like that,
just like the words you never said because he's too young.
Meaningless, yet insistent.

Poetry Corner @ Fairmount Arts Crawl

2007-04-29T01:31:00.000-04:00

This Sunday, April 29 2007, I will be reading with a group of friends and fellow poets at the Poetry Corner, as part of the Fairmount Arts Crawl, a day of art and festivities in the Fairmount district. I hope you can join us for a fun-filled day of events!

Fairmount Arts Crawl: Poetry Corner
Ward Park, corner of 24th & Aspen Streets
(Rain Venue: London Grill Coffee Shop / 23rd & Fairmount)
Sunday, April 29 2007, from 2:00pm to 5:30pm
www.fairmountartscrawl.org

2:00 - Nancy Parks
2:30 - Ashraf Osman
3:00 - Michele Belluomini
3:30 - Dan Maguire
4:00 - Arlene Bernstein – www.friendsofpoetry.com
4:30 - Joe Fanning (musician)
5:00 - Dr. Niama Williams – www.niamalesliewilliams.citymax.com

Program:

Silences

2007-04-27T22:38:00.000-04:00

I will see you tomorrow,
I will be reading my heart
out on the sidewalk,
and you won't be listening.

The hunger you have sown in me
no one else could have;
hunger is only as big as the void
it inhabits.

There, in the white round curve of imagined skin
did I find my thirst,
staring at me with a cleft lip
lifting slightly at the corner,
eyes wilting above.

There, in the rippled sinuousness of a childish gesture,
in red overalls parted right where it hurts—
I even wait for summer
just so you'd take your shirt off —

There, in all their faces did I find my hunger—
and you saw it.

There, where hunger is nameless—
only the slam of a door,
and the absence that lingers—

There will I lay your silence to rest,
step out the door,
and seek another silence.

And the Thinking Blogger Award goes to...

2007-04-20T21:37:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, Tamie named me as one of the 5 lucky recipients of her Thinking Blogger Award. I felt especially honored by the fact that I was the only blogger on the list she didn't personally know. Thank you, again, Tamie!

So, it took me a while (by the time I came back to the luxury of my DSL connection in the US) to comply with the rules for the awarded, which are as follows:

If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote.

And now, it is my pleasure to pick the 5 blogs to give the Thinking Blogger Award to:

something katy
I do have to start with Katy, certainly one of the best things to happen to me in the blogging world. Katy and I met through blogging, less than 2 years ago, strangers mutually admiring each others' work (though it certainly feels now like we've know each other for an eternity). We were so thrilled by our correspondence, musings about poetry and frequent digressions on life, that we decided to start a blog for it. And then, as we became better friends, it seemed we both started writing less. But every now and then I still do find on her blog(s) that post that reminds me why I was so enamored in the first place, and why I still am one of Katy's biggest fans!
mysterious eve
For all those who don't read Arabic, I am sorry--that you are missing on Eve's writing. She does have an English-language blog, but it is different in content and spirit from the Arabic one. And though there has been a few translations of some posts here and there, it still is a privilege and a pleasure to read Eve in Arabic. Very few people writing in Arabic these days compare--even the wit of the lighter posts is a pleasure! And though she, too, seems to have been struck by scarcity recently, her blog remains a trove of gorgeous insightful writing.
Passing for Normal...
The jack of all trades, Mirvat seems to write in every format and subject matter, all impressively well. From poetry to fiction and non-fiction, from incisive (and very well-informed) political commentary to insightful introspective musings and colorful narratives, Mirvat's blog is always a delight, if not a thoughtful challenge. And be sure to have her on your side when it comes to heated debates... Phew!
Silliman's Blog
Even though I highly doubt that Silliman would participate in this meme, this list of Thinking Bloggers couldn't possibly be complete without him. His blog remains by far the gold standard of blogging poetics, and often broader cultural issues. From his invaluable posts of links (perhaps the most efficient way to catch up on brainy reads around the web), to his expansive (and always impressively informed) reviews of books and events, I know of no other blog that even comes close in dedication and consistency of quality. And there is perhaps no better indicator of that than his loyal and passionate readership, as evidenced in the never-ending commentary section.
urban_memories [the unfinished polaroids]
No, I am not biased by the fact that our blogs share the same template, or that we share the same nationality and profession; but I must be at least a bit biased towards the sensibilities that are the cause/result of these commonalities: from the hyper-punctuation of his handle and blog title (that is as architectural as they come, in the contemporary sense of architecture that seems to concern itself with anything but building), to the fixation on memory and ephemerality. Still, _z.'s (see?) posts remain lucid and grounded, always enjoyable and on-the-pulse. But perhaps what I am most biased towards are his excellent comments, which are often more articulate and insightful than the posts he's commenting on.

I’m still not ready to leave

2007-04-14T09:23:00.000-04:00

I’m still not ready to leave, but dare not say it to anyone. There are words behind my eyes still maturing, still not ripe for utterance. I have made a habit of keeping things to myself, but every now and again they weigh on me. Sadness is like that, it begs to be shared, to be spread like a cold. But I am resisting the decadent temptation, this once.

My throat is ready to leave; it is charred with exhaust. But something in me lingers, not wanting to pack just yet. More things to fold within: these congested streets, my backache, unwrapped endings, and the hesitation of what’s to come—I’ll have to pack them all. But I’ll have to unpack them first: lay them on the bed, fold them one by one—I don’t have much room.

But what to tell the dust coating everything and our lungs? What to tell the tired dust?

I shall return. Every now and then I breathe from a different nostril, and always gasp for air.

While I'm Gone

2007-03-29T08:40:00.000-04:00

I'll be going to Lebanon soon for a couple of weeks, my first time since the war... I'm certainly looking forward to seeing my family again, but bracing myself for the worst, in terms of witnessing the destruction--or just the cleared lots and non-existent bridges. I don't think I'll be online much while there (not like I've been posting that often of late!). But while I'm gone, I invite you to visit the newly launched Mad Poets Blog. And I hope to come back refreshed and inspired, with some fresh words up my sleeve.
Take care,
Ashraf

Looking In

2007-03-24T13:49:00.000-04:00

Nothing much changes when you’re back:
dishes still need to be done,
animals fed;
only there’s less room in the bed.
I won’t say it’s lonelier with you than it is without you,
but it is far less convenient.

Scenes of domesticity gone stale:
your constant complaining of dust,
the dog turning her back and looking longingly out,
and my silence.
Rescue what you can!

I am starting to weigh my 30 years,
piling others’ lives across the scale,
making sure I’m always on the losing end.
So what if it comes to this?

Forgive me if I don’t see you as the victory you might be,
but your smile doesn’t count if it’s not for me.
Besides, I’m too busy looking in.

Queering Language - The Philly Launch Event

2007-03-18T21:50:00.000-04:00

This coming Saturday I will be reading at the Philadelphia Launch Event for EOAGH: A Journal of the Arts, Issue 3: "Queering Language" in which I was featured. This online publication is free and includes the work of over 100 contributors as well as editors' statements on this project:
http://chax.org/eoagh/issue3/issuethree.html

Saturday, March 24th, 6pm to 8pm
ROBIN'S BOOKSTORE
108 S. 13th St. Philadelphia

I hope you can make it!

For more information:
http://www.robinsbookstore.com/events/032407.html

Islamica

2007-02-28T19:12:00.002-05:00

The Flight of the Swallow is now featured in the current issue of Islamica magazine, along with In Two Weeks, Ten years, and Seasons.

Many thanks to Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore for making that possible.

Splintered

2007-02-23T17:23:00.000-05:00

We gave up our dreams to fumble at adulthood;
playing house isn't what it used to be.

Our low bed, littered with the week's routine,
was sulking underneath.
It has tired of the relentless cycle of sheets.
The green ones don't look like spring anymore;
only the one that passed: faded, and old.
And the flannel is no longer warm;
its worn out childish comfort now plain immature.

This trudging of the banal,
this endless march of inconsequence,
our illusion of the grand scheme falters under its gravity.
Only frames of domesticity, of ruffled canine fur,
and the reminder of a smile frozen elsewhere;
it buckles under the promise.

Here is life as I would have given you,
sparkling and easy, and devoid of questions.
Here is life as I would have wanted,
clean of choices, and clairvoyant.
Here is life, hurtling onto the landing
padded with dust, and fragile of bone.

Here, where it wouldn't have mattered, did I declare,
Here, I shall remain, a splinter in its eye,
for visions like these are worthless.

What Remains

2007-02-14T20:43:00.000-05:00

When I loved you, stars were brand new still.

I forget the feeling now,
but I remember the side of your face,
wrinkled with a smile,
framing the rest of the world,
dark, blue and radiant,
and paling...

I remember only that I loved you:
the car parked on the side of the road,
sloping, looming over the winding night,
the music that I bend in my memory,
and the rain…

It was the first time it rained.
Leaves were thirsty still, and smiling.
The night glowed like only a sick mind could,
and danced ahead of me all the way.

I forget how I loved you.
I remember only the cobblestone,
the light—yellow and trite—
and your schoolbook of French poetry on the steps.

We always left the sex kit under the seat in your car:
a stolen vial of lube, condoms,
and the rest of my youth.

Some nights I can taste it still:
the humidity in the trees,
the guilt in the parking lot,
the fantasies we spun of our hunger,
and a faint smell of bliss.

Above the steak sizzling on a bed of salt,
there—where you taught me about strawberries,
and champagne, and the other weapons of love—
I was vacant and anticipating,
and prone on the piled plastic chairs,
and you were generous with the pain.

That I remember well.
When even the anger has dissipated,
something like regret lingers.

I call it love, or what comes after,
or what remains.

I call it nothing when I am tired,
and the world rushes in,
and I can barely remember the name.

Bottle Caps

2007-02-11T12:34:00.000-05:00

Bottle caps all over the floor;
some of us leave something behind.
Smile, dear;
sunshine is nothing
if not that twinkle in your voice.

It was a sad day when she realized she was mortal.
“A hundred years from now,” she said,
“I won’t be around.”
And I’ll be sure to miss you, dear,
from wherever I am not then.

Underneath the scaffold papered with life’s residues,
on this frigid night, with life passing us by,
hurried on its Saturday,
blowing warm breath into its cupped hands
trying to capture some fleeting warmth,
I told her, I would never inflict this life on anyone.
It’s not the misery, I said,
It’s the boredom, the anticipation of nothing.

She smiled, knowingly;
caressing, if smiles ever could.
And I wasn’t so sure anymore.

"Queering Language" Poetry Anthology

2007-02-09T08:39:00.000-05:00

. . . is out, and I'm in it! The kick-off event will be in New York at the Bowery Poetry Club this Saturday, and I will most probably be there. Here are the details:

Saturday, February 10th, 2007
8pm-10pm
@ The Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery (@ Bowery & Bleecker)
www.bowerypoetry.com
Admission $5.00 plus 2 drink minimum

There will also be an event for the anthology here in Philadelphia, more on that later.

This online publication includes the work of over 100 contributors as well as editors' statements on this project.

Oh, l'amour!

2007-01-23T22:32:00.000-05:00

Come join The Great Valentine Debate of 2007, Love: Bane or Boon?

Friday, February 2 2007
5:00pm - 8:00pm

At Milk Boy Coffee,
Lancaster & Cricket Avenues,
Ardmore, PA
610-645-5269

Arlene Bernstein, Mike Cohen, Steve Delia, and myself… plus Annabella Wood, Ray Duffy, & Joe Fanning providing the music!

Sponsored by Ardmore First Friday.

Central Library Reading

2007-01-01T19:43:00.000-05:00

Happy new year! May it be a good one for all!

I will be reading at the Central Library in Philadelphia next Monday, January 8 at 6:30 pm. The reading is part of the library's monthly Monday Poets series, and I have the pleasure to be reading with the sublime Autumn Konopka. If you're in the area and looking for something to do on a Monday night, please join us! The reading will be in the beautiful Skyline Room (on the 4th floor, I believe) and the address is 1901 Vine Street.

Hope you can make it!

Ashraf

Program:

December Readings

2006-12-21T20:23:00.000-05:00

Saturday, December 9th at 11:00 a.m.
Mad Poets Review Volume 20 Book Release Party
The Delaware County Institute of Science
11 Veterans Square, Media, PA 19063
www.madpoetssociety.com
Contributors and Winners of both the 11th & 12th Annual Mad Poets Review Competitions read. I read Life on a Beautiful Day which received Honorable Mention in the 2005 MPR Competition.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006 from 7 – 9 P.M.
Celebrate the Winter Solstice with Poetry and Music
At the Belmont Hills Library
120 Marywatersford Road, Bala Cynwyd, PA
(Off Rte 23, Conshohocken State Road)
www.FriendsofPoetry.com
Host Poet Arlene Bernstein (Friends of Poetry)
Featuring
Eileen d’Angelo (Mad Poets Society)
Ashraf Osman (Philly Poets for Peace)
Bob Small (Poets & Prophets)
Annabella Wood & Joe Fanning (Singer/Songwriter/Guitarists)
***
Program:
1. Bohemian Dreams
2. Seasons
3. 'Tis the Season
4. Written Out
5. Café Lutecia
6. This & That
7. Autobiography

Bohemian Dreams

2006-11-27T18:41:00.000-05:00

The year I made it, you weren’t there.
There were fragments of you
plastered on the walls of my throat,
clinging to my voice as if they owned it.
I was there, all eyes, open wide,
taking it in, years later,
always after the fact.
I was wondering where I lost my smile,
and there was its echo.

I see it now,
in the people washing past the subway trains,
my stare fixed through them.
I see it now, the last time I laughed,
stuck like graffiti to the grime.

The fact that I was walking with your ghost
may not be fair, but at the top of the stairs,
as the city splayed itself below
like an immense cadaver on icy grey,
I couldn’t even shed a tear.
I let the street cellist slice me wide
with every sweep of his bow.
He knew it well, that song to which we all bled:
“Je vous parle d'un temps
Que les moins de vingt ans
Ne peuvent pas connaître
Montmartre en ce temps-là…”

I thought I lost it, my voice,
but it was only getting hoarse
until I couldn’t recognize it.
I became a ventriloquist of myself.
And yet the yearning for song never quits,
the way my mother still attempts to dance every New Year,
her protruding kneecaps buckling under the weight of her soul.
It catches me there, the urge to sing,
where the pigeons take flight with horror.
It catches me mid sentence,
with a groan that rumbles like fear.
But I bundle it up—limbs at the scene of a crime—
and drag it here—choppy, bloody and raw—
here where no one sees,
no one hears, no one shudders,
and let it go.