Monday, April 23, 2007

My Lover

You ask for a lover with a frame of gold,
To hang on my social wall of achievements.
You ask for a lover with a full package,
An economic status of comfort,
A man-given title of significance,
And a God-given gift of reproduction.
You ask for a lover to fulfill my image
And preserve your honor.
You ask for a lover to control my days,
And free me from your disappointed looks.
You ask for a lover to grant me significance,
And finalize your plan of a secured life for me.
You ask for a lover that belongs to your standards
More than he belongs to my bed.
Within that bed I preserve my true lover’s scent,
And within the crevices of my skin.
My lover is the air from which I breathe,
The fire that burns my wretched soul.
My lover is the child you want me to bear,
The only achievement I can call my own.
I seek honor in my lover’s luscious kiss.
I seek refuge in my lover’s savage touch.
I seek significance in my lover’s caressing eyes.
When my lover smiles,
Time ceases to exist.
When my lover talks,
The planets halt to listen.
When my lover holds my body tight,
Freedom beats underneath my ribs,
Passion pulses inside my veins,
My eyes grow blind,
And my ears are deaf.
My lover is my final destination,
The cradle of civilization,
The essence of existence,
The only society to which I belong.

Saturday, March 24, 2007


When I was a little girl, I used to have the corny, stereotypical, Cinderella dream of meeting prince charming, getting married and starting my own perfect family. This is what I used to see at the end of my videotaped fairytales. All stories ended with a wedding scene or a romantic kiss, but none stated what happened with the happy couple 20 years later.

No one wants to see prince charming walking through the doorstep of his castle (a representation of a rented tuna can apartment) with the same enthusiasm of a constipated person walking into a bathroom. He would say Hi to his beloved family in an automated voice, throw his bended figure on the couch infront of the TV, hold the remote control in one hand, his mobile phone in the other, close his eyes, open his mouth, and naps till it’s time to go to bed.

On good days, when his wife prepares dinner for him, takes it to the living room, and places it on the table facing the TV, he’s forced to stay awake. This is probably because he failed to create a strategy for chewing food in his sleep, or because eating is something that is worth putting an effort in. During such family gatherings the voice of prince charming is heard on three different occasions (listed according to frequency):
1- Telling his wife he forgot to do the chore she requested in the morning (and repeated over the phone at least twice during the day) because she didn’t remind him.
2- Swearing throughout an entire political talk show.
3- Answering calls on his mobile.

In fairytales, prince charming slays dragons, climbs towers, rides horses, and sweeps his lady off her feet with one passionate kiss. It’s only later, years later, that this lady realizes that the love of her life is a walking shadow of a man.

To him, she’s like the TV, entertaining when there’s nothing else to do, relaxing because with her he doesn’t need to put an effort, and comforting because he got used to having her around.

It’s only later, years later, that she’ll receive only packaged bouquets and only on major occasions.
It’s only later, years later, that she discovers masturbation, and finds more sentiment in a Kodak commercial than in their master bedroom.
It’s only later, years later, that she learns that her prince is moved by losing his keychain more than he is by another man’s lustful look at her.
It’s only later, years later, that she realizes that her prince has left their fairytale and started writing a story of his own.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

A Retired Criminal

It rained for three days in a row.
Waterfalls from heaven,
Floods in the streets,
Rain on my window,
And a pond inside of me.
From within the depth of this pond,
I snatched my ruins,
I looked and stared
At the rust of my childhood.
I looked and stared
At the weeds of yesterday.
I looked and stared
With a smile upon my face.
I’ve lived within a hurricane,
I’ve stumbled in my days.
I saw my arrogant ignorance,
And smelled my decaying innocence.
I walked all the wrong roads,
I climbed the ladder of mischief,
I engulfed the filth of life,
And merged with the essence of defeat.
I was the play.
I was the theater,
And now among the audience I sit,
Watching, smiling, and remembering.
I’m a criminal in a jury.
I’m what I always knew I’ll be.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Family Gathering

I don’t write to express. I don’t write to impress. I don’t write to analyze. I write to make sense of the chaos in my head. I write in an attempt to get rid of my mental war, especially when it starts to prevent me from performing my daily routine. I write when it becomes a burden for me to get out of bed in the morning. I write when following a schedule becomes undisputedly impossible. I write when other people’s voices become incomprehensive mumble. I write when everyone else’s pace becomes rocket speed in comparison to mine. I write when my mind takes over my being but doesn’t know what to do with it.

I sat tonight with my parents in the living room and watched them watch TV. They grew old and far, like I never thought they would. They sat on the same couch but the distance between them could easily fit three more people. Dad was breathing heavily, first with his eyes open, then with his eyes closed. But when it was that he fell asleep, I really don’t know, and neither does he. I know that he liked the movie, and that he was excited about it but he can’t fight sleep anymore. He grew out of that. He grew out of fighting.

Mom was looking at the screen with eyes of a child seeing fireworks for the first time. I remembered a few years back when I used to beg her to try, just try, to watch a movie with me. She would sit next to me, turn on the TV, watch the initial scenes and then as soon as all the characters are introduced, she’d laugh and leave. She has many things to do she used to say, accounting, phone calls with friends, next day’s lunch… TV is a waste of time and time is precious. Although her behavior annoyed me a bit but I became used to her, in fact, I admired her for her restlessness. No one who has ever met her could disregard the fire of life blazing inside of her. She wasn’t living, she was alive. She’s been driving for 28 years and yet every time she sits behind the wheels she drives with the enthusiasm of an 18-year-old boy who was recently given his driving license. She turns on the radio the minute she turns on her car because for her it’s not about where you’re going, it’s about what songs you listen to on the way. She’d put music while cooking, music while packing up her summer clothes at the beginning of winter, music while arranging the pharmacy’s stock, music throughout the day because to her, life is a festival; she may not know how to dance but she sure knows how to enjoy its rhythm. Now she gazes at the TV completely indulged in the movie, unresponsive to my deliberate attempts to disrupt her attention by trying to open up a conversation with her. She finally found time to waste. The pharmacy still needs accounting reviews, her friends still call her at night, and lunch still has to be prepared for next day. But at some point along the way, her roaring soul grew deaf to the festival’s band. No, it’s not an obligation for growing up, it’s a choice. People call it wisdom, I call it surrender. People call it stability, I call it imprisonment. Mom made me believe that the older one gets, the more reasons he has to celebrate. I’ve seen her walk out of her party for the past three years. I’ve seen her walk out on herself.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Kafra and Siddikeen

It started raining last night, not the sweet gentle rain, it was crazy. I've never heard so much thunder, with such horrible intensity and relentless frequency in my life. It was like mother nature was screaming her lungs out. Rain was pouring as if heaven has exploded over our heads. All night, and all day today. It calmed down an hour ago. When this storm started, the first thing I thought about was the tent I saw in Kafra.

Last Wednesday (4 days ago), Jojo and I took Ahmad and Joseph to a trip to the South to check it out after the war. We went to Saida, Sour, Qana, Siddikeen, and Kafra (Jojo's village). We were stunned, especially as we drove in Siddikeen. Siddikeen is a poor village next to Qana, it was packed with small houses before the war. I know it cause we used to pass by it on our way to Kafra (there's no buildings or villas there, Siddikeen is one of the poor, quiet villages). We drove around it, and there was nothing, literally nothing. With no exageration, only 2 houses remain, nothing else. There are a few houses that have been massively destroyed, and all that's left of them is a roof (no doors, no walls, no windows, no furniture, no nothing, just a shaken floor and a roof). We saw families living in these houses, having their ftar under that crumbling roof (we passed by them at around 6:30 so it was time for ftar. We ate in the car). The entire village is being sold as iron rods and stones, that's all that's left of it. People say Siddikeen is being sold in kilos, and sadly, it is true.

Kafra is no better. When we drove in Kafra, it was around 7 p.m., and was already dark. We passed by a house where Jojo's relatives used to live (her mother's uncle's house), there were 2 tents in a flat land. The mother was cooking infront of the tent, 3al daw 2andeel el-kaz [by the light of an oil lamp], and the entire family was sitting in the tent, on the small land where their house used to be. What did they do in this storm? What did those families in Siddikeen do? With no walls, what in the world can a roof do?

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

To Bouboo in war

I’m writing you an e-mail , which I’m not sure when I’ll get the chance to send to you (since we don’t have a regular phone line here), but I have an urge to write to you, I have an urge to write. It’s the 19th day of war, and el-7amdillah we’re still doing well, all of us, something we used to take for granted. I’m not going to discuss any political opinion (cause we’re fed up of political discussions, in all their forms and aspects), and I’m not going to discuss war facts and numbers cause this is what the news is made for, I’m just going to tell you about me, about us, about people.

We’re staying here, where the war hasn’t reached yet, for how long, I don’t know. There’s no bombing here, no shooting, the children play football all day, and people are gathered on the balconies having coffee and argheeleh, and yet we don’t feel safe. Every night when we go to bed, we fall sleep on the sound of “ta2irat el-2istitla3” [reconnaissance planes], and on bad nights, the low flying of military planes. The sound makes you wonder whether you’ll be tomorrow’s headlines or whether it’s someone else’s turn. Most nights I wonder if I’m going to wake up the next morning, and if we’re all going to be OK. I got used to sleeping on the ground after we decided that the living room is safer than our bedrooms (since the bedrooms have a panoramic view whereas the living room faces another building). For 19 days now, every night, I pull down the living room “tara7at” [cushions], spread my sheets and my pillow, and gather the things that are dearest to my heart in a small bag that I keep right next to me on the floor. Every morning I wake up, take my sheets and pillow to the bedroom, make my bed, put “el tara7at” back into place, and hide the small bag in my closet. The lies we like to believe…I’ve watched hundreds of buildings fall since the war started, and not one, not one, had a preserved room. They crumble like sandcastles, and the waves make no difference between a living room and a bedroom, or between a mattress and a bed.

I’m not complaining. In fact, I thank God a million times for being so lucky. I’ve seen families standing on the pavement waiting for a ride to safety when the Israelis threw “manshourat” [flyers] on El-Da7yeh, but all buses were full, and everyone was escaping with no regard to whom is left behind. I’ve seen men leave their houses and their stores with nothing in hand except pocket money and ID (el-hawiye), and then sit in a stranger’s house watching on TV their lives’ work and savings getting burnt into pieces. I’ve seen children, women, and elderly stacked in school corridors, waiting for someone to pass food and water for them and their babies. I’ve seen youngsters in the prime of their lives, sleeping in gardens (jnaynit el-sanayi3), being photographed and videotaped like zoo animals, deprived of any form of shelter and privacy. I’ve seen doctors in the South screaming on TV that the hospital in their surrounded (mo7asar) village needs anesthetics because they ran out of drugs and they’re operating on lucid and conscious patients. I’m talking about living people since I started out by saying that this e-mail is not going to be about the massacres, it’s not about the dead.

For those, whatever I say is in vain. No one can do anything for those who were brutally murdered, or for those whose loved ones have been mercilessly killed. For those, even condolences are pointless for nothing, nothing in the world, can ease their engrossed pain.
I’ve seen on TV, and heard from the balcony of our house here, el-da7yeh getting bombed for over 10 days. Nothing is left of my childhood town. The ruins of the buildings, stores, gas stations and streets crumble on top of each other like dirt on a decayed corpse. It took me 23 years to memorize the streets and alleys of da7yeh, and it took them less than a week to cease its existence. There’s nothing left of it. I saw a man on TV standing in the middle of the ruins in Haret Hreik looking around in astonishment. A reporter came to ask him what’s wrong with him. He replied that he can’t seem to find his house. He didn’t even know if he’s in the right street, or the right neighborhood. They all look the same now. Sfeir’s bridge was also totally destroyed. It is the bridge that links Taree2 El-Matar to Hazmieh, and it was almost completed by the time we had to leave Borj. We were anxiously waiting for it to finish, especially that we’ve been using the accomplished part of it (the one that links Borj to Galerie Sim3an) for over 4 years now. I’ve crossed it and drove underneath it more than 5 times a day. It was my welcome home sign after spending the day outside el-da7yeh, studying, working or simply cruising. It’s bewildering how much we relate to our place of birth, and our place of growing up, and our place of work, so what if all three of them are situated in the same street? That street is home. I wonder where did the old man that pushes a grocery cart, and sells the best fruit in the neighborhood go. Did he take 3arabeyto [his cart] with him? I was driving 3 days ago in Borj and da7yeh, and on every corner my mind drew for me what my eyes were used to seeing. The small van selling coffee and Nescafe near the beginning of Sfeir’s bridge. The old men having argheeleh in an old coffeeshop right next to Farouj Al-Khalil.

The boys changing someone’s car’s tires in the tires shop facing Medco gas station at the entrance of Borj. But this time my mind fooled me. They were all gone, scattered around Lebanon, like the rest of us, the living ghosts of a past life. As I got home, I looked around the empty street. This was probably the first time I find so many parking spaces for my car. I ran on the dusty stairs towards my house, towards the roof where I kept my cats.

The minute I opened the roof’s door, two of them ran towards me, rubbing their backs and their noses on my hand. The other two sat as far from me as possible as if blaming me for the explosions they’ve been hearing, for the black dirt covering their white coats, for the isolation that was forced on them. I wanted to explain to them the situation, and tell them that the place we ran to is already crowded with people, which is why there is no place better for them at the moment. I don’t think they want to listen for my justifications because we both know it won’t do them any good. In war, the most ridiculous thing you can give a person is a justification.

On my way back to Kaifoun, I knew I had to fill the car with gas. We all know that there is still a good reservoir in the country, even after the Israelis bombed gas stations and gas tanks, but the major gas station owners decided to pass only few amounts to the public so that they get the chance to raise the price of gas. I passed by many stations but they were all closed, either empty or pretentiously empty. When I finally reached a gas station that felt enough pity for us so as to open, I had to wait in line for my turn. I waited for around 15 minutes to reach the gas hose. I told the man in charge that I want to fill it up. He said he’ll fill an amount that costs 10000L.L. not more because he has to serve other people, and there’s not enough for everyone. I said that my car needs more than that amount. He replied that I should fill from more than one gas station since they were doing the same. I paid, and left. The things we used to take for granted. I used to fill gas in my car only after the empty sign lights because I was sure that there’s always a gas station nearby, wherever I am, and it was always ready to serve me, fill up my car, wipe its front and back glass windows, and even give away small gifts like tissue boxes, cups, and bowls, just for the mere satisfaction of the client. Now, the client drives around in a half-full tank, begging any man seen standing on a gas station to put some gas in his car, if only an amount equal to those he spent looking for more gas. I used to think that whenever I turn my bathroom’s faucet, water will come out. I used to press the electricity button with an automatic expectation that the room’s bulb will light on. I’m not certain of those anymore. We get electricity 12 hours a day, and there is water as much as we’ve bought from the water distributor at the beginning of the week. All of a sudden, everything became scarce. Gas, electricity, water, money…Thank God, we still don’t have money problems, but we’re scared to spend. Mom and Dad aren’t working. No one has worked for the last 20 days, which is why all incomes have stopped. Although there are many restaurants opened in secured places, we prefer not to go. If feels so wrong. We neither have money nor do we accept to sit somewhere, having lunch and listening to music, when we can clearly hear el-da7yeh getting bombed, or when we know that 30 minutes away, in the south, children are getting mutated and murdered by internationally banned bombs that use microwave rays to cause internal explosions rather than external wounds. No human should accept that.

There’s a lot to say. There’s so much anger from a situation in which 750 persons were massacred, and over 2000 injured for a land that is rightfully ours, for a single plea of prisoners exchange. How can anyone actually believe that Israel is defending itself? In war, the most ridiculous thing you can give a person is a justification. It’s useless.

Monday, July 24, 2006

I don't mean to depress u...

"I don't mean to depress u with my msgs, I'm just hoping zat ur voice may reach higher than mine. Till now 340 died, 190 are children (aging 60 days to 13 yrs), & more zan 1200 injured. They're bombing ambulances carrying the wounded. Many bodies are stuck under destroyed houses coz they're bombing anyone who tries to pull them."

Saturday, July 22, 2006

An urgent message from my sister...

Bouboo, there are 1500 people stuck in underground floors of a school in Bint Jbeil in the south. The Israelis are not allwoing them to leave, & aren't allowing the Lebanese RedCross or the international RedCross to deliver food, water or even drugs to these peopl, for 5 days now!

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Another message from my sister

July 19 @ 2:55 pm:
They bombed an orphanage! The bastards bombed orphan children bil Jnoub! They also bombed civilian buildings in Jnoub, supermarkets, & farmers in Beka3. 60 died.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Messages from my sister, Maya (Boubeyeh)

My sister, Maya (Boubeyeh, that's my nickname for her), has been sending me text messages from Lebanon. It's 3:30 am there, and she can't sleep from the sound of the bombing. So she's been sending me text messages on the phone. When this whole mess started, she was unloading on me with these text messages, and since I was wound up already with anger and worry, I told her to take it easy on me. She did, but there is nothing else for her to do right now, up at night with the electricity off, but send messages. So I thought I'd share my burden/pleasure with the world, on her blog...

July 12 @ 8:32 pm
Hello 7abibi. We're sitting in B3albak theater,waiting 4 Fairouz 2 come out.El-3alam da3waso ba3ed just 2 reac their seats.Z South is badly damaged but we're OK.

July 13 @ 1:49 am
Bouboo we're all in Kaifoun.Mom & Dad left Borj,& Jojo dropped off Ahmad & me here on our way back from B3albak. It is coz we're expecting Israel 2 hit el-da7ye.

July 13 @ 7:51 am
They bombed z airport runways.Now z airport is closed &all flights are cancelled.They also bombed houses &all bridges in Jnoub, starting Saida. 21 died in Jnoub.

July 13 @ 4:14 pm
El-kalbe Condalisa Rise declared that HizbAllahshould free the 2 soldiers without any condition.She forgot to tell Israel to stopshooting at families in Jnub.

July 13 @ 10:28 pm
Bouboo,they're gonna start bombing el-da7ye. Nadine,Shereen & Nada came now to Kaifoun.Amto stayed at Tant Siham's house. We're OK 7abibi, don't worry.We love u.

July 16 @ 2:21 am
Bouboo they're bombing el-da7ye nonstop.El-7amdilla we're here but z noise of z explosions bi khawfak3al bashar wil 7ajar.They pushed us 20 yrs la wara,Love u.

July 16 @ 3:09 am
When z Israelis give us hidne,& we go to Borj to get clothes,I wanna take my cats & drive them to a christian petshop. I can't go to da7ye to feed them anymore.

July 16 @ 3:20 am
No,I can't. U got my previous msg about bombing el-dahye? Jojois sleeping in her car bi malja2 ta7t bayta biBeirut.So is Rasha.Khalo Ousama on duty bi Bahman.

July 16 @ 3:28 am
No, just me.Mom &Dad are asleep (Dad took Xanax,&Mom had a bottle of wine),&Ahmad is sleeping too.Khalto Samar & Tant Salam are taking Deanxit.We miss u ya 7ilo.

July 16 @ 3:45 am
I wish things go back to how it was when u were here 40days ago.Everything was safe,& u were close.I'm gonna try to sleep so goodnite for now 7abibi. 7ibak ane!

--Ashraf a.k.a. Bouboo a.k.a. arch.memory

Monday, October 17, 2005

Beyond Serenity

Standing on the broad walk,
I stop to look at the sea.
How I love it.
I can't even describe
The happiness it brings to me.
Right now it's beautiful.
It's calm and bluish green,
Just like I expect it to be.
No waves,
No wind,
No seagulls,
Just water, serene and sedated.
That's what I see.
I wish I'm blind.
If I were blind,
I wouldn't see the corny disguises,
I wouldn't be fooled
By the esthetic façade.
If I were blind,
I'd hear beyond the silence,
And see beyond the mask.
If I were blind,
I would be able to hear
The screaming of the tortured deep.
If I were blind,
I would be able to see
The turbulence in the agonized waters.
A million stories lay at its bottom,
A history that goes back
To the beginning of time.
If I were blind,
I would be able to smell
The rust that ate up
Long-forgotten laughters,
Horrifying scandals,
And a wisdom as old as sand.
To me it looks numb,
To me it looks carefree,
To me it looks slightly troubled,
To me it's only a surface.
If only I were blind,
I would be able to hear,
I would be able to listen,
I would be able to decipher
And hopes.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

On the Way to Heaven

I had this dream yesterday that I was sitting in an elevator, a huge volleyball court sized elevator, that was terribly empty. There were eight of us in that dull room, not speaking nor looking around, each was just staring at a spot he had taken as a tiny shelter for his lost eyes. But, I had this feeling that we were nine, and I don’t mean any spiritual spirit or angel, no, it just felt like we were simply nine. The light was very strong, white and blue, the kind that would normally make you completely blind. We were on our way to heaven. There were a few chairs, white chairs, scattered around the place. About four persons, the shells of broken souls, were sitting on these chairs with their backs slightly bent, and their elbows resting on their knees, while their sickly white hands were holding their exhausted heads. Some were wandering around the place, nervously, like children who have done something wrong and are hearing their parents’ cars approaching. I looked up and saw one man staring straight ahead from the elevator’s only window. His eyes were the eyes of a kid looking at two toys that he loves so much but is obliged to choose only one. Those blue eyes were so eager to go out and dance crazily with the sleepy clouds. Suddenly, the lights went off and the elevator stopped. But still, no one uttered a word or even a remark but I had this feeling that everyone was still keeping his old weary-like position. It was so quiet and sad. Then, a voice came out: “God I was a foul. I kept praying and asking God to take me away from all that chaos down there, to relieve me from all my suffering but now I realise what a sweet hell it was. I miss it already. I really do.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Excuse me?!”
“Well, do you or not?”
“I don’t really know. Sometimes I do when I’m too happy and don’t want the diminishing reason for such ecstasy to fade away, and thus have to hold on to something. Or when I’m too frustrated and just have to blame someone, someone I know would not answer me back or prove me wrong for such an accusation since I won’t be in any position to defend myself.”
“Well, I don’t. For one thing, I believe it’s wrong to believe in an unfair God. Good people suffer for no reason, justice is never served and all the power rests in the hands of those who misuse it. And what does He, up here in the shadows, do? Nothing, simply nothing. Furthermore, I’m not ready to prevent myself from earth’s pleasures and gifts, that are worth living for, just because of an ancient promise of eternal content that, for all I know, may be as false as this weird and unproved existence of an upper force.”
“How can you say such thing? Who else would’ve created what we had? Who was on your side when everyone else wasn’t? And...”
“He wasn’t always on my side, that is if he’s there at all.”
“Well all the miracles that happen everyday, who turned them into a reality? Why are they so unexplainable and no science, no nothing, was able to emulate them?”
“You believers just can’t look at the picture from a different perspective. See it all and then explain. If you couldn’t analyse what is going on maybe it’s just that you’re not putting enough effort, you’re not seeing clear enough. You’re blinded by the seductive ease of going in a path of such faith that free you from all responsibilities of explanation towards yourself and others.”
“Well did your atheism get you anywhere? Anywhere at all? You’re as lost, as confused as the rest of us, with unanswered questions but with more sins to pay for.”
“Personally, I can’t imagine life, the world as a whole without a God. It’ll look so insecure. Actually, I feel much more protected and reassured knowing that there is someone or something watching me wherever I go, trying to look after me as much as He possibly can, since I’m not alone on this earth and thus, can’t be His only concern. I’m pretty sure that if there weren’t any God, I’ll make up one just for my own sake.”
Suddenly, the lights came back and everyone was quiet again. No hum or whistle, the same old silence. The elevator started to move again and everyone around, as I stared doubtfully, was still in his old, sad, nervous and weary-like position. God I felt so lonely.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Shake Hands

A few years ago,
When walking on an old sidewalk,
I noticed a question mark passing by.
She was walking in the crowd,
People shoving it back and forth.
She held a bottle of water in one hand
And a handkerchief in the other;
She’d sweep the dirty brownish sweat off her forehead,
And curse the biting emission of the ruthless sun.
I remember seeing it in a great hurry,
Extremely late for something.
She was running hastily,
A nervous, anxious look reflected her troubled self
And glared in between the red swollen cheeks,
The sweaty face,
And the begging tired eyes.
She was late.
It was serious.
I only stared.
Suddenly, she started shouting and screaming.
Nobody looked, they were wiser;
They were duller…
They were more tired.
And the question mark went on wailing,
So hopeless, so frightened, so in needs.
At that moment I felt sorry for her;
I started to move in her direction.
Slowly and cautiously I headed towards the poor wretch.
I reached for her scraggy shoulder,
And gently laid my hand on it.
“Ma’am, are you alright?”
She turned her glistening face sluggishly
And stared at me.
Her eyes were now radiant,
Sparkling with glee.
She smiled tenderly and put her wrinkled hand on my head.
She combed my hair smoothly,
And she smiled at me.
So gentle, so thankful
She smiled at me.
I was still.
I couldn’t move, I didn’t want to move;
I was her salvation.
Her hand was mild,
Her touch was supple,
Her smile was gleeful.
I closed my eyes
And felt a cool breeze singing in my face.
Just then, the question mark started gouging out my inside.
And calmly penetrated my skin and rested within.

From time to time I used to feel a little pain.
I used to curse this question mark
But it was too late.
It was settled.
The pain I bore, the emptiness I ignored
But after a while, the question mark got a child.
She named him ‘answer’
But called him ‘right’.
Nowadays I cry from the pain,
I scream with agony
And it is driving me insane.
I talked to his mother and she promised he’d behave.
Yet he still wanders around in there,
Laughing with an utmost ecstasy
Because not all kids have such a huge playground,
All for himself, too.
“Right, son, do you want to take it easy?”
“No, Mom, why did he make me
If he knew I was this destructive?”
“You’re right, son, you’re right.”

Saturday, July 09, 2005


A pile of void with a sting of hatred, boredom and disgust,
A feeling of emptiness and deafness in a soul that has rust.
A mind turned stiff and black
As if I have been slapped.
I don’t want to talk,
I don’t want to laugh,
I just want to sit behind the glass
Watching with no expressions
All of the out world nonsense.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

At the End

The party is over,
The guests have left.
A smile, a joke, a friendly comment…
And then she closed the door quietly.
She turns around and leans tiresomely at the wooden door.
She stares at the floor and sighs.
The party is over.
The friends are gone.
The laughter mopped away along with the plastic plates,
Plastic cups, forks, and colorful balloons.
The party is over.
She will now take off her tight, so very uncomfortable sexy dress.
She will slip into some old slippers with faded colors.
She will undo her hair.
She will wash off all the makeup.
She will sit on the old cozy sofa for some TV before going to bed.
The party is over,
And the guests are gone.
She lies on her bed,
Still dressed, with full makeup and a stylish hairdo.
She looks around her empty bedroom;
She knows time will come to face it.
As she gazes fearfully at the walls, the ceiling,
And the small tables scattered around,
She cries.
A tear, a hurt, a refusal, and a burning sensation.
And then, another tear;
She squeezes the pillow so tight…
Harder and harder.
She cries.
The party is over.
She looks upon her room,
Upon her life,
Upon herself.
And she squeezes the pillow some more.
She waits for the teardrops to dry,
She organizes her bed tidily and stands up.
She notices some pieces of her heart dispersed wildly.
She pushes them under her tidy pillow,
And calls after her aging soul
To clean up this mess.
After all, the party is over.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Somebody inform him that he’s dead

He doesn’t know what the fuss is all about.
Why are there so many people?
Why is everybody wearing black?
Why are they crying?
He shoves his way between the devastated wretches;
Nobody looks at him,
Nobody notices him.
“Maybe they are just too mournful to see.
It must be somebody dear to them—
To some of them.”
He sees his best friend sitting at the corner;
he runs to him to see what’s wrong.
He puts his hand on his shoulder and looks at his face;
He is sobbing silently, his eyes so distant as if dreaming.
He pats on his friend’s shoulder and asks him, “What’s the matter?”
He doesn’t answer.
He asks him again, more gently, more tenderly.
He doesn’t answer.
“Probably it is someone close and he is too shocked to answer.”
The man decides to ask somebody else.
He moves around the room asking everybody
And it appears that he knows almost all of them.
Yet nobody answers him.
At that moment he hears somebody shouting his name;
It’s his mother.
He follows the voice, trying not to run,
Till he sees her.
She’s wailing, all dressed in black,
Surrounded by other women.
He knows every single one of them.
She cries out his name again and again
So he runs to her and drops on his knees beside her.
She doesn’t see him.
He yells out to her, “Mom, what’s wrong? I’m here!”
But she doesn’t hear him.
He feels warm blood burning him from the inside;
Startled, furious and baffled he roars out again and again.
Nobody can hear him.
Nobody can see him.
He collapses in the middle of the room,
And he feels himself falling.
He looks around but is still in the same room.
Minutes later he sees them all going to the cemetery.
He follows them quietly and walks near his friend
Who is still silent and dreaming.
On reaching the final hole, the eternal pit,
A coffin, which he hasn’t seen yet,
Is slowly lowered into the grave.
He watches the despondent faces with ever regretful eyes,
And starts crying.
He takes a look at his mother;
He has never seen her this feeble and anguished.
He can’t take it anymore.
The body is lowered,
The shrieks and laments roar,
The people depart…
And he stands there all alone.
He is looking at his grave and crying his misfortune
When he glances at his stone.
He gets closer to read and there, as expected, is carved,
“Only those who spend their day wide awake
Know that they are asleep at night.”

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Tender Knowledge

Just a note, one note,
And then the music stops.
The room is filled with silence;
No echo is heard,
Only a few footsteps now and then.
And it feels comforting:
The serenity of the casual air,
The tenderness of the plain walls,
The winks of the old cracks on the usual road.
Without ever blinking, the eyes stare;
Images carefully grooved,
Smoothly dusted,
And gently kissed.
They don’t seek to be comprehended,
Each falls upon its shelter,
Each knowing what it needs to know,
Each gladly appreciated.
A soul is smiling, happily:
It is warm in there.
A note is suddenly heard,
The same note banged again.
It’s loud, so loud!
The soul holds its tiny hands to its tiny ears,
It looks around for an explanation,
With eyes lost and frightened.
The note is banged again,
Its echo roars,
Takes an image and pushes its way within.
The soul looks around,
Its eyes wet and mournful,
And amid the blur of a soaked vision,
It sees the blockage of the cracks,
The ferocity of smirking walls,
And the filthiness of a too clean air.
The same note is banged again.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Drop by Drop

I can remember the orange reddish trees
I can remember the sweet chilly breeze
I can still smell the assuring scent of the freshly wet grass
The tiny drops of the chuckling rain gently kissing the windows' glass
The shops on both sides of the road
Warm and friendly, with jazzy lights on their doors.
There is people,
happy people,
Standing under the rain ,
Drenched to the bones, but with not a single complain.
Some are running to their cars with torn newspapers over their soaked heads
Probably thinking about the moment they'd lie on their cozy beds.
The horns beeping madly in the hysteric traffic,
People swearing, shouting, everybody thinking everybody else is lunatic.
The sidewalk crowded in the most unbelievable way,
everybody thinking everybody else is the hunter and he's the prey,
I can still imagine myself struggling in that adventurous cruise
When all I want is a freshly made orange juice.
I loved the mess, the inconsiderate cry outs and the throng,
I loved the sound of the rain sweeping back and front
the dirt, the lost key, the broken bracelet of a reckless teenage,
the 250 coin, the stability of a cement which stood out for a certain phase.
When it rains, the day never ends
it imprisons you like a solicitous fence;
Walking under the rain is washing your fears away,
It is you rising; it's praying in its most graceful way,
It's God whispering through you, hugging you:
You've wished the world and now it's true.
Each drop is dying at your feet,
And before it vanishes, it looks at you and smile with ease:
"Everything's all right so don't you weep,
Calm down and put that anger to sleep.
If it makes you feel better, go ahead and cry,
Just remember that I've crossed this whole remoteness just to die.
So if you're searching for an explanation, don't bother anymore,
If you people knew the answers you wouldn't be this great at all;
I love how you brush your hair on a stormy day,
You clean your boots before going out to play,
You drive your new clean cars on the muddiest roads
And smile while carrying the heaviest loads.
You walk on a path uncertain where it would lead,
Tumble down a hill with it's edges too steep
Still you try to climb back up, back to the top,
Though knowing that you might be killed at a drop.
And what's ironic is that you don't know what's up there
And I seriously don't know how can you dare.
This day appears to be a stormy one
But if I'm not wrong, it'll soon be gone.
And by the way, I forgot to tell you,
Your hair looks great today, it suits you."
You'd put your hand on your head-
I know because I once stood there instead-
Push your hair backwards, away from your eyes,
And I hope you laugh when you realize
That even now that it's wet,
it's still in the same regular set
With that rebellious lock on your forehead.
Just then you'll remember that the day is stormy just like the drop has said.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

A Flip

My mind is numb,
Anguished with need.
A lustful dream
Waiting to be unleashed.
My heart aching with desire,
My body burning with a screaming fire.
Lips ripened with cravings,
A yearning for a blissful clutch,
For a peaceful surrender
To a demon in ecstasy.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

To the Room

He opened the door slowly and walked in.
I heard the heavy footsteps on the wooden floor,
Like those of a tired dream.
I could hear him breathing,
I could hear the despondent, tedious sighs
Whirling around these old, tired remains.
His countenance chiseled, carefully, gingerly,
So deep a wound, an imperishable reminder of a past,
Of an age existing only to be regretted.
A step debilitated by time’s whimsy,
A breath clogged with life’s duping breeze,
A body halted by the haste of precious never-ending days;
A human transmuted into a fleeting memory,
A trite wish on a birthday card,
A rhetorical “How are you?” on a wretched day.
A defunct tow of a dispersed hope,
A corpse in an involuntary motion,
A burden jumbled with nostalgia.
His eyes are empty; dark deep breaches,
So lost, contrite and wanting;
It’s the longing, the pleading for a second chance.
His eyes empty, so empty
With a dim blink of madness… dead now
Yet pleading for a second chance.
He wanted to sink in the ruthless desires,
The devastating melancholy of a heart
Torn in confusion, wonder and perplexity.
He stepped forward, yes, one more useless step
Towards the stairway.
A drag, a lift and a breath; we call it a man.
He reached there, he made it; what a will! What a victory!
He lifted his eyes (for the first time now since he walked past the door),
Put his weary, puckered hand on the staircase banister and stared upwards.
Moments passed standing there, staring.
He could see the flights of stairs, followed by other flights of stairs;
They lead definitely to the room, no doubt of that…
Yet, he saw a lot of stairs.
He moved slowly, very slowly, and sat on the second step.
He put his hands on his lap, made a quite sigh
And went on staring at the floor underneath.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

A Stick Figure

A monotonous buzzing in a dark room
Throughout a sunny day.
It’s a mind tired of life,
It’s a longing for a break.
No, mine is not a vicious existence;
No, it’s not unfair.
I was granted all I ever wanted,
I was blessed with love and care.
And yes, I’m thankful for being so fortunate,
And yes, I’m truly satisfied.
But now, all I desire is some peace:
And exile of silence,
A refuge of blindness,
A journey of sleep.
I want to drift away,
So far into the unconscious,
So deep into an echo
Of humming souls,
And spirits ever so mute.
I want to be a number in this world of figures,
I want to be a stick figure in God’s painting.
So if anybody asked for the cheerful life-lover,
Tell them she’s not available;
She’s lying in the dark room,
Deafened by the monotonous buzzing,
Smiling with a voiceless mouth,
Unconcerned with the sunny day outside.

Sunday, December 05, 2004

An Organized Mixture

I walk in the corridor step by step, slowly and unconsciously. I’m numb, unable to feel the movement of my hands or the dragging of my legs. I’m an empty body filled with void, void and an echoing silence causing a tender feeling of sleepiness in me. I can hear the whistling song of a calm wind. I can sense that assuring effect of a breeze circling around inside me. Nothing, nothing is disturbing the harmony in this quietness of a drifted away soul. United and attached like frightened mice, even the occasional flashes of deep longings curved in my bones like a wound kindly burning and sweetly hurting. Even this everlasting scar seems to be in coordination with the fading colors of my mute picture.

I can't hear you shouting,
I can't hear them laughing;
Words just pass through me.
I'm an invisible mind,
I'm a deaf ear,
I'm an expressionless face,
I'm a weak body,
I'm space itself,
So empty, so wide
Even I get lost within me.

Saturday, November 06, 2004


I sit waiting
For my people to come.
Hundreds of passers-by
And not a single footprint
On the sands of my memory.

I sit waiting
For my eyes to see.
Thousands of images I’ve watched
But none could I view
When I close my eyes.

I sit waiting
For my mind to feel.
Millions of laughs, talks and cries,
But through it all
My heart and mind were sound asleep.

I sit waiting
For my life to happen.
Billions of feelings, of sadness and glee,
And a lonely promise
Of a god still remembering me.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Beast of Remembrance

The heart is being shredded beyond repair.
The mind is possessed by visions,
Trapped by words,
And driven mad with confusion.
A merciless beast haunts a wretched soul
As it screams, cries,
And begs time for salvation.
An entire being choked by bombardments,
Kneels down to plead for forgetfulness.
It is a prayer to snatch away
The memories of previous years and days,
To step on the dead leaves of a past spring.
But the beast can’t rest.
It crumbles the person’s peace of mind,
And trifles with his loose grab on reality.
As it allows him one final glimpse at sanity,
A bitter sting of regret is instantaneously sensed.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

An Ordinary Conversation

“You self-centered zombie with a blown-out-of-all-proportions ego, who do you think you are? Why do you insist on shutting me out like a child sent to play outside with her new toy and behind her, in the same house, people are crying over her own father? He is her father, goddamn it, she is the one who is supposed to be crying her eyes out over him not them! I’m here, look at me, thinking that you are the world to me when in fact I have no role in your life. Not a single pathetic despiteful role! Don’t walk out on me like that and go with them, I need you. Why do you love being and talking with them at all occasions? Is it because I’ll always be here for you no matter what? Is it because I’ll keep on loving you even if you neglected the fact that I’m alive at all? God, do you have to take me for granted at all times? Huh, tell me, stop right there and tell me for God’s sake. Look at me and TELL me that! Do you? You spend hours over the phone listening to their continuous nagging over sentimental bullshit, being so compassionate and understanding that I would get out of the room as fast as I could in order not to give myself the chance to doubt my sanity. Could this be the same guy who once I open my mouth to express an idea turns the deaf ear and automatically says that he’s too busy to hear me? Yes, HEAR me not listen to me. God, I just want to stab you over and over again till there’s not a single part in you which hasn’t been DEEPLY wounded or drowned with your filthy blood. And then you know what I want to do? I want to cry myself to sleep. Then, when I wake up in the morning, I’ll have breakfast beside your corpse. I’ll eat donuts, croissants, and drink tea so quietly and peacefully but with not a single smile on my face; just a solemn rigid figure with no expressions whatsoever. It’ll be a cheese croissant by the way. So what? Well, after it, I’ll go get a clean, new knife and stab it right into my heart and die slowly with a cynical smile on my face. I’ll like that. How many times have I tried to get out of my surrendered shell and speak out my despair? But no, I always was able to shut up myself instantly. What courage! What will! What self-respect! I’m a fucking goddamn hero for being able to smash down my own dignity! It’s my fault as well as yours and I know it. So guess what? One more reason to hate myself. NO! I hate you more than anything but I love you so. I seriously despise you for treating me this way, I detest you for letting me tolerate the continuous humiliation that you throw in my face. I can’t stand to see you putting me down and embarrassing me infront of myself, and in spite of my suddenly weak will. I’m hurt, I’m so goddamn hurt that I’ll be ashamed of myself if I cry but I can’t help it. I can’t help anything anymore. Though I’ve been dead for a long time now, I’m still suffering from an unbearable agony. And guess what? You never saw it, didn’t even take notice of it. But that’s O.K, it’s too late now. Too late. Too fucking late. Too late to snatch me out of it…it’s too late, too late, TOO GODDAMN LATE…GOD!”
“What’s wrong? I heard you shouting but didn’t figure out what you were saying. I was taking a shower and the water was… you know, so I just couldn’t hear you. What were you saying?”
“Ah nothing, just asking if you were going out tonight?”
“Yes, I’m sorry but I got to meet my friends in a restaurant and then we may be going out for a movie or something.”
“Ah, O.K.”