Souls of men

 

Men let waves of grief engulf them,
hold their breaths until they pass,
surface, and swim on.

Wallowing or drowning is not an option,
men don’t float like spume,
we’re savages raging against whitewash,
but we’re utterly fragile beneath it all,
asking ourselves forever if we’re enough.

What you don’t get to hear is the breaths we hold,
the heartbeats we waste,
the anxiety we covet,
hoping,
we provide enough,
we love enough,
we see enough,
we do enough,
and if we are enough,
then it’s all worth it,
if we die before our anticipated time.

W.E.

An ode to dad, who constantly gave of himself until his last breath!

Chasing the tail of the unknown

I bathe in waves of uncertainty,
I brave in waves of uncertainty.
I’m infatuated with the unknown,
this love affair,
is the elixir of my existence.

I scrape the walls of my soul,
nails bloodied like Qays in search of Leila,
peeling back the veils of the unseen,
just for a glimpse,
a glance,
a dilation of a pupil but once,
a palpation and shortness at once.

Even if they’re my last breaths,
this uncertainty and burrowing towards it,
is far surer than this dragging and temporary.

I have no use for all this mundaneness,
when in the darkness of the morning everything is dead,
and I’m suddenly thrust into the inter-world of life.

One eye open,
the other unwilling,
a physiological metaphor,
an anchor to pull me back from drowning,
my heart hurts and so does my head,
and it daunts me,
that I’m not as in love as I think I am,
this ego trickery,
has dragged me face first into arrogance and assumption,
and shame is now the muse for a time.

Likewise, the unseen does not reciprocate,
show me any signs of acceptance,
is it leading me on, teasing this naive poet,
dragging out a line or ten so that I may realise the uselessness of stretching beyond my means,
or is it stretching me to increase my means?

Maybe, it’s too beautiful for me a companion,
but Divine kindness has intervened with a preview of hope,
because I’m an undeserving beggar,
a dog who’s voice has become grotesque,
who’s request has become insincere,
but on, I request.

W.E.

Image Art  By: Aakash

Self inflicted lonliness

A cure is not required,

when the world is accustomed to hyper sanity,

free me then,

unshackle me from society’s insistence,

that I must breathe like you,

if im accustomed to holding my breath,

and drowning in solitude,

your hyper sanity is hyper sanitised,

and I’m a vagabond of self inflicted loneliness.

W.E.

#poetry

Void fillers and stuff

We all supposedly have big black holes,
bad holes,
voids…
And we choose the void fillers.

At times it’s love, companionship, children, family.
Some choose adrenaline, others  religion.

Food can comfort some, anger, rage and guilt for others.

Art, expressed through the body, mind or spirit is as fitting a filler as can be.

I chose it all except for drugs and alcohol, but I don’t think I wouldn’t have written any differently, lived any differently, loved any differently, fought any differently, nor do I pass judgement on those who couldn’t find another way, whatever they choose.

I’ve hearkened to the darkness of being alone with it far too long to discount someone else’s hole.

But irony is that the hole is needed. There is nothing that can fill it. It’s there to keep pouring things into, beauty into, life into. To keep finding something to contribute to and throw it into it. The nomenclature of our generation has been hijacked by irresponsible and inexperienced liars, sometimes naive,  mostly materialistic liars.

The reality is, it’s not a hole, it’s the inside of you that needs goodness, love, kindness and poetry, it needs music and fierceness. It needs a passion crackling at times and rain to quell it at others.

These are normal things, balanced.…things.

The uncertainty of being able to live up to its need is the driving catalyst.

You cannot loathe that hole, you cannot fill it ever, all you can do is keep inspired and keep creating.

Keep generating energy even though they tell you it cannot be created nor destroyed, fine then, transmute it. But do something.

There’s no dark hole,
there’s no void you have to fill.

To imply so is falling prey to a lie,
a lie that tells you that you need stuff,
to satiate that void,
and it’s all just stuff.

-Wesam El dahabi

The patience of writing yourself into validity

 

I’ve patience yet,
my willingness to endure pain,
and be indifferent,
yet utterly conscious of it all,
until prose has its way with me,
is the blissful dichotomy,
that keeps the tongues wagging,
that keeps the minds piqued.

What is this expressive tragedy of a person,
who feels with his fingers,
writ tangled in webs of distance,
and still rages like he’s love yet to give.

A propensity to violence,
nonchalant and stoic,
and patience yet,
statue like patience.

Like leaves awaiting their decay,
like a woman waiting for barrenness to whither.
I have patience that gives birth to patience,
and I write, knowing,
there’s always another moment of indifference.

W.E.

 

An interesting response to the Christchurch Terrorist

Quite the opposite has occurred you imbecile. Your idiotic wishes have failed, perhaps you’ve given hope to one or two lone sharks, but I guarantee you, you’ve most likely made thousands more take a long hard look at themselves and assess if this utter senseless murder is actually what they aspire to.

But still, you’ve given our brothers and sisters who passed at your merciless hands the highest of statutes, granted them ranks beyond your comprehension, weep as your goals have gone unfulfilled and no one will know you for anything more than being excrement, which served to spring forth more beauty than your ravaged soul could ever imagine.

Below is not mine…

Beautifully written by a Chinese revert. (It is written to the killer who attacked Muslims in NZ)

(I) Appreciate that you made the effort to find out the timing of our noon prayer.

Appreciate that you learnt more about our religion to know that Fridays are the days the men go to the Mosques for their congregational prayers.

But I guess there were some things you, rather unfortunately, didn’t get to learn.

Perhaps you didn’t know that what you did made them Martyrs.

And how you have single-handedly raised the statuses of our brothers and sisters in the eyes of their beloved Creator with your actions. And how, through your actions, they will be raised as the most righteous and pious of Muslims.

Perhaps you didn’t know that doing what you did, at the time and place you chose, it actually meant that the last words that escaped their lips were probably words of remembrance and praise of Allah. Which is a noble end many Muslims could only dream of.

And perhaps you didn’t know, but what you did would almost guarantee them paradise.

Appreciate that you showed the world how Muslims welcome, with open arms, even people like yourself into our Mosques, which is our second home.

Appreciate you for showing that our mosques have no locks or gates, and are unguarded because everyone and anyone is welcome to be with us.

Appreciate you for allowing the world to see the powerful image of a man you injured, lying on back on the stretcher with his index finger raised high, as a declaration of his faith and complete trust in Allah.

Appreciate how you brought the Churches and communities together to stand with us Muslims.

Appreciate that you made countless New Zealanders come out of their homes to visit the mosques nearest to them with flowers with beautiful messages of peace and love.

You have broken many many hearts and you have made the world weep. You have left a huge void.

But what you also have done have brought us closer together. And it has strengthened our faith and resolve.

In the coming weeks, more people will turn up in the Mosques, a place you hate so much, fortified by the strength in their faith, and inspired by their fallen brothers and sisters.

In the coming weeks, more non Muslims will turn up at the gates of mosques with fresh flowers and beautifully handwritten notes. They may not have known where the mosques in their area was. But now, they do. All because of you.

You may have achieved your aim of intended destruction, but I guess you failed to incite hatred, fear and despair in all of us.

And while I understand that it may have been your objective, I hate to say that after all of that elaborate planning, and the perverse and wretched efforts on your part, you still failed to drive a divide among the the Muslims and non-Muslims in the world.

For that, I can’t say that I’m sorry.
(A Radiant Muslim)

How do I feel about Christchurch?

How do I feel about Christchurch?

Indifferent.

I’ve been asked how I feel about the Christchurch massacre. What I gather instead is that I have been asked to feel. That’s not the same. What that really means and then breaks down to is; we want you to feel, even yet again and more precisely; you are being forced to feel.

I don’t take lightly to being forced. I reject any form of it.
I won’t let people or events sway me one way or another.

Call me cold, but I digress to calling it numbness.

I believe people who are swayed so easily by media are in proper reaction mode, and when I say proper, I am not complementing them. They’re proper according to the swayings of what media wants them to feel.

What’s disturbing is people don’t realise it’s yet another sign of the hour coming nearer….

And yet we’re not scared of that.

We’re mortified by an event but aren’t mortified by our insides and what state we’re going to die in at any given moment.

Look at the first person who died.

His last words were ‘salam brother’, he’ll be resurrected in that state.

What is my state? People are asking each other about it , asking how they feel and I don’t feel a thing.

I’m intoxicated in my disgusting state and occupied in it’s disaster. I have my own massacre inside, I have my own atrocities and they’re on a perpetual replay reel. They never stop, I never get to hear the flickering of film at the end of my movie, it’s on constant replay and I am drowning in that. I can’t surface to catch a breath let alone look at the shore or the scenery.

I’m momentarily torn, mainly angry, I cry a tear for but a brief second of recognition, not because these men and women and children lost their lives, but because I’ve still got mine and I’m a walking disaster whilst they were honoured by their Lord to be taken in a worshipping state.

How will I go? Backbiting? Thinking ill thoughts? Hating, angry, lying?

I’m gathering and walking through these states and don’t know if I’ll be taken in one of them. That’s what scares me and should everyone else.

How does anyone know when they will flip the switch, have the devil take them by the hand to commit any of the above mentioned heinous crimes against ourselves? Because ultimately, that’s what the shooter did, he ignored his insides for so long until they took over.

If each of us stopped to fix five of these ugly internal vices a year, just five, then we’d not be having these conversations, feeling these misplaced feelings, have a lot more honour and respect in dealing with each other and truly love one another more.

That’s why I don’t feel, I don’t hashtag or cry for anyone.

I’m too busy, self absorbed in my own sins to hold anyone hostage for theirs.

Wesam El dahabi