Sons under the sun – France, Saudi, same, same


the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.

the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.

Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.

and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
secularist, fundamentalist,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.

what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?

if it were your mother that was dressed,
or undressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?

I wonder,
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
have grown?

This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.


Art by Khalid Albaih




what’s a man to do
when he can’t stand what he sees inside
ironically turn further inward
flee from himself to hide

Because immersion does not become easier as you grow older, you have less head above water, less energy to tread water.
And we who drown, shudder at the idea of mattering, listening to the noise of the outside world with their self love mantras, because we know far better, because we can’t stand the sight of both the inside and the outside.
Who am I kidding, all this effort to show confidence and ability.
I can’t stand living in this hide, but I’m not an ingrate to having one, I don’t think I could live with total nakedness.

-introversion – thirty seven

-introversion – thirty seven

of the womb we never escape
merely transfer
from the inside of our mothers
to the inside of our own
lifelong seeking
the divine home


this obsession is driving me mad
stop this perpetual call
i know, i really do know
it’s me that is calling you with my longing

still, i beg you, stop calling me
there’s only so much longing I have assigned to this world
and as long as you breathe your poetry
play your ney
and your fingers dance as if a flame curling skywards
the clouds will remain jealous of the grass
that imprints your soles,
and they will weep
as I do

and here i remain unable to move heavenwards
anchored to the intoxicating scent of you
worldly myrrh and frankincense
and all this in the vicinity of my home

wrapped around my clavicle
notes on my wrists
i have not even seen beyond my door
and i know a greater grandeur exists
but why, why do you persist

stop your chant
stop your harp
stop your song of being apart

it’s not me you seek but Him as I do
but the world has blinded both me and you
marry your soul and follow through
and your vows to him be true, be true

close your eyes and press your lips
slow down your heart heaves
from the goblet slow sip
move closer, attach at the hip
and feed off this drip divinely lit

open your beak like a bird to it’s mother
receive all this offering of a lover
beloved, loved, loved and beloved
what difference is there, hand in glove
it’s all love, it’s all loving
still, please stop with your hymn and singing
i can’t take this
i’d rather my unbelonging

from mothers womb to my own
from this tomb with golden dome
to misty fume scattered to roam
ancient perfume finding its home


-cocoon and breast

if all I could do was spin words of silk,
what more a profession could I ask for

if only I could nourish like colostrum milk
in this cocoon, in this breast, I’d find my lore

i’d remain inside and find others of my ilk
they’d hear my yearn, wait at my door

oh men and women of silken words
artists and musicians gather your herds

shepard them to the inner, call to its way
and show them the secrets of introverts.


-how to pray

how to pray

-how to pray

poetry is the prayer of the tongue tied
the meek before God
the downtrodden and humble
who dare not raise their eyes in vain


how do I pray she asked
find everything that hurts and make a raft

cut the rope and leave it to the eastern winds

if the raft returns
your supplication has been answered
cut the rope and send it again

don’t be stingy with your conversation with He
He who sends back the raft every time


-Of nearness afar

of neartness afar
-of nearness afar

I needed to find you
Or did you need to find me
Or did you show Him you
Waiting for me to see

Or is this all just triviality
Atoms scattered randomly
Perhaps this artistry just
Be, and it shall Be

Your voice is a breath of mystic allure
Of a beggars longing and hidden grandeur
If only for a moment brings to conjure
It is enough for brokenness a mend, a cure

What do you keep close to your heart
What returns you when you’ve fallen apart
When you miss His push and pull alike
Contraction, expansion, subdue and flight

When His light is not merely enough
When you seek more than angelic touch
When sombre you remain in absence of He
Content in presence though be it deaths clutch

Welcome I’d say to the angel of Death
I’ve been waiting for you since first suckle of breast
This separation from Him is far too much
Take me, don’t wait, even for my last breath

Bury this carcass, it’s naught but a home
Take my riches, and take my throne
Give to the poor and destitute all
My soul has to move, upward roam

To Him to travel to find restitute
To arrive at the original forbidden fruit
To bow and dwell amongst His elite
And find the source of this haunting flute


Inspiration for today…. and probably a few more months.