in the egocentricity of being above others,
by the mere fact they can string a sentence together,
lured by the fetishes of their ever rattling minds,
that what they decipher is actually a cipher of intelligence,
so like an excavator,
indiscriminate in it’s destruction,
they will not relent,
drop to their knees and submit,
that what they know,
The more they ‘learn’,
the further from comprehension they become,
instead, as the great sage said,
‘The more I learned, the more ignorant I became.’
There is no shame in admitting,
after learning, after being enlightened,
of just how ignorant you were.
is nothing more than learning to undo the superiority of knowledge,
we’re conditioned to believe,
makes us better than others.
True knowledge is not being able to find fault in everything you read, hear or see,
the truest knowledge is finding fault within and being consumed with gaining more knowledge to unveil even more of your faults.
An impossible obsession, reserved only for the humble and meek,
unconcerned with the glory and praise of the world.
Wesam El dahabi
If there’s a thing I don’t like about humans,
perhaps I could say it’s their memory.
I hate a memory that cracks like a whip,
the memory that has no empathy.
Even mercy resents it,
ever reluctant to caress their face.
There is no comforting glance,
not even a silken tongue can mend your ways,
if your memory whips and cracks,
ever a temper, ever ablaze.
Reluctant to let things go,
not a detail is left out of your recall,
they ache for your forgetfulness,
a hint of succour, release from your thrall.
There’s no pride in itemisation,
of every past thing said or unto you wrought,
how sage-like, how noble,
is the forgiver, who reduces memory to naught.
Wesam El dahabi
I work with a man who doesn’t know how to leak,
a suffering man,
I feel like showing him what his hurt looks like,
perhaps others will feel less pain around him,
he equates strength with dominance,
he needs to learn how to leak,
and let grief be his poetry.
He doesn’t respond to death,
because he makes excuses for life.
he likes to shoot animals,
call it sport,
beating defenceless things keeps him alive.
I play dead all the time,
he doesn’t like that he can’t kill me,
his him-ness is lonelier than I am.
Funny enough, I’m kinder to him than anyone else at work.
My book on loneliness was smeared,
here I am,
hoping for cleanliness, to strip away people,
that purge has been likened,
but a page has my fingerprint on it.
In his eagerness to kindness,
the barista stained the side of the cup,
my fingers have become less sensitive,
a mixture of winter and hand cleansers taking their toll,
heedless to wetness,
I smudge a page with Rwandan batch brew,
tamarind, smoke, and I can’t tell what else,
they’re good beans.
This page on loneliness,
now a coffee stained page,
has been made beautiful by the generosity of my barista,
today he sees me,
I’m forced out of loneliness.
It takes a total ingrate to continue to withdraw when an act of kindness is brought forward to them. I wanted to be alone, I drove far away just to read and drink a cup or two, but four cups later and my barista taught me why engaging in the world is a higher and more noble act than withdrawing from it. Facing your agony, going against your nature, perhaps reciprocating the kindness on to others, is a higher station.
I know what regret looks like,
and it involves unreachable things,
dim sightedness and satiating an ever lustful urge.
It occurred to me,
you may be waiting for another set of eyes,
I recall witnessing another man accept the same fate.
I wont hold you to account,
nor scold you,
when you waltz them past the boundaries,
you’ve reserved for me for all these years.
I know, it’s hard to look at mine,
see their weariness and be inspired.
Perhaps, you’ll grow to love loyalty.
I’ve witnessed that too.
And the result was regret,
and never a meal eaten without his memory,
a years weeping,
until her eyes wished they never allowed another man’s eyes to touch her.
But that was just an occurrence,
and what does a child know about a grown man’s eyes,
or an uninspired woman.
If you don’t move, you’re pungent.
The irony is,
you need to experience movement,
at its extremity,
to realise the importance of being void of it all.
If you take movement, to be purely physical,
you’re yet to grasp just how much you don’t know,
and are stiffer than you realise.
Your body, mind, heart and spirit are longing for things you’re depriving it off, under the faint notion of faux-choice, intellectual prattling.
You’re not choosing, you’re just ignorant of how things work.
There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.
But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.