infidelity

infideltity
If a bird is rustling away,
in a man’s gutter,
racing to finish it’s nest before the storm,
if a grass blade flicks back dew into the air after being stepped on,
if a car rolls it’s wheel with a nail in it, percussing down the road,
or a child tugs at their mothers dress, unable to speak,
but longing for a suckle,
I hear, see and feel it all, so much at once.

Of the hardest thing to have learned,
is to muffle out this influx of stimuli,
only to relearn how to open it’s floodgates.

I unlearn when ugly is the streaming of happening,
I relearn, when I need to write it all for you to know.

The sight of stringing along a man,
cowardly taking material from him,
in exchange for the faint notion of a proxy security,
is the hardest thing to attempt to un-see,
and yet the most etched image in my mind.

Your gender,
does not give you the right to consume souls.

W.E.

completion

completion
All this time,
you think this wall of me,
is the reflection I seek?

Swollen solitude,
until feet in one place assures you,
you have no place.

There’s nothing as caressing as silence,
when your life has been cavernous with noise,
bottled up rage is louder than any scream vocalised,
and that is why her silence is so appealing.

I despise the man that inflates his flesh,
gorges his appetite until he is inflamed with pus,
with the trickery of trophy women,
loud, lusting and yet longing,
and they both assume,
their flamboyance will carry them,
into the memory of pages,
nay,
into no ones poem.

W.E.

wash to separation

ful

-wash to separation

You smell like longing,
And I’ve never wanted to wear your perfume so much,
But then you linger like clinging,
And I can’t wait to be rid of your touch.

And wash you off,
With abrasive cloth,
Away with your scent,
Remove your gown of sloth.

Pheromone savy,
when your soul is begging,
Odorous stench,
When entitlement abetting.

You wear the pendant,
of a victim-woman,
But all that glitters,
Will dust to tatters,
When I reject your ransom.

Taste then my abandon,
My conviction in non-wanton,
And I serve you my eviction,
From my hearts wagon.

Go you scheming lot,
I was woke to you long ago,
From horizons I see your plot,
I’m not interested in your throes.

W.E.

This flower is called Ful in Arabic, it’s unique to most Arab countries but grows anywhere. It’s known as Biblical Jasmine. Similar to Jasmine but much more heavenly as the name suggests.

You usually find them at the entrance of many Arab homes. It’s traditional to pick them and give them to guests entering and leaving the home. Perfume, is a way to anchor your memory in people’s hearts.

This is the first of the blossom on my little tree.

Futuwa

futuwa

Futuwa is the Muslim concept of putting others before yourself.
It can also be translated into chivalry.

When heard in colloquial circles, chivalry is understood as a noble and gallantry quality that knights used to possess when dealing with maidens and princesses.

But true Futuwa is not attached to self absorbency, nor is it a complete detachment from the self. The self is very much alive and kicking until our last breath. It is just that those who practise Futuwa, hear the self loudly, know it’s hiding spots, know how to draw out the utterness of it’s most base requests and quell it, so as to be of utter service to others instead.

So still, there is an underlying service of the self, indirectly.

By relinquishing the oft call to serve oneself, to put ones needs before others and engage in this myriad of current trending and disastrously ineffective and selfish mantras of putting ‘me’ first, be it in the way of self love, self care, self help, and instead taking the path of servitude to others through choice, through total and conviction filled devotion, one reaps the benefits without them knowing. They illicit indirect self care and very direct appreciation from others, be it manifest and pronounced or temporarily in passing from the receiver of help, albeit, the goal still is not to win appraisal, not to seek the rewards of recognition, but just to do, whatever it is one has to do for the sake of goodness and morality, for empathetic purpose and fulfilment of trust that we are endowed with by God.

The land, people, things, riches all do not belong to us, how can they when WE don’t even belong to us.

I see circles of talk steering people to this empathetic path, but it is not a new concept, just because someone has coined it with a new term or marketable name.

It is, and always will be Futuwa and it is married to Muslim doctrine, most especially Sufi doctrine where it is taught in simple yet very engrossing detail. The sheer and brutal honesty of the way it is taught by their masters does one of two things. It almost always smashes the idols of self worship inside ones self, but it either makes the receiver of the knowledge bow and submit their ego, placing it on to the altar of truth for sacrifice, or it blows their ego up to gigantic proportions in rejection of it. Still, they know the truth inside, it’s just their choice on what to do with it and it’s at that moment right there, where you know if you are self absorbed and selfish or truly selfless.

W.E.

I’m not yours

im-not-yours

Hypocrisy sits well aloft your eyelashes,
green, highlights your envy well,
aren’t you heavy yet,
I would have thought,
all that jealousy is quite hard to digest.

One day, you will ink a thought in my mind,
my conscience might tap gently on my fingertips,
and I will write you once more.

Try, until then,
to know that no one,
and no thing,
belong to anyone,
even the words you so tenderly bathed yourself in,
aren’t mine.
W.E.

the slight of her hand, if only you’d understand

1e114ac8e2f39c4424e3aa08b8015b50

I see in metrics and measure,
the slight of your hand against his,
I know what your fingers search for,
but does he?

Is he aware you’d throw it all away,
if he’d just gaze once with his entirety?

And for this reason,
I, a man amongst men,
am more woman than most women,
willing to stare with more than my eyes,
fierce enough to punish yours,
with a ray into your soul,
until you’d do everything to hide your needs from me.

What more is left for a woman,
who’s had the stare she longs for pierce her soul,
except to veil her beauty for no other man to see.

W.E.