-who gave birth to this

who gave birth to this

she must have hated him,
for giving her me.
bashful youth,
how did you bring yourself sir,
to be with her?

she must have hated him,
for pausing her life,
with new life.

she must have grown to love me,
new poetry,
a book of folded pages,
a shelf keep.

still she must of hated him,
cervix to bosom lamentations,
that feeling is awfully familiar.

Who is worthy of the hate,
or do I love them both regardless,
just by default,
the expected thing?

Reconciliation of detachment,
is a haunting thing.
combing the contradictions,
palpating for a pulse,
colour, love and hate blind.

The night – by Jamile El dahabi Zeytoun (mum)

night jez
When the night adorns itself in the coloured robe,
The virgin maidens and the queens of hearts bow to him.

The moon begs, “Can I not be your intimate companion?”
The stars whisper, “We are the ones who have threaded the silken,
and have embroided for it the black cloak,
and have spread upon it,
vastly, a thousand colours upon colours.”

The night answers,
“Release me to my tranquillity and solitude,
for in my black cloak,
the dreams of the virgins and queens take rest,
and in my tranquillity is my rest ever after”

Written by Jamile El dahabi Zeytoun, my mother.

She wrote this in Arabic, and I have translated it.

I will post the Arabic for those inclined.

Are you as confused as I am?


From my father, I inherited a back.

From my mother, I inherited mercy.

From God, I inherited confusion.

How can I be merciful to a man that knows
nothing but toil?

How can I be strong towards a woman that is
as tender as an autumn leaf?

For God, thank you for the confusion, the only
thing that helped me make sense.


Ode to Mother

I say it like March,
But stretched like the skin on her belly she canvassed me with.
Rolling R, like the rolling I did inside of her,
Breaking the insides of her,
Pushing the very fibre of her.
Nine months is a long time,
To live inside someone and not drink from their sap.
I find myself more of her loins than his,
Sorry Dad, the dice just rolled that way,
Or your seed couldn’t fight her current.
She must have been waiting all those years,
To prick the canvas of me with odes of poetry.
Burst water, into light, gushing streams penetrating sight,
I know, I was a bit of a fight.
But look at your fruit, you pruned me right.
She mustered her fetish for books,
In subconscious anticipation for her first son,
At nineteen, her first one,
What have you done?
Thrown into the belly of the beast,
The beauty of you,
Me being the beast,
And your beauty, coursed through.
Endless verse and endless prose,
And you couldn’t resist giving me your nose.
So I wouldn’t forget where to look,
Bang smack between my eyes,
Always a reminder of you,
I like that narcissist touch,
Subtle, all the better to sniff out the leeches, put up my guard,
Hang on, that’s not you,
You’re heart is way to frail to be on guard from people,
That’s me, my heart even frailer,
So I protected it by learning how to fend off anyone,
With blinding fury if I needed to,
All the while, you begged me,
“Don’t hit anyone, please, I know your hands can be destruction”,
And every single damn time, in my ears your words rang true.
And even though I learned the fighting arts,
It was only for deflection.
Here I sit with a wall so high,
But contained, poised, and able to fly,
Words, carry my wings wherever they want to go,
The prayers of love over each meal you blow.
But with you, down come the gates,
Nourished nine months, still going at thirty eight.
Thanks for nearly forty years of seeing me,
But the way I like it, unspoken, softly, silently.

My opus of poetry


Dear child,
You are my opus of poetry.


I wish I was a woman.

Nine months of poetry I would write to last your lifetime.

I’d cook and feed myself with my own hands blowing a prayer over each meal.

I’d read every book of prose, love and of God I could find.

I’d worship, fallen in prostration, yet dancing in elation, weeping for everything inside me to transfer to you.

From milk I would give you for as long as you suckle,

To stare at you in forty years and say,

He is, she is,
My opus of poetry.

When your mother is a closet poet


If I was the poorest soul on the face of this earth and had
to choose between a satchel of millions of dollars and of
what happened this morning I would burn the dollars to
light my path , throw the ashes in the air, and with a
magic spell they turn into stars that shine inside everyone’s
-Mother of W.E.

So at thirty eight, you discover your mother has skills!
Pretty nifty keeping it under wraps for fifty seven years.
She wrote that to me because she was happy about something I did.
Blew me away. I guess word obsession definitely traces back through her lineage

Vulnerable Beautiful


I loved you……
When you were battered and wounded,
Scarred and traumatised,
Ignorant and alone,
What do you think I feel for you now,
That you’ve created a home,
Raised children on your own,
Threaded buttons of love,
Seamed souls and lives sewn,
The art of motherhood honed.
I see nothing,
But a woman on a throne,
Confident, tenacious,
Able to stand alone,
Ready to tear a man with her teeth,
Suck life out of his bones.

And in the end, wasn’t it all worth it?
The pain of travelling,
The blisters of repetitiveness,
The wearing of your sternum,
As you heave yet another breath.
The thinning of being,
The reduction of self,
The realisation of other,
The becoming of mother,
The purified lover,
The shelter,
The cover,
My smother.