I used to have a love affair

I used to have a love affair,
some people were jealous,
some, still are.

I saw words as an escape so far from what I had allowed myself to become, that I could be seen glowing when engrossed in their partioning, like I was a lantern lit and was arranging flowers.

Nowadays, even though the only sound I made in composing those words was the indenting of a pen onto a page, the scathing of a pencil, or the tapping on devices, and with my background in music, I not only instinctually layered my words down in prosaic meter, but also in aural acoustic rhythm that lulled the listener into calm, still I prefer silence over words, even if they are only read and not spoken.

I prefer burying them so deep inside my that they sprout by force into action instead, because they can’t go anywhere else.

And if I can’t action them, boy have I learned to sit in stillness.

And that’s what happens when you follow the prophetic saying of ‘Whoever believes in God and the last hour (meaning they understand in the pits of them we are both collectively going to experience a time where things will end, be it our own personal journey on this earth or our collective human experience where God will sanction the world and all that is in it to end) should speak goodness or remain silent ‘.

It subdues you with and organic resonance, it pumels you and humiliates you kindly without embarrassing you outwardly.

It ironically elevates you to a noble throne of beholding as the world hears nothing but absolute necessity that is good from you.

Thomas Hardy the poet once said, ‘That man’s silence is wonderful to listen to’ and this had caused me great grief and joy. I understand the litmus of it, but I know the sorrow that must insue for the beauty of it to manifest.

And that’s just it. Silence and sprouting actions, have become a state of wonder to observe for me, even though words have always nurutred me into a world of my own, traversed me across lands without moving a muscle, soothed my heart from wretched heart break over heart break, accounted me from guilt so dark and brought me to the surface of being able to deal with myself and amongst other things, being able to curate words has helped me see, feel, express, be a voice, a sound board, a receiving vessel, an ear, a heart and soul for others to pour secrets into me that if I were to divulge would ruin their lives.

And the irony is, it is they who have become silent towards me, 1not for noble development and spiritual enhancement, but rather openly disregardingly, neglectful, ran their tongues with rumor, heresay and false narratives until amongst their circles, they have lulled and comforted themselves into a caricatured meme of me with words and labels they cannot arrange in any particular order to save their souls, to make a coherent, logical nor gramatically correct arrangement, something metrically sound, something prosaically soothing or at the least something from the depths of their hearts, even if expressed dyslexically, but contains beauty in expression, sounds out a sorrow, joy or stoicicm that enhances the reader rather than entrapping them into a sinful state of sharing absolute falsity because it makes for good time fill between unconsciously hating their lives and not amounting to anything of worth and the dopamine hit of being the giver or receiver of backbiting.

Perhaps you will understand why I choose less words, even with a volcanic heart, and what you receive from me, even if you draw your fingers over my writing with caress, assume they were written for you and you alone, you should perhaps know this, I am not even divulging a crumb of who I am, because I am riddled with a fear and insecurity of there ever being a soul out there capable and worthy of catching it all.

Irrespective of their actually being a soul out there with a baseball mitt of a heart, I choose not to let you in, my family and wife absorb and give enough love to me to exist in my silence.

Where this fear and insecurity comes from, I understand and I have married silence enough and we have become intimate beyond acceptability for me to have seen my wounds and hurts sources.

I’ve chosen to sit with them rather than to heal them. I don’t want pity, I loathe hearing voices attempt to understand me.

The prose has to live on, if only as the seed to silence, so I can sprout enough beautiful action and be remembered not for a collection of burnable books or words I write, but an unforgettable pheromone as I walk in a door, a garden that blooms and makes souls happy every spring, a legacy of wisdom that carries on in the veins of my children, something that benefits humanity in the slightest and reminds them, ‘verily actions are by their deeds’, an anecdote of proof for people that God chose to inspire his Prophet to the word ‘action’, not ‘words’, nor even ‘silence’.

Silence is only the catalyst, it is the action that God waits for….. that is prophetically reminded to us, because quite simply, quite plainly, without complication, right there is the fruit that comes from the seed of silence that grows into action.

Wesam El dahabi


revoltedMy safe space,
my comfort zone,
is too taboo,
so I have to do it alone.

So long as I keep my hyper masculinity on my sleeves,
like bulging biceps or an inflated chest,
I can keep my emotions buried and hidden,
between this fleshen nest.

Men can’t be both,
we’re either too soft,
or too hard,
too together,
or too apart,
fragmented into convenient bits and lots,
able to be filed and sorted into slots,
convenient for comfort,
but let those feelings rot.

Keep them buried,
leave the platform for the meek,
let women herald the stage,
as for men,
leave their emotions only worthy,
for ink on a page.


What’s up with that huh?
Can’t a burly bloke walk the lines of poetic prowess,
whilst like a gorilla, size you up, fisticuffs ready and beat his chest?

-poets delusion

poets delusion

we bathe in the waterholes of confusion
assuming all our worth is contained in a few lines
whilst others hold us up to status of blasphemous measure
and we commit the devils original crime

it wasn’t Adam and Eve that sinned first
it wasn’t that they were tempted by fruit and devil coerced
but when the devil refused to obey, said he is better than them
twas, vanity, arrogance, self worth, all his curse

alas our poetry falls in sentence and verse
and we act, we pretend to be humble and reserved
but it’s recognition of the things we have buried inside
that remains our destruction, unquenchable thirst



Speaking Tongues

I swallowed my tongue long ago.
When I realised the world had no ear for me,
I let it speak in the pits of my belly.

Livid with the anger of loneliness,
It found companionship with my liver,
Teaching it how to fight the fight within.

My gut taught it trust,
Occasionally, my mind would send love letters,
Always a distant relationship.

Eventually my heart heard it’s echo’s
And turned it into etchings.

Still, my tongue lives in me,
On fingertips in poetry.

Poets – one

poets 1

A sharp pencil is a sign of a blunt imagination

New series of random musings on poets.

Don’t be offended, I’ll probably contradict myself a thousand times with musings battling each other out as they come to me.
These are not absolutes, maybe thought provokers at most.
If you hate me or disagree with anything, by all means please comment and let me know how you feel or share with me your ideas.
Ever evolving, I don’t wish to stay stagnant.
With love,

Poetry day

alter of poetry

For just one day, throw yourself down,
Into the throngs of sacred poetry,
For just one day, walk with us,
Find your identity,
In it, there is ravishing beauty,
Something for all hearts to see,
A secret, a riddle, a piece,
For you, and me.

Happy Poetry day friends and fellow writers. Let loose, flare you nostrils and grab those quills.




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

What stirs inside you?



I don’t know my grandfather much. I have vague memories of thirty seven years ago when I was one.
I remember walking the ancient, stone laden back streets of Al-Mina in Lebanon, the Miami of Tripoli with spectacular historic views of ruins against ocean waves where fishermen only go out to pull a catch or two to feed their families for a day.
There is no comparable ocean spray in the world as it’s mist bares witness to the ancients that fought over its right, that drown in its love, that desired and coveted it.
A stubborn people, on it remains in the hands of the Lebanese who only match their stubbornness with a love and generosity unseen in the world.

Parsley spread on kitchen benches being carved into aromatic salads.
Olives so embalmed in their brine, the pickles next to them are jealous. And the oregano to make Italians think they have never planted a seed in their life. Their recipes have made it into plates the world over, but what remains to be experienced are their writers and poets.

Sadly, hipsters prattle off Khalil Gibran without knowing his history, origin or biography. Khalil is an inkling in the ocean of writers and poets we have. Poetry and writing is not reserved only to recluses, it’s everyday talk, it’s on the store clerks tongue, it’s in the field workers hymn, it’s in the labourers chant and in the wife’s scold as she abuses her husband for ogling at the young girl that just past them. It’s our culture. We’re passionately absorbed in words and our nomenclature is bound to it.

I remember my grandfather only by the slow gentle walk he led me by so that my feet could keep up.

Tall, straight dignified posture and a fisherman’s beret, he’d stop me at a vending machine and buy me a Nestle chocolate bar, back when Nestle could be smelt as you peeled a wrapper.

Or he’d stop me at a corner vendor selling Choco-prince biscuits from his cart.

Yes, I was only one, that’s unfortunately all I can remember of him or at least the first image that comes to mind when he’s mentioned, that and his greeny blue eyes that changed with his clothes as if to reflect the ocean temperament that he spent so many mornings on fishing his keep.

He’s my mothers father and she just returned from a visit and began to tell me how he spends his days as an eighty five year old man.

If my introversion comes from somewhere, I know it is most likely rooted in my mothers side of the family as we share a love of words and books so it seems.

He’s a secret writer, poet and vicious reader, acquainting himself mostly with works of history, poetry and religion.

Perhaps that hummingbird is immortal and travels from heart to heart or maybe its seed lies dormant in genes waiting to be fertilised in a member of the ancestral chain. Either way, I never had any desire to travel to Lebanon despite my vivid memories of when I was last there in 1988. I did see him then, but too absorbed in my childhood, I only remember his care taking of his 102 year old father.

It seems that has somewhat been awoken as I wouldn’t mind sitting with that old man, perhaps now taking him by the hand and walking him slowly to a broken Roman stone on an otherwise forgotten part of the landscape, armed with pens, books and silence, we could converse and share quiet.

Maybe we could calm that hummingbird inside us both.