Power hungry ignorants

 

To beg to be understood,
to pant and pander for the approval of people,
is akin to sleeping with dogs.

The world and all that is in has no value,
so what then of the opinion of its inhabitants?

Only the feeble wait for recognition.

I have no patience for those who prostitute their character in favour of status.
Nor those who like children wait for every praise,
I don’t care an iota for myself,
what then makes you think I would care for you?

Leave this wayfarer alone,
leave him abandoned and in search,
lost in the wonder of discovery,
alone in solitude,
drowning in reform.

-Wesam El dahabi

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.  – Abraham Lincoln

Chasing the tail of the unknown

I bathe in waves of uncertainty,
I brave in waves of uncertainty.
I’m infatuated with the unknown,
this love affair,
is the elixir of my existence.

I scrape the walls of my soul,
nails bloodied like Qays in search of Leila,
peeling back the veils of the unseen,
just for a glimpse,
a glance,
a dilation of a pupil but once,
a palpation and shortness at once.

Even if they’re my last breaths,
this uncertainty and burrowing towards it,
is far surer than this dragging and temporary.

I have no use for all this mundaneness,
when in the darkness of the morning everything is dead,
and I’m suddenly thrust into the inter-world of life.

One eye open,
the other unwilling,
a physiological metaphor,
an anchor to pull me back from drowning,
my heart hurts and so does my head,
and it daunts me,
that I’m not as in love as I think I am,
this ego trickery,
has dragged me face first into arrogance and assumption,
and shame is now the muse for a time.

Likewise, the unseen does not reciprocate,
show me any signs of acceptance,
is it leading me on, teasing this naive poet,
dragging out a line or ten so that I may realise the uselessness of stretching beyond my means,
or is it stretching me to increase my means?

Maybe, it’s too beautiful for me a companion,
but Divine kindness has intervened with a preview of hope,
because I’m an undeserving beggar,
a dog who’s voice has become grotesque,
who’s request has become insincere,
but on, I request.

W.E.

Image Art  By: Aakash

Void fillers and stuff

We all supposedly have big black holes,
bad holes,
voids…
And we choose the void fillers.

At times it’s love, companionship, children, family.
Some choose adrenaline, others  religion.

Food can comfort some, anger, rage and guilt for others.

Art, expressed through the body, mind or spirit is as fitting a filler as can be.

I chose it all except for drugs and alcohol, but I don’t think I wouldn’t have written any differently, lived any differently, loved any differently, fought any differently, nor do I pass judgement on those who couldn’t find another way, whatever they choose.

I’ve hearkened to the darkness of being alone with it far too long to discount someone else’s hole.

But irony is that the hole is needed. There is nothing that can fill it. It’s there to keep pouring things into, beauty into, life into. To keep finding something to contribute to and throw it into it. The nomenclature of our generation has been hijacked by irresponsible and inexperienced liars, sometimes naive,  mostly materialistic liars.

The reality is, it’s not a hole, it’s the inside of you that needs goodness, love, kindness and poetry, it needs music and fierceness. It needs a passion crackling at times and rain to quell it at others.

These are normal things, balanced.…things.

The uncertainty of being able to live up to its need is the driving catalyst.

You cannot loathe that hole, you cannot fill it ever, all you can do is keep inspired and keep creating.

Keep generating energy even though they tell you it cannot be created nor destroyed, fine then, transmute it. But do something.

There’s no dark hole,
there’s no void you have to fill.

To imply so is falling prey to a lie,
a lie that tells you that you need stuff,
to satiate that void,
and it’s all just stuff.

-Wesam El dahabi

The patience of writing yourself into validity

 

I’ve patience yet,
my willingness to endure pain,
and be indifferent,
yet utterly conscious of it all,
until prose has its way with me,
is the blissful dichotomy,
that keeps the tongues wagging,
that keeps the minds piqued.

What is this expressive tragedy of a person,
who feels with his fingers,
writ tangled in webs of distance,
and still rages like he’s love yet to give.

A propensity to violence,
nonchalant and stoic,
and patience yet,
statue like patience.

Like leaves awaiting their decay,
like a woman waiting for barrenness to whither.
I have patience that gives birth to patience,
and I write, knowing,
there’s always another moment of indifference.

W.E.

 

How to marry, son.

 

Marry a woman with vision my son,
if she can’t see,
if she is so self absorbed,
and afflicted with infatuation,
how will she bear you a son,
gift you a daughter,
that holds humanity in their heart?
What future is there in all that intoxication with the self?

None, I promise you, none.

Do not fall victim to your eyes,
fancy words,
nor the pitter-patter of your heart.

All of that will be nonsense to you,
when in thirty years,
your heart breaks,
because your child bears the same fruit,
of short sightedness.

Wesam El dahabi