All beautiful things are concealed well.
Pearls, diamonds, sages, gnostics and my favourite;
artists and writers who only become apparent when they pass.
If you think you’re going to arrive,
at beauty without a struggle,
wisdom and truth without suffering,
peace without a war inside of you,
if you think you’re entitled to it all by default,
just for existing,
then you’re deluded,
and deserve to be barred from it.
I don’t think I’ve come across more sadness,
than realising my capacity,
knowing I have to lose everything,
to offer thanks for all I’ve been given.
And yet it offers an ease to this anxiety,
that leeches on my happiness,
relinquishment after all is said and done,
floats like fairness in the air.
If ever there was more of a reason,
to lose myself in work,
it is in gratitude to gifts I know are there,
Losing love,
losing health,
losing time,
status or money,
becoming the target of wagging tongues,
pointed fingers,
the laughing stock,
or despised amongst men,
is a small price to pay,
for surpassing mediocrity.
I’ve never met a man devoted to their art,
who could be easily comprehended,
nor a woman Gnostic and acetic,
who wasn’t indifferent to their appearance,
neglectful of their condition,
enough to misguide the laymen
away from their secrets.
Of things I’ve come to know,
there’s a truth that gnaws and twists,
and that is,
brilliance, has its price.
And what are shadows,
but bits of ourselves that allow light to bounce off,
and make pretend we’re not temporary.
We’re definitely temporary,
ever so non necessary,
if granted pardon,
for the folly of ignorance,
and being carried away with importance,
we still, are responsible for remembering.
None of us have amnesia,
not so long as we have breath,
the soul records everything,
to the egos vexation,
and the scroll awakens,
when we lather,
to the spume of death.
A prayer bead hovers over my right shoulder,
ever the reminder,
that it should be between my fingers.
Were it not I had family,
I would have wandered in starvation,
in rags,
in desolation,
isolation,
a dervish, a gypsy, a vagabond,
nomadic, poetic, troubadour,
an alchemist of the heart,
absorbing strangers misery,
sorrows and hurt,
and returning a poem.
I don’t know how to show you except by telling you.
Whilst the act of doing is better than the act of saying,
that’s only because people don’t know how to say.
But what if I showed you the way,
with words connected carefully,
weaved intentionally,
delivered in a bouquet,
as lyrical ballet,
and show you how to stretch your skin tight,
so your heart can beat right,
and the club that beats it,
is your soul set alight.
There’s no room for a dishonest soul.
I have to gather myself together and fight me with me.
Pit myself against myself.
Fuel both and ignite them so they combust and turn to vapour.
They want the exotic of you,
not the reality of you,
they fancy all things,
media propped into their minds.
If they could,
they would take only the sound of the ney,
on a sandstorm backdrop,
palm trees rustling,
harems filled with boy servants,
and jewellery on plates.
But they don’t want your stubborn skin,
your eyes so dark,
because they carry the weight,
of what your ancestors have seen,
even if your eyes are sky blue,
emerald green,
or almond brown.
They don’t want your bulging discs,
because your backs are so heavy,
with the weight of the world wanting,
the black sludge under the ground,
your peoples blood is being used to paint the canvases of war.
Their addiction to the canvas,
to our paint, to the sludge.
They can’t survive,
it’s their drip feed,
it’s our curse.
Keep your callused hands they say,
because we have no use for the soil you tended to for generations.
Were gonna’ turn it over,
and build pipelines through your hearts,
and then when you turn your backs on your homes,
we’ll have the audacity to call you savages,
homeless, barbaric, refugees ……
But we’ll still want your exotic.
We’ll holiday in Dubai,
hashtag ‘exotic’ all day,
drape our heads with your veils,
to show how accommodating we are to customs,
and when we get back home,
turn on the news and revolt at seeing a woman in a veil.
Just last week, it was exotic,
and now it makes you neurotic.
I’m exotic when they want me to be.
English tongue,
Arab heart,
Olive skin that sizzles a copper brown,
reminisce of the Moroccan pots you hang,
I’m Under your southern sun,
but still….
it’s that Muslim soul…
whatever are we going to do about that thing.
We can’t have him using our language,
to spread love like fire rings,
that’s not part of the narrative,
that the media sings,
that’s not what we can slot,
into the category of terrorising,
speaking of terror rising,
when were you thinking,
of giving back the land,
and stopping all the Aboriginal killing?
I’m exotic when they want me to be.
When the words sink deep into their souls,
and make them wonder,
just how the fuck I can write what they’re thinking,
what they hid from everyone.
He’s just be a gypsy magician,
he must have access to a realm we don’t.
For the most part, I do,
it’s my father’s blood, and his father’s blood,
it’s my mother’s womb, and her mothers womb.
I’m exotic when they want me to be,
but for the most part I’m Arab,
because I was made a refugee from Australia the minute I was born here.
Sometimes the reflection bares too much ugliness,
and they will attack it.
Other times it will show their reality and after an initial fight,
they see the possibility of tranquillity should they admit their folly.
Rather than be infatuated with themselves and forever be trapped like narcissus,
they will immerse in you and become like you.
Your job remains, calmness and poise.
lonerloaner 