Shadows of me

me5
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.

W.E.

Echoes of who you are

echoes-of-who-you-are
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.

W.E.

battle poetry of life

outcome-is-irrelevant

The outcome is irrelevant
Your battle, is poetic enough
-Wesam El dahabi

 

Put on your warrior outfit and live.

Why are you waiting for a settling of your affairs?

Why have you forgotten the taste of indifference?

Suddenly, you have become so sensitive to pain,

When you were so impervious.

Have you forgotten the way?

Have you lost your ambition?

The hope to meet in divine embrace cannot come by hiding in your cave.

Go then, be poetry manifest,

And wait not for the result,

Nor the applause.

-Wesam El dahabi

Thank you for the inspiration

You know who you are.

-i’m Arab, nine

imarab-nine

-i’m Arab, nine

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.

W.E.

Read whilst listening to this.

be a pond

pond

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.

W.E.

kindred

kindred
kindred
we’re spiritual surfers
we don’t mind
who rides the same wave
nor do we mind
who reaches the shore first
the surety of our return
is welcoming to all

W.E.

the nucleus of every living thing
is a longing to return
in the utterness of your smallest breath
is a hope to find and to be found
washed away
in the sea of disarray
our souls are forever
divinely bound

so why do we waste so much time
hunting for what is always there
posing questions
rejecting answers
pretending to care
content in oblivion and unaware

i don’t mind you come on the journey
but be ready for worn soles
this journey of embark
requires a wander into the dark
admitting all your follies
to cleanse your soul

W.E.