supple soul


You age,
stiffen your sinews,
bones etched with hieroglyphics of hurt
and beautifully,
your soul becomes supple.

I couldn’t show you how this happens,
when vigour clouds your judgement,
when youth gives you hope,
yet numbs you of tasting.

There’s an agreement with time,
relinquishing your affairs to their allotted appointments,
trusting beyond your comprehension,
faith if you will,
in being faithless insofar as holding God accountable,
rather, holding Him capable,
of anything, of anything.

Your soul aches for this flexibility,
but first,
your body waits for the battering.

-Wesam El dahabi

Don’t MIND your gratitude

 

How do you weave the tapestry of gratitude into your heart so that your limbs lead the way?

I could answer, but answering would be worse!

Gratitude sitting in the mind,
is lesser than;
gratitude sitting in your heart;
is lesser than gratitude sitting in your limbs;
is lesser than gratitude acted out.

W.E.

Intimacy with silence

I adore your poise,
your pose, and your noise,
that is, your lack thereof.

How orchestral is your quiet,
majestic is your silence,
this deafening and drumming of nothing at once,
this wonderful humming of quiet and calm.

I’m mad I say, deeply mad,
obsessed with ears that listen,
and a mouth that’s mute.

W.E.

The beautiful picture is by Hossein Irandoust

Perhaps once upon a time my soul met his in this abyss of pre-world obedience and silence.
I’m infatuated by his work to say the least.

Lure

 

I was only a boy,
when I learned to swallow my voice.

I kept mute,
not because I wanted to be silver tongued,
but because I wanted to be musk breathed.

I hoped,
that it was merely my presence
that would lure them to me.

Years later,
a mouth full of silver,
and a bellyful of musk,
I hope,
my absence keeps them as far as possible.

Lure,
is a burden,
the antithesis to my sanity.

And yet I am obliged,
to be utterly in service,
ever the servant.

I observe,
more than what my heart can contain,
I feel,
with intensity that only tames with violence
and I taper my temperament,
to continue to be unnoticed.

My youth has a reoccurring theme and what echoes the most is its ordinariness. Contrary to clichéd thought, I believe ordinariness in those primitive stages of growth are what allow imagination to thrive.

One doesn’t need a wretched childhood or an upbringing that dances around psychological trauma to be creative or inspired, to be able to achieve a goal for the pure satisfaction of completion.

Sometimes, its all that emptiness, and freedom to roam as wildly as possible in your own world, inside yourself, with no threat, nor external persuasion that allows you to comfortably nestle into a unique niche and make sure the world knows just how extraordinary you are.

W.E.

What would you pay?

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.

-Wesam El dahabi

broken hearts are my calling

 

It starts with brokenness,
being married to a silent wail,
having all the words at your disposal,
and no ears to receive them,
being so melodic,
that heaven yearns for you,
and yet so detached from everything and everyone,
that you’d never be missed.

I see that,
more so, I feel it.
I ache to connect to it,
to let it know, that I know,
and yet it remains,
forbidden fruit.

I’m not at all inspired,
by people that have no room,
for being empty,
people that flee from broken heartedness,
people that don’t know,
watching you grow and rebuild,
is what is most beautiful about you.

W.E.

Music by Dhafer Youssef Quartet – Les Ondes Orientales