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Gaza in ash

November 20, 2012

He is carrying her

covered in ash

eyes still open

lying on a hospital table

in bright neon

looking up

but never seeing anything,

he kisses her face

holds her head

disarray of hair

black, thick

aged by a missile

a coward tank

the houses of rubble surround

demolition from above

but when we pray the sky is ours

to hold palms facing upwards

begging for mercy

demanding revenge

the expanse of a liberty

to reach for but never touch.

 

Lifelessness

so abundant here

Gaza

they are killing you

little children’s feet

are sticking out of white sheets

ravaged open for a camera

to disturb peace

to show everyone

how small this little girl is

how her woollen sweater

chosen for warmth now holds

no heartbeat

not even blood

from above it came

the crushing.

 

 

 

 

A father squats in the corner

wall behind him peeling

his daughters

three, five, seven, dead

she says

“May God give you others”

to die? To be greyed

and ashen

and limp?

Her eyes are still open

but they see nothing

they never knew

freedom

only filthy rags and plastic bags

a glory army meters away

human cages

children’s fingers always grey

faces smudged with ash

and winter

small bodies aged by the shades

of unrestrained war.

 

Gaza

I have wept.

Useless.

I have forgotten.

 

The shame

of everyday complaints

compared to

Gaza

I am doing nothing

and most of me doesn’t want to know

doesn’t want to see

screams of the suppressed

innocence drained

Gaza I died today

but you are living in hell

and I wonder when all of it will end.

 

December 14,  2009

 

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June Poetry in Dubai!

June 5, 2011

Join the Poeticians for a poetry reading Saturday July 11th at 7:30 pm in Citimax Hotel, Al Barsha. I’ll be reading a few poems so do come by!

For more info please check out and rsvp at the following link:

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=177064345684000

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April 3, 2011

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Use your bodies

January 29, 2011

Use your bodies
not for a flame
but for a movement
raise your voices stark
from cracking throats
drown archaic concrete to the ground
let all the filth of oppressed years
and starving bellies
in the sea nearby swell
to rise in tides
that will topple dictators’ fists
and raise their sullen brows.
An elite few living
in golden castles
in masked denial
in crude indifference
heaven awaits for a reckoning.
The streets are bleeding today
rocks at the ready
bare arms and empty hands
the will is stronger than reason
a spark all you need
to see the dawn.

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POETICIANS poetry reading Monday November 29!

November 20, 2010

Join us on Monday November 29th for another POETICIANS poetry reading in Dubai! This time with a new location at City Max hotel in Barsha, behind Mall of the Emirates. Starting at 7:30 pm. Come by, enjoy a drink, enjoy the words and support the POETICIANS in keeping this new venue!

For more details please check out the below link:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=166211666746229

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Bridging the Mediterranean

September 9, 2010

As anxious

as a trembling leaf

in stark A/C

beneath the covers

I catch sunrise through the curtains

and wince.

Lying on an aching mattress

beside the drone of ever spinning wheels

pushing asphalt into past.

Just as the road

divides, bends and

rises into bridges

let us for one day

put our differences

in the tires’ path.

Take my hand

not my sect.

Palm naked

bitter coffee read by wrinkles

and laughter from superstitious

old women speaking of hearts, snakes

and doves

contrasted by the judgment of righteous men

stoning and the veil

all those poor victimized Arab women

coming through in misinterpreted vowels

from your mouth

reaching for my necklace

laced with God and gold

notions abstracted from media

the devil’s propaganda machine

governments’ spew and extremism’s misguided glory.

I have no time these days it seems

to dwell on words tangled

in pre-assumed heaven.

I only have this tired body

willing shelter from gasping humidity and dust

from wooden crosses and holy men

smirking that “Good” is wrong

that the alter is where I should

bathe my body and wed.

My fingers long and tanned

slip out from under the duvet

reaching for my dark hair

symbol of my birthplace

wavy strands coiling like hips curving

past sunglasses

in the orange light of approaching sunset

by the sea

perhaps the Mediterranean

always as free as these thoughts

that within me lie and seep.

By Sarah Snowneil Ali

August 31, 2010

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Beirut Intersection

August 14, 2010

He said it made him sad
the old fashioned flute
sharp elegy at the breath
exhaled to mourning
and the vendor on the street
selling sadness for a dollar.
All around people are walking
on inconstant pavements
their soles of feet now charcoal
battle ridden and exhaust smudged
thankfully though always to be
in the latest à la mode
florescent Italian sandals
which are really made in some
plastic producing dingy factory in Lebanon.

All along,
the afternoon summer swamp
of tourists, beggars, suntanned posers
foreign languages at every tongue
I miss Arabic.
A man further away
primeval groans
from a thirsty dry throat
implores cars entwined in traffic
to make way
clear the road
frantic and almost insane
he gestures
black leather bag caught
between his arm and damp waist
his striped shirt
tame and office like
he lunges again defaming
the people with no conscience
to move out of the way
confusion filters through on the intersection
where he stands
causing apathetic tourists and ray bans
to stop and turn their heads in raw obedience
at the expression of reality
at the uncontrolled tone of voice
which rises and breaks
like the salt water on Raouche
like nerves being played with a taught violin bow.
Intrusion of undiluted emotions
in the upper lip sweat of day
between the car exhausts and yawns
finally
traffic eases from afternoon orange
to blue of night.

His child is sick
immobile in a car caught between
indifference and concrete
at the beginning of the standstill street
tauntingly 50 meters away
from the city’s best hospital
the wailing man’s
grey face, cigarette lips, arms motioning
when the car carrying his own pained body
passes next to him
hurry he says, now silent and only motioning.
The battered red car speeds down the road
and he with his black leather bag
collected higher into his chest with a gripping churn
he runs down the street
a man of 48
shameless in his pain
and his unhindered love he runs
on the uneven asphalt
awkward and panting
his body now seeming frail as it
juggles the weight of worry and age
he runs
while many of us in the city
stand around and watch.

August 14, 2010