|
|
|
Best Poems From
LAALA KASHEF ALGHATA
(18 February 1990)
|
|
| |
|
|
1.
|
Nibs Press Patterns
I feel the nib of my quill scratch the surface
of the sheet I am writing on and I smile, feeling
a connection with the writers of old who used to
sit by their windows to salvage the last
of the suns soft beams before turning
away to light their candles and squint their eyes
to try to finish what they had started:
their masterpiece.
I feel the nib press patterns into the sheet
and I smile as I stain it with my thoughts,
thinking of proud old ladies with snow-white
hair and crows-feet at the edges of their eyes
and mouths, wrinkles that I admire and regard
as immense beauty, proof of a life well lived.
I feel their presence and advice floating
around me as I inhale their sweet musk and
talcum powder scent; I understand their warnings.
I feel the nib dig into the sheet laid out so pure,
and I regard the elegant quill with which I script,
and realise I am not those writers of old.
I am a passing echo of their memory.
Laala Kashef Alghata
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
2.
|
Much Ado (About Nothing)
I thought that you were my Benedick
and I, your Beatrice, that we argued
against love into love, but oh! I was wrong.
Beatrice truly loved Benedick,
and he loved her. Their fights
were a vibrant cloak to veil their emotions.
No, darling, you were my Claudio,
and I, your Hero, for their love
was of the superficial kind.
Fair Hero, you only loved what your eyes
saw before you, you only loved
who you thought a great man.
Foolish Claudio! How you jump to conclusions
of the maiden you are to marry, how you break
her heart and cast her aside.
(And you killed her once but she came back
to life; no thanks to you and your selfish ways.)
Love is too tricky a treat to play with;
we are, none of us, fit to add to the ingredients
but are, all of us, allowed to stir.
Laala Kashef Alghata
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
3.
|
Broken Hearts
She made to spit her heart out
into her waiting hand,
a half an inch away
from curling into a fist.
I grab her by the shoulders,
look into her eyes,
tell her she's beautiful,
wonderful and that I love her.
I grasp her chin in my hand
make her look up and see
the world, which is so in love
with her. Her smile, her laugh
and the way she's always ready
to stick her tongue out.
She breaks down and I hate
to see her so desolate,
so defeated. She is Napoleon
at Waterloo and I wish
it were otherwise
or that it were another time.
I hug her, make her promise
to never spit out her heart.
It's too precious, I tell her.
She looks at me, doesn't reply.
Laala Kashef Alghata
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
4.
|
Children No More
We are told to live and let live
and forget about the future,
for now we are children,
we live in the present.
We are champions, us writers
and painters, the footballers
and actors, every child
with a dream or without,
we make up the world.
Like doll's houses, we live
in a plastic world, surrounded
by things we don't want or need.
We see blood and we scream,
call for help, forgetting to check
whether the person's alright
first. So we collapse beside them,
our voices dying, our lips frozen.
We fight for freedom of speech
and hear them label it propaganda,
our voice dissolves into tears
and we cry our heartfelt speeches.
We watch the news and see
our people dying, the scarlet
paint (which is not paint)
in a neat line around their mouths,
almost as if we've skipped
a channel too far and landed
in the middle of a movie.
We watch the destruction
and in our frustration and defeat,
turn away, trying to do away
with these images. We throw money
at the problem, but it will not go
away, and though we are safe for now,
for how long will our roofs remain?
Sleep tight, child, you hear
mothers say, and you wonder
if you are not young enough still
to be tucked into bed, are you old
enough to handle the truth?
So the next time they say,
live and let live, you say no.
I want to live stronger, better,
help those who I am supposed
to let live. You say, I am the future
and the future is now,
because the past is the present,
is the future. We are children
no more.
Laala Kashef Alghata
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|