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Best Poems From
LAALA KASHEF ALGHATA
(18 February 1990)
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17.
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The Painters and I
I.
Michelangelo would be afraid to paint
my portrait, if he were asked
he would say, no; shake his head then
repeat, no.
Michelangelo would be afraid to paint
my portrait, for he’d see the hunger
in my lips, slightly cracking but flushed pink
and the loneliness in my eyes,
he would understand chocolate brown
is not always warmth, it can be icy.
I see the dejectedness in your posture,
he’d mutter, I cannot paint what I do not
want to preserve. You’re lost, he’d whisper.
I paint those who are found.
II.
Picasso would tilt his head if asked
to paint my portrait; he’d try
and sit me down, move my arms.
He’d look at me intently, his expression
clear; I was what cubists look for,
broken before they even paint.
If Picasso agreed to my portrait,
it would be done in realism, because,
he’d explain, you’re already abstract.
III.
Warhol would not be convinced
to paint my picture. You are not famous,
he’d say, you are no one.
I am no one, I agree. Except,
I am that no one who loves art.
If Warhol could be convinced
to paint me, my lips would be
smudged more than his Monroe,
as would my eyes; he’d hide my soul
in his work. He’d hide me.
IV.
Dali doesn’t do portraits
and so would never do mine,
but if he were to it’d be perfect,
liquid dreams and futile reality.
I’d be stretched and balanced
on sticks to demonstrate
my fragility.
V.
If I were asked to paint myself
and I have been, I would do it
in oil pastel, smudge myself
with ridiculous colours; greens
and oranges and reds.
You make yourself look an alien!
they exclaim,
and I say exactly. Exactly.
Laala Kashef Alghata
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18.
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The Silence Behind Your Words
You talk, and I listen.
I listen to the silence
behind your words,
the way the sun licks your grave
golden. How your ears
hear nothing, how I whisper
into them daily.
You talk, and I wait
for your lips to start moving.
I dig my heels into the dirt
next to your gravestone.
I whisper prayers to God
and my dreams to you.
You talk, and I wander
through the island of your thoughts,
pick a happy daffodil, or
gently crease a sad poppy
into the ground.
You talk and I want so much
to hear your words someplace
other than in my head.
Laala Kashef Alghata
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19.
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Valentine’s
This is a day to exchange hearts
dripping with fountains of your love
embroidered with roses and smiles,
filled to the brim with adoration
and devotion.
This is a day of holding hands
and tight hugs, warm bodies
instead of cold and lonely,
a day of standing together
in a heart shape showing
the world our affection.
This is a day for kisses (even
the chocolate kind) and candy,
saccharine at the roof of your mouth,
a day of indulging your sweet tooth
and small cups of espresso
to soften down sugary smiles.
This is a day of being together,
gripping hearts and pressing
fingers together in a blood oath
of forever, a day of dance
and happiness like wind chimes
in a strong breeze, like dreamcatchers
circling overhead.
This is a day of love.
Today is not that day.
Laala Kashef Alghata
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20.
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Write Me a Metaphor
These words are just pressed thoughts
upon a page, fragile like crumbling leaves,
golden on the ground and vulnerable;
stepped on so easily and disregarded,
beauty so frequently ignored.
We just write what we don’t want
to even hope to believe is true.
We are the ones responsible for
longings of ‘happily ever after’
and love at first sight; and we
apologise, because we just want
someone to go through the same.
We throw metaphors and similes
into the world in hundreds, about
everything that parades through
our lives, and we wonder when
someone will write us metaphors
and similes, likening us to willow
trees and flowing waters, claiming
we are beautiful.
We write like we breathe and that
is why our words often feel like
someone squeezing your throat,
choking you into oblivion, because
we write like we breathe.
We write life.
Laala Kashef Alghata
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