Letter, June 28, 2016

Long before I met you I named you, Sofia; and your name, more than anything else, was an image grafted into my soul, a spaciousness wider than the sky. Sofia, you, the age of silence, a blue herald from beyond the ancient hills. Your hair, a forest floor covered in brown leaves, and a stream flowing by troubling the silence, hurling the being deeper in a sea of reveries. Your smile, shy and luring, eve’s apple holding the ancient promise; knowledge, in your bosom, the primal sin, the jewel for which man offers his blood for harvest and then sows it, red roses in your hair, red eddies swirling your soul a boundless sea.

Free Verse # 362 (poetry read)

على ضفاف الفجر
،زهرة يتيمة
في الأثير الساكن عطرها
.صوت ينادي


This evening
as every other,
tea or coffee,
a book,
and you
a vein throbbing
with boundless longing.


Night is a pathway
leading to her heart


On the bridge
by the old house
a stranger writing
hymns to the sea;
his dripping words
leaves in the river
travelling on and on
for all eternity.


Artist unknown

Poetry read…
words sipped
straight from your lips


What the breeze promised
the flowers at dawn
your fragrance laid
at the window of my soul


Dawn tremors,
her lips
a blooming flower
shaping the sky.

Wandering Thought # 32

A: The woman who allows the poet to write sets his soul ablaze.

B: Ah yes, that is until he stops appreciating her and treats her like a statistic, a number and the face of someone he once conquered. Not all writers, my friend, are delicate souls.

A: The poet is not a player. If he fools her with his words, there’s no heart to his poetry. But can a muse, who is an ocean, truly be fooled by a writer who is frightened even to wade her shallow waters? Can a muse fall for a poet who shivers before her terrible silence, and flees from her roaring waves?