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)

قصيدتي
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.

~

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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?