Author Archives: fatlemaeus
أطل عليكم من نافذتي
من نافذة هذا الاستديو الصغيرة أنظر
سقوف المباني بنوافذها ذات الأرفف الوردية
كل وذوقه
نافذة مزهرة قد حاربة الزمن
ونافذة خشبها خافت يبدو عليها الأرق
سماء الليلة معتمة وقابضة
لكن ريحها تريح الصدر وتحنّ على مشغول البال
الأضواء بدأت تُقفل والشبابيك المفتوحة أغلقت
كل يدخل جُحره
فتبدأ الأسرار تتفتح في جُحورها
هناك الجارح والمجروح
وهناك الجارح المجروح
بعض يمضي والآخر يكنّ ساكناً
أوليس الليل سباتا والنهار معاشا؟
فلماذا إذا يستيقظ البعض بلكمة على وجهه ودمعة قد جفت على خده؟
لا أدري.. لكن
ما بال جرح أطفال فلسطين
جرح أمهات وآباء شباب فلسطين
جرح من شاهد ولم تدمع عينيه لجرح فلسطين
جرح العالمين
جرح مفتوح للسنين
For God, not for the Virgins!
If the earths and skies did not fit God
The human heart has always had
In every breath, I am a “daughter of time”
Of God’s glory
And of the human story
Of his story, her story, and mine
In life
A quest for love
Don’t you worry
A language delivered to you in the womb
Not at all tough
One, which requires no words
A state of mind, an open heart
A blossom in the hand
Let there be no halal or haram
Neither hell nor heavens
Look inside, for these elements are within
Not outside of you
In every depth, every human, you’ll find a clue
Only when we burn heaven and turn off the fire in hell
Will we be able to do good deeds without awaited benefits
For what is better than to love for the loved
To give, for the needy
To rescue, for the drowned
And to be a messenger of God on the ground
To let go of the virgins
To dry your body from the pools of wine
To believe in God
Without a spell, a verse, or a shrine
Bodies That Tremble
I see no clash
To walk to a temple
Barefoot, in a narrowed path
To visit another tale, a belief, and bodies that tremble
Allowing the narrative to stem
Extensions of those people, hundreds of them
Not a dance
But an act of worship
Civilization in a glance
Wood on fire and people who desire
Not romance
But an act of power
Of a Goddess and a stance
A human body
Spinning around
Behind a mask and a gown, performing a task
Spectators to astound
Set loose; he runs toward the fire
Of a God or a Goddess embodied on the ground
Tens of people run to rescue him
Although he is Holy within
His body still fragile
Marked, a human
My body stirring with a single drumming pattern
With the lights of this temple
The candles in your church
And the lanterns in my mosque
A source of light
At the end of the tunnel
One of the ladies that does my massage therapy is Muslim, and before she applies the oil on my head, I hear her say “Bismilla”, which is something not surprising, and actually expected, as from her headscarf, I had already identified her religion. While the other lady is Hindu, I did not know what she was doing, as before she begins massaging the head, she bends, applies oil on both of my ears, hands, and feet, then kneels and performs the “Anjali Mudra,” the hand gesture most commonly used here in India. What she says right after, I unfortunately don’t remember, but since the gesture is, as far as I know, a sign of respect, I felt good vibes from it, but was still shy to return it back to her. I had a few sessions with both of them, until I related this very moment to both women and understood that they were doing what in essence is the same, a form of respect, protection, in the name of a force, stronger than our fragile human bodies. Indeed, we have in common, a lot, yet, about unity, the world remains uncertain!
My imagination or just my day!?
If “the future is an illusion
And the past, an interpretation”
Hence, in this awakening humming rests a consolation
“I am home. I am here and in the now”
Because surely
In the present is a fascination
In the here
In the now
I met a scholar of Islam
Arriving from Kuwait, a Mauritanian man
But we met in neither
It was not our fate
Until in India when he soared toward us
His soul landed first
Fluent and translucent
Yet just like yours and mine
It remains a secret
Even from a mystic
The root to the self is a thin line
A small body followed
Loose and buoyant
The complexion of white Lenin on dark African skin
A big smile filled with adrenaline
Not of joy, but of a harmony
An awareness of what is in
He sat on the edge of a wooden chair
Recited poetry
On the ceiling he held static, a ponderous stare
We glided like birds emigrating from one land to another
From one era into the other
On waves. On clouds
Not filled with raindrops, but with emotions
From lovers to loved ones
Investigative of God’s creations
Until he set us loose
And right before I drown in my thoughts
Down the staircase he went
He vanished behind his white robe like a superhero
When I asked where he had disappeared
I was told to prepare us some Mauritanian tea
That the Muslim Arab generosity would not be recognized, he feared
He had mentioned that this tea is what makes him memorize, narrate, and see
Never alone
He sets the fire
Inviting guests through its smoke
A passerby, a visitor, or an outlier
Like the old Arab habit that he had elaborated on
Making us feel like foreigners in our ponytails, t-shirts, and sweatpants on
He told it so articulately
His lips dancing to every Arabic vowel
Even the deaf could read through this elaborate movement
Hatim Al-Tai used to tell his servant
Lighten, as the night is glacial
And the wind, you who lit the fire, is grating
Hoping a passerby would notice your fire
If it brings a guest, you are free
أوقد ، فإن الليل ليل قـر و الريح ، يا موقد ، ريح صر
عسى يرى نارك من يمر إن جلبت ضيفـاً ، فأنت حـر
Not Easy, Even Harder
Not easy
To decide your death
Even harder
To learn to die before you die
It’s what the girl at the whorehouse learned from Al-Tabrizi
Can it be a universal truth?
That in learning to die is our birth
Though he may have taught me a different lesson
And revealed to you another treasure
Because change is subjective
He’ll knock on your personal prison
Once secretive, now an introspective
And ask me too
To search for my prisoner
A person in me, a heavy visitor
A cause behind this fever
Silent I thought I was, now a listener
Not easy
To think you had the world under a fist
Even harder
To surrender and stay still
To think there is no other way to go
To continue selling that soul
As part of the show
Until you realize you had already mastered death
Winning your soul
Answering a call
Certainly, an enduring source of wealth
Not easy
That in the first step, the peek of self-battles lays
Even harder
To be asked whether to fight or fly
To give in once more or do your best to survive
Becoming free
A mystic seeker is she
I Know Not
The only statement I have under “About You” on Facebook is: “I don’t know what I know, “you know”.” Because even what I claim to know or to believe is relative, and is in constant change. Is it like this with God’s knowledge? Does it move or is it constant and stable? Thinking about it now and always; who knows what I don’t? What do I know that others don’t? Should there be a “force” that knows it all? Is it comforting to know that someone knows better or know more? Is this awareness accompanied with feelings of surrender, security, or fear, or maybe humbleness? And no, I don’t believe knowledge here carries a deterministic connotation nor an interference, but simply a state of awareness.
The Lab Rats and the Wheel
Citizens here are lab rats – some paddle the wheel awaiting a stimuli, others escape from one maze only to find themselves in another, some control the experiment, and others record the results… Hence, everyone’s interest in studying this place, illusion, mystery..
Everyone wants a part. A piece of it. Not a peace from it.
Uprising of Women
In brief, this is the facebook page for The Uprising of Women in The Arab World: https://www.facebook.com/intifadat.almar2a?fref=ts
You can visit the info section to know more about its goals. However, you’ll obviously get the bulk of it, simply from the title.
Some people tend to avoid the whispers of The Universe. Dont! Read the signs! Join the Uprise.
Set loose of what’s constraining you. Your soul. Your mind. Your presence. Set free from a frame. A framework.