Plane, train and concert tickets.
Letters, messages, postcards, images, dried roses, holy cards, newspaper clippings, poems, sketches.
Snapshots, business cards, satin threads, amulets, notes.
Sometimes they stay, they hide, reappear. Resurface.
And pages of exercises in Hindi from the summer in which the more life was taking away, the more I filled it with spaces and intangibilities because these could not be stolen, removed, appropriated.
Afterward, they even stole the book I was studying on, to remind us, as if life hadn’t already taught us enough, that nothing belongs to us.
Nothing is ours except our conscience.
These pages survived, I don’t know how.
My sounds in Hindi, hung like clothes on a line in the sun.
Tibetan prayers in the wind.
At the entrance to the house, on the wall, I had written the lines of a poem with henna.
I’m sure it’s still there – if you scratch – under new paint.
They just can’t take everything.
Tag Archives: poetry
the bond
(You are)
just a few clouds away
behind dune sands
passed the leveled square tops of the region’s mountains
in the rhythm of the sun
(You are)
in each crescent moon
well
shade of palm trees
and tides of the Arabian Sea
(You are heard)
in the call for the prayer of every mosque
the bustling of the souqs
the opening of windows
shutting of gates
school yards, majlis, maternity wards
especially in the maternity wards
in the whispered words of devotion
(I dream)
the camel caravans bringing the tone of your laughter
the scent of your existence
the words you speak
(I rely)
on the moon, the sun, the rain, the winds, the people, the actions and deeds
to help us keep our bond
(to Yemen)
artwork Adel Al Maweri
the talking of the soul 