Again I see the leaves turn colour Vibrant yellows, reds, greens and browns Like burning embers they fall to the ground, Not yet snuffed Cloaking the grey street In their living-dying promise Of a barren tomorrow Reborn in springtime Again I wait for flowers to come, The birds to sing The sun to hail a
TagPoetry
Living Berlin – In a Pankow Night
Late at night when the lights of the city reflect orange off the clouds, the wet pavement glistens like fire. The rain has washed away the impurities of city life and it is as though my passing there is the first passing on the virgin pavement. The silence on these nights is deafening. The clouds
Living Berlin – Berlin Bleeds Green
The concrete, steel and glass goliath that is Berlin has many wounds. Berlin bleeds Green. In some places this verdure oozes from the parks: places explicitly set aside for the leisure of Berlin’s inhabitants; places to go to feel a connection with the Earth; or to barbecue in the warm summer sunlight. These wounds are
The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree
My mother never eats toast on a plate, she holds the bread in her long hands and eats over the kitchen sink. I think these are the moments she prefers, looking out to the garden, morning sun dim and blue and made of all the forgiving in the world easier here in morning’s two-part
Home
Where I come from, I’m the devil’s incarnation The fallen woman Lilith. You see, there’s always a dichotomy at play: The sinner, not the saint. The whore and the prostitute. I am the one without a hymen The one mothers spend lifetimes protecting their daughters from becoming. Even by cutting off their clitoris By subjecting
Rise
Tattoos are forbidden by their god Their god who is them Your body will not enter heaven The body cannot be a canvas Skin cannot be art It has to carry its wounds Visible, scarred, shamed Violated with no chance Of empowerment The bodies are a cradle of shame The inherent female guilt Your yellow
Privileged Exile
You read the words of Mahmoud Darwish, his nostalgia, revolution and melancholia swirl the desert dust over times and places to reach your eye. Yes, I swear. This is how the tear settled on my dry cheek. And Nizar Qabbani whose eroticism, love and poetic (but also political) fight for social justice make you tingle