Lahab
141 creative works found
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The Trains Keep Passing …I have been standing since Eid’s* morning at your harbors’ gates / pleading, oh… mother, for times of departure. / I survey those wandering about, the dead, the pallbearer, / bouquets of flowers… / Trains with no people or sound pass. / I spot sorrow on the leather of suitcases. / I have been alone a while, and morning’s chill wants to flatten me. / All my friends left / and I await the sun, a cabin’s warmth, / but the scowling guard singles me out of all present, / the harbor’s police scolds me, and crests of smoke tell me: / After all vessels have set to sea, you stay! …Here I am secluded in this far off corner overlooking the sea / trawling castoffs like me so I can ask them for sailing time, / so I can solicit the prostitute walking the sea’s sidewalks / for tickets to love or …travel. / But Eid’s sorrowful clamor ended without me noticing a single human, / not a female…nor a noble face! / All the ones I put my hopes in left, or were taken far away from me, / and the trains keep passing. / Trains, whose metallic songs I longed to repeat, / no longer take notice of minor stations. / All of them go by like the glimpse of fear, / without a sound or people. / I watch them, car after car, passing on a rubbery track. / No whistle. No clatter. / And when I get close / the night guard’s position brings me to a halt. / So I turn back, fearful, sobbing. / The shack of this tyrant guard is emptiness, / but every time I approach it I get distraught. / Aah, mother, bestow on me the language of warmth, / grant me the tears of your eyes / so I can cross this road of the frail. …And it is night at harbor and sea, / and in all directions of the world. / The perceptible elongates. And in me is a child afraid of the dark, / horrified by loneliness and wind / and the sounds of invisible trains. / All I need is for your eyes to shed a gesture / so I can traverse toward the other end / in pursuit of the trail of my friends’ eyes. …And the trains keep passing. / The wailing of ships now sailing with the night toward deepness / offers nothing but deaf terror and grief.. Ah… / Era of the youthful seagull circling in blue is finished. / No one is left on the harbor’s sidewalks but me. / Nothing left for strangers after the passing of this year’s Eid / but waiting. / Perhaps / next year Eid will come / on… the wings of a train. Poetry by Ali Al-JUndi (Translated from Arabic by Assef Al-Jundi Eid- Arabic for Religious Holiday.
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The Other Side of Paradox Center / is stillness Sight / no guarantee for light Shadow / means nothing by itself How long to dwell on death / to delight in life? Have all questions been answered? / What if the answer is no? Truth? / It is our shadow. © Assef Al-Jundi
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Suddenly Your sighs touch me suddenly / Kiss of a thousand violins Deep in the folds of blue / This lonesome night I am in I abandon alphabets / For the scent of your skin Gather my scattered heart / Shelter me under your wing Flood me with your passion / Play me to the every end Burn me till nothing is left / But ash of a thousand violins © Assef Al-Jundi as is photograph. no after-shot manipulations
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“Art is the conversation between lovers. / Art offers an opening for the heart. / True art makes the divine silence in the soul / Break into applause.” / -Hafiz
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“What is this precious love and laughter / Budding in our hearts? / It is the glorious sound / Of a soul waking up!” / -Hafiz straight from the camera (slightly cropped)
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San Pedro, Ambergris Cay Before Sunrise Rain comes quietly / as if touching the white sand / one bead at a time / Coconut trees hardly stir Trying to light an insect repellent / Air so damp / matches fizzle one after another / till the last one dies / Mosquitoes are strangely absent A rooster crows / taking me back to the thick jungle on the mainland / where a heavy barefooted woman / allowed me into her shack / I took pictures of a steaming pot / balanced on a ring of rocks / over burning branches / A naked boy stood watching / with a white duck / a scrawny brown dog / and a chicken Air smells thick and swampy / Tiny waves hiss at the squat concrete seawall / Distant hum of fishing boat motors drift in On the Hibiscus shrub next to me / blooms that will open later today / and blooms that were open yesterday / look curiously alike / Some about to fall / Others await their first light © Assef Al-Jundi
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I Died many Times Before… First time I remember, I was still a toddler / sitting in the morning sun, on the concrete floor. / My grandparents’ courtyard in Salamiyeh. / I watched, fascinated, as the massive snake / made its way from the roof / down the wall in front of me. / I held a long stick in my hand, tapped / the giant head as it slithered closer. Second time, a year or so older, also in Salamiyeh. / It struck on a starry summer night. / I was playing barefooted on the patio. / Mother came running to my screams. / Sobbing, I told her a big butterfly bit my foot. / I pointed to where it ran off, watched / as she grabbed a straw broom, killed / the venomous desert scorpion with repeated blows. / I vividly recall her rushing around with one shoe on, / the other missing, laying me in a stroller, / running down darkened streets to the emergency clinic. I also died at age five, along with my mother and sister. / It happened on the two-lane Hama-Homs highway. / Mother unintentionally turned the steering wheel / as she twisted her body to chide us / for backseat bickering. No guardrails. / Nothing but protruding rocks all the way / down the steep drop-off. My first summer in college, I died in New York City. / Muggy night, uptown Manhattan, a block away from Broadway / in front of the big Cathedral. I had my arms up, / as the man who had just asked for a light / pressed the tip of his knife into my ribs. Years later, on a misty morning on Texas Highway 87, / I fell asleep at the wheel. / I had worked through the night in Victoria, / and was looking ahead to my bed in San Antonio. / My Chevy Blazer slowly drifted left / into the path of the oncoming truck. Those worlds / continue without me. / My tombstones there / mark ends of times I knew. In this one, grandmother Um Sami suddenly appeared. / Rounded boulder hoisted high. Arms fully extended. / How she lifted it? How she took dead aim, and launched it / smashing the serpent’s head? / I do not know. I was still conscious. / I do remember clearly / the terrified look on my mother’s face. / How her voice trembled as she pleaded / with the nurse to be careful. She was afraid / the syringe’s needle was going to puncture through / my tiny toe. Mother slammed the brakes as she forcefully corrected. / Car came to a screaming, precarious halt / in a cloud of swirling dust. / We stayed parked at the side of the road for a long time. / Her hands shaking, she gave us grapes, / while she collected her frazzled self. / She swore never to drive again. / Never did. “Let the creep go”, the second robber, / who had just cleaned my pockets with swift efficiency, / told the one holding my life at the tip of his knife. / They took pity on me when I told them / there was nothing in my wallet. / They slipped it back. Walked off. / It took my rage weeks to subside. I could see the whites of the wide-open eyes / of the truck driver, as I twitched awake! / He was already moving to his left / to avoid hitting me. But my reflex was to jerk the wheel / to my right to get back into my lane. / I also stomped the brakes. / We came within a hair of a head-on collision, / as he swerved back into his lane. / That was when time switched / to slow motion… / Me sitting still. / Blazer skidding sideways / on the wet grass / along the shoulder. / Dull-black asphalt road passing / in front of me. / No sound. / Finally, / everything / coming to absolute / rest. In this one an invisible hand / still cradles / my bones. © Assef Al-Jundi
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Tree Gone / is the incessant sprouting / toward light, / the frantic search / for tiny veins of water. / No more / swaying in / the wind / fretting / about / what / colors / to wear. / She stands / in silvery / nakedness / dead / alive / beautiful. © Assef Al-Jundi
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As is image (straight from the camera) taken at Angel Glacier Lake by Mt. Edith Cavell, Jasper national Park, Canada
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As is image (no after-shot manipulation)
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“Medicine Lake”, Jasper National Park, Canada untouched photo.
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Exotic I still have my accent / My features did not change / A river in my veins / runs to the Mediterranean Even in Damascus / I was a peculiar tourist / Outnumbered thoughts / Odd questions Come to find out / home is a faraway exotic place / Its name forgotten / but on the tip of my tongue © Assef Al-Jundi
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“It is better to spend one day contemplating the birth and death of all things than a hundred years never contemplating beginnings and endings.” ~ Buddha (Thanks to “Aritheeagle” for the quote)
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“If this were my dream / my morning breath / rested from the night / gracious my petals / bedecked with beads / of light and sparkle / of life indeed!” -Aritheeagle (thank you Ari)
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Dare! Go back to point zero / Be that innocent child born in another land / Your color that of “the other” / Faith of an enemy you detest / Grow up barefooted in desert sands Be brave / Admit / Who you think you are is just circumstance / Family friends borders times Give yourself another chance / New slate of an open mind / Be everyone you could have possibly been / All gods flags guns skins Even if you think we are just the latest sprouts / Creatures born of primordial fire and mud / Descendants of algae on this random planet / Zipping through space heading nowhere / We couldn’t be more connected! / All from one Mother / Born from it / We die back into it / Cells of its organic body Be brave if you dare / Cradle this precious orb / In the hollow of your breast © Assef Al-Jundi
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Like That Last year / my friend gave me a bare branch / of Plumeria to grow. I put it in earth and watered it. / Soon it took root. Today / first fragrant blossom. / Glorious in creamy white. / Blushed with ruby-reds. It started to open in the morning. / By evening it was in full bloom. Today / is my friend’s birthday. The universe / is subtle / like that. © Assef Al-Jundi
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Replacing The Many
by Assef Al-JundiThe word “Love” / is as tired as “God”.
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Replacing The Many The word “Love” / is as tired as “God”. / Trivialized. / Stripped down to a mere twitter of itself. He loves to fight. / She loves to feel miserable. Imagine Love… / What does Love have to do / with how we throw that word around? But Love is still the winner over God. / We can always return to Love. / God is not redeemable! Love / is not male or female. / Not the old man with the long beard and flowing robe. / Not the Goddess with eight arms. / Not the animal head on a human body. / Love / is the essence of aliveness. Every language has a word for Love. / Abused as it may be, in spirit / it always means the same thing. / It is the first word the heart speaks. Every language has word for God. / It never means the same thing. / The ancients believed in multiple gods. / Replacing the many with one / was supposed to be an evolved move, / but which One? / There is God of peace. God of vengeance. / God of eternal damnation. / There are Hindu Gods, a Muslim God, Jewish God. When was the last time Love went to war against Love? No one has been able to claim Love to themselves. One needs never fear Love. Union with Love is grace. / Separation is choice— One’s own cup! Love is wise— / Masculine and feminine speaking in one voice. Love is intense / when we find union. Love cries / when sadness overwhelms. Love bleeds / when wounded. Love wants nothing / but your divine kiss. Let’s retire God. Awaken / to Love. © Assef Al-Jundi
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Ta’abeen * / (Arabic, for a memorial service marking 40-days after the passing of a loved one.) Poetry? I can only dream of waving a magical pen, like you did. / Of words dancing, bursting into allegorical stars / and lucid moons / in the violet skies of nightly resurrections. You left a gaping hole in the gut of a nation. / Tempest in the memories of old revolutionaries. / Requiem for the drowning hopes of a new flight. / I fell into the whirling winds of your boundless skies. I savored Salamiyeh’s summer figs. / Drank the aromatic Arak of Damascus. / And… in Palmyra I saw the world suspended between four walls. / Broken clocks hung from floor and ceiling. / Rivers sparkled, dates were abundant on tall palms, / children laughed, / and celestial sands wore all stones to dust. Some say spirits hang around old grounds / until they are released, or are done / with unfinished affairs. / I think you are just having fun. / Thundering your way into our storms. / Calling on our mornings, a shimmering light, / curious flower, wise bird… You are released! / We are the ones / still tumbling in your Arabian sorrows / looking for your soft hands. © Assef Al-Jundi
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Under The Sink
by Assef Al-JundiBut what was ignited? / Who lit the fuse?
This poem was previously featured in “In These Latitudes, Ten Contemporary Poets”, published by Wings Press in 2008, Roberto Bonazzi, Editor.
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