Moving

I have moved to another blog trying to combine the arabic and english posts, i hope you can join me there : PaSionata en Mi Majeur http://maeiva.wordpress.com/

New life, Old death

Somewhere, far from here

Cherries are blooming,

The spirit of a samurai still repeats

The last Haiku written

At season’s end, that year.

Somewhere, not here, the cherries blossom

Still, I smell them, over here.

My window, the landscape’s frame.

In a corner, a pale moon sheds a soft light,

A soft kiss,

On the belly of the brook.

It swims, there, flat on its back and slowly moves;

The current is Time.

A season delicate as a frail wing,

As a sole petal in the wind.

Silently, Life has formed

In secret darkness,

Today it pushes away the dirt, breaks the cocoon,

The slumber of the bear ends.

A new life awakes from an old death.

Like them I wait in this darkness

For the last rain to wash away

The color of winter on my heart.

Earth swells with the smell of all that waits to sprout.

And a dream still clings, stains the skin of my life;

Someday it will wake into Light.

Far away the cherries bloom I am sure

With closed eyes I smell them here

And it is thus that I still believe

In the beauty of my dream.

Shades of Pink

I was a man-hater. Of course I was, what else would an independent freedom loving woman be? I was fed up with the harassment, verbal and physical, fed up with man running women s life and body like his property, as it is in our macho society. So I declared war. Actually, no one knew about that war, except me and two poor cats I have castrated (no crazy testosterone under my roof!!!)

But, I was in controversy cos I didn’t really like girls that much either. Actually, guys were better friends, they didn’t demand all the details in my life, gave me enough space and privacy, and when trouble arose we were on the Doing side rather than the Reflecting side. I remember quite well that day at university when I took my courage in both hands and headed to the “girls” table in effort to hang out around less testosterone. I remember pretty well how one girl was talking about her new pink curtains as if she just met her prince charming. I could swear she d b wearing a pink tutu under her jeans. And that she was some kind of fairy in disguise. I swallowed, with difficulty and headed back to the male company. I couldn’t last more than 5 minutes in that dreamy girly world. I was already hearing birds sing and having visions of cotton candy (don t ask me why). Besides, pink was an atrocity for me, you d see me dead before I put anything pink on. In those days the only hint of color you d see on me was my hair, which at some point turned electric red and never again since, that was my low point.

Then one day there was that stranger. If you ever wondered how Hell s gate was open, here s a hint: After few online messages he asked me: what kind of woman are you?

Well he asked in Arabic, so he used the word MARA. He actually used the word MARA on me!!!! Let me explain, it was like he d just used the F word, or showed me a finger. Cos that s what the word meant to me. And somewhere along the long , long brutal argument we had, after that * word, at some point it hit me, now, now, really, what kind of Mara am I? I knew this much, I was Not a man, therefore, logically I was a woman. But, how in god s name did I live this long thinking of myself as: A person, Period. So I retreated to myself. I think I knew then what Einstein must have felt when he came up with the relativity equation. And I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to understand what being a woman starts with. I was wrong of course; it wasn’t the right place to look for answers. So I closed hell s gate and asked questions. The answers came in form of riddles and more questions. But I started to see, what a man saw in a woman. And I started loving it. Well, loving is a humble word. I got obsessed.

Few years have passed since then. Now I can say I have made my peace with men, Mara, and pink. BUT not every man, or woman or shade of pink. I am till this day astonished that discovering my own identity did not come through my parents, or school, or friends. It came through a man. Miracles did not happen since then, and I didn’t hear birds or did the sky produce endless rainbows. The world was still real, and painful at times, but there was that reassurance that now I had less enemies to hate (and male cats could rejoice) I did not become the type of girls that drove me nuts in that café years back, and I assure you I have no tutus in my closet. I admire those I used to be scared of. I admire their courage to fit pretty well into their skin and not try to be something else. I admire a woman who can be confident enough about her looks and sexuality and rights to live in a macho world without losing any of her femininity. I admire those feline like women passing in the street, heads high, walking in sky high heels without tripping, turning heads as they go. They make small miracles happen. They stop traffic the minute they step off the sidewalk to cross the street (unless it s some angry woman behind the wheel who d gladly run her over) They can get away with parking tickets (tried and proved, with a little help of mentioning dad is high rank officer) They never ever have to change tires (tip: just stand near your car and watch your problem getting solved on its own). I am not talking about striking beauties or models. I am not talking about perfect women. Every woman can do it, even in flats, jeans and t-shirt. It s in the attitude. That magical something that makes her a Woman. So once you find what makes you feel sexy and glamorous, Please do not, I repeat, DO NOT leave it for special occasions or use it only for someone you like, or to get attention. Do it because you know that within you there is a muse and never be any less than that.

Till this day my attempts to carry a “womanly” bag have failed. You d never find a mirror there, or makeup. It s mostly loads of papers, notebooks, a ruler, handy things. The only feminine thing would be perfume. Now I know I don’t need anything else. There is a rear mirror everywhere in case I need to check nothing s stuck between my teeth, and I never excuse myself to go retouch a makeup. So I m fine as I am. It s not in the things….it s within.

Ham-Sa (I am That)

I am not the peace of the Lotus

Nor the pride of the Oak

I am just the way I am, a secret untold.

I am not a perfect blossom of cherries under a misty moon

Nor the cry of wolves into the night as fears bloom.

I am not made of laughter nor am I made of tears

I am just this moment, be it what it may be.

I am not Light nor Darkness but somewhere in between

Where the winds whisper to Fire and Water.

I am not a butterfly nor am I the flower

But it is there that I dwell, in their longing for each other.

I am not the steady rock or the moving river

But I am the way they rub

Against each other and make the song of the stream.

Now you may judge or you may laugh but still

I will become all I can be

For I am this and I am that

My truth is not found in answers

And I just want to seek.

Ophelia

what do u hear now ophelia?
sinking into the depth of silence...
what do the shells whisper to u in your new voyage...
does ur heart still hold his sweet madness
r u still naming flowers, still waiting for ur love to blossom again
in a dead heart...
Ophelia...
where do u sail now, into what bitter world of loneliness
your skin perforated by the flood, the river rushes through you,
your only consolation is you think u can become the ocean.

A red dot I call my heart

Not sinking, just reaching
deeper and deeper into my heart,
dancing in my own blood
a smear of color that keeps envading
the white emptiness of these pages....
I call upon u
angel of light, come break this darkness
with a dim red flame
that burns so persistently...
this flame that is my heart
this flame that fears no flood...
I am not sinking, just reaching
for He who dwells in my heart.
Element through element we keep rejoining
parts of ourselves forever remolding
into new shapes, new natures, new boundless limits...
but for now i just want to drown into myself and be
on the blankness of this space
just this little red dot I call my heart

Summer s ending

Far away and out of sight

flocks of birds have flown south

away from this cold, this empty space left behind

at summer's ending

and i stand still, no longer flying...

or migrating towards the sun

nor burning my wings to rise again

just standing still and watching

life as it spends itself...

it s not goodbye...it s not remembering

a season that was ours and that is changing

a kiss, a breath, a smell and that silent look in your eyes,

this morning is none of that...

it is just my morning here alone

at summer's ending

Flowers dancing in the breeze

No word is said

No question asked

No answer given

While we look at the dancing flowers of our mind,

The thoughts that travel across the absence.

The way I talk to you

When u r gone.

I live with no roots, no bonds at the rim of this world, the edge of life...A small trail of blood holds my luck. A short breath is left in my lungs Then I shall slip and close my eyes...to dream away this sleepless night

How far could u really run, when u r running from yourself?

Some nights

Within these walls that inhabit me,
my sanity lost track of itself.
I am scared of my own eyes,
of the calming thoughts that gently push me over the edge
or the echoes in my heart,
the pattering of my footsteps stalking me like a murderer....
Long is the lonely night
Cruel, criminal.
Carve me a window outside my head from where I d leak, like blood, like ink
or like a flowing river
Carve me a path through salty tears into the sea
where lonely souls of this world come to sink
like heavy rocks,
come to sink like metal chains that finally broke free

Butterflies in my mind

No one for whom I d shed my skin,
unwrap my heart
No one with whom I d dance like a butterfly
around a flower,
Just my mind as it twirls and spins
around the empty corners of my heart
I got no pace that I wait to hear on the stairs
or the sounds of keys in the door...
I got no bird outside my window or even a worm that breaks through the wall.
I go to bed and hug myself trying to contain my own soul
fearing someday i ll watch her walk out that door
walking away a long narrow path with no dim light at the end...
maybe she already did, and i am just here watching over my corpse

My boat, my pillow

Come close and Listen
to the sound of echoes that fill my emptiness.
I rest my head in your hand, listen to my thoughts
Hear my unfinished songs
of gone by days and gone by dreams,
then carry my song with the flow of river
and hold me, for when i forget, u can tell me again
how the story goes...
what stories the wind tells
into emptied shells
stories of those abandonned or those who await still?
what does an empty shell contain?
the echo of the past or the eternal promise of love?
It contains a beating heart
and only the wind knows
what love is,
for it holds the heart of the sea and sings
the sound of waves into each emptied shell
never forgotten, never lost.
Come,Put ur ear on my chest
I put my heart in your hand like a small shell
Listen, the waves of my love break on your shore
as we silently sail together.

Fireworks in the heart

Fly with the gentlest breeze
reach high to the sky.
Rare are those who know
fragil hearts love the most,
and through their pains,
they still love.

Within

Sometimes the body seems like a narrow space
Sometimes this skin misses its wings
and the soul too restless to be contained within...
If I was dreaming and now awaking
the taste of a dream still clings.
These ribs, these bones now reshaped
to hold this heart, to engrave your name,
they are translucent so you could come in,
I shed my feathers I shed my wings
inhabit a body that surrenders
to the movement of your hand
across time across space.
but if I quit escaping
if I agree to remain within,
no more fluid nature,
do u promise this body not to turn into a cage?
do u promise this soul never to be tamed?