My kid is playing nearby
and he stuns me,
how he chooses my right breast
and sucks my age
till it swells.
I try to surprise him
with my left
but he squeezes the nipple...
A virtual route of creative and cultural exchange
Places
Qateef, Saudi Arabia
Contributors: Raed Al-Jishi
« The Qateef settlement dates back to approximately 3500 B.C. and is well known for its traditional markets (suqs), such as its Fish Market. »
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Surrounded by the walls of memory with no lover and nothing to remember I mock my triangular cuffs and the illusion of hands in a circle. An iron cage of emotions... media_text
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I am a Tuareg child. My blue turban drowns me in the waves of sadness, then expels me like seeds of ivory. O! great Tin Hinan, your brave knight lost his way among... media_text
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They vanished like our palm trees. Ancient open windows and old dreams. The city forgot their names while they held its memory in their soul like a candle ... media_text
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Their identikits are a mystery. I couldn’t recognize them by the reflection of the wind Nor by the sensors On my blind stick. They walked by me with sympathy. ... media_text
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The frozen water in my eyes, which was scratched by a cat of time is changing the spring I desire, my vinegary dreams, and the songs that love me into a one-... media_text
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I cannot recognize myself If I don’t wear me. Faces are deceiving without their masks, like that bleeding white gulf. media_text
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The language of love is spontaneous,like me, like a painting of a child. I used to draw my house on the left side of the paper. My house was so small, neither doors nor... media_text
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There is a holy spot bher eyes where angels burn their feathers And lose their faith. Do not blame me. media_text
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I roll up. I smoke the pulse of the minute. I inject my hand with heroin of love. No one can shut me up. My flying poems hide themselves in the pack of hearts, ... media_text
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We have a modest tradition of hospitality. Our Arabian coffee doesn’t need sugar or cardamom to be tasty or delightful just like the smile we serve to those... media_text
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Our cotton didn’t take the sun’s side anymore. The wrung-out sweat was not injected inside us as if a shiver of a poem’s smoke. We are the shaved-off sugar top And the... media_text
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