Poem: Hands

HANDS

by L.Hashim-AlBayaa

small hands
smudged by hazelnut-filled chocolates
impatiently reach toward the neck of Sittu’s thobe

a leathery henna-stained hand emerges
with unhurried precision
tissue -- all but dissolved in salty wetness is unfolded

revealed
a shekel moist with old woman’s musk

a silent exchange ensues
one calloused hand (were there three fingers or four?)
claims its prize
while the other (this one has five) pours

dark liquid
its dizzying sweetness shocking the nose
flows into a glass no longer clear after three hours of customers

a moment long awaited
the kharoob feels syrupy and thick on the tongue
the day’s heat having leeched out the possibility of refreshing coolness
(that’s okay when life is not known to be refreshing)

(yes, it is four fingers!)

the four-fingered hand retrieves the glass
now not only cloudy, but decorated by chocolate finger prints
(a few more customers’ hands will rub them off)

Sittu smiles
her slow hand reaches down the neck of her thobe to pull out a hard caramel

small hands
in their never-ending search for sweetness
struggle to release the wrapper welded to the caramel by Sittu’s heat
¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬-------------------

trembling leathery hands wipe tears
flowing down a face creviced by memories of small hands
now hidden from sight beneath a white shroud.

Poem: The Thorn

The Thorn (by L. Hashim 10 Jan. 2009)

I have a thorn in my hand - that cannot be pulled out
no matter which way I turn - there is nothing but doubt

ache without pain - deaf, dumb and blind
cannot get away - cannot leave it behind

all lies exposed - the bare ugly truth
the thorn in my hand - is really a tooth

bit by the creature - that feeds off my soul
where once was a heart - now exists just a hole


© 2009 Lamyaa Hashim

Poem: The News (El-Khabr)

The News
by L. Hashim

I should have known by the sudden onslaught of love letters and poems
they were not a manifestation of love
rather a sad attempt at redemption for an undeclared assault

an assault that neither did I see coming nor knew when it had hit
the aim could not have been more direct
in one blow destroying the infrastructure of my life

the timing could not have been more perfect, my love
as I watched Gaza burn in agony
my past obliterated by mortar rounds

you brought your own rounds of mortar and finished the attack
upon my very soul they fell
do I know where Gaza ends and I begin?

Oh cruelest of cruel – is it you or them – or are you the same?
do I know how I feel or how to feel?
my eyes and heart are empty now

do you know your part in this scheme or are you truly so dense?
there is no difference between heart and home
Gaza and I are the same


© 2009 Lamyaa Hashim

Gaza: You, From Now On, Are Not Yourself

I felt it pertinent at this time to re-post an enlightening and sobering poem by the notable Palestinian National Poet, Mahmoud Darwish (1941 - August 2008) - may he rest in peace. This poem originally appeared in Al-Ayyam, June 17th, 2007.

You, From Now On... Are Not Yourself

Did we have to fall from a tremendous height so as to see our blood on our hands…to realize that we are no angels…as we thought?

Did we also have to expose our flaws before the world so that our truth would no longer stay virgin?

How much we lied when we said: we are the exception!

To believe oneself is worse than to lie to the other!

To be friendly with those who hate us and harsh on those who love us — that is the lowness of the arrogant and the arrogance of the low!

• O past: Do not change us whenever we stepped away from you!
• O future: do not ask us: who are you? and what do you want from me? Because we too, do not know.
• O present! Bear with us a little because we are nothing but insufferable passersby.

The identity is: what we bequeath and not what we inherit. What we invent and not what we remember. The identity is the corruption of the mirror that we must break whenever we liked the image!

He masked himself and pulled up his courage and killed his mother…because she was the easiest of prey…and because a female soldier stopped him and exposed her bosoms to him saying: Does your mother have ones like these?

Had it not been for shame and darkness, I would have visited Gaza without knowing the way to the home of the new Abu Sufian or the name of the new prophet!

Had Muhammad not been the last of the prophets, every gang would have had a prophet and every apostle had a militia!

June astonished us in its fortieth anniversary: if we do not find someone to defeat us again, we defeat ourselves with out hands so as not to forget!

No matter how long you look in my eyes, you will not find my gaze there. It was kidnapped by a scandal!

My heart is not mine and not for anyone. It became independent of me without turning into a stone.

Does the one chanting on the body of his victim-brother: “Allahu Akbar” know that he is an infidel since he sees God in his image: smaller than any perfectly created human.

The prisoner who seeks to inherit the prison hid the smile of victory from the camera, but he could not succeed in curbing the happiness that cascaded from his eyes.
Perhaps because the fast-paced script was stronger than the actor.

What is our need for Narcissus so long as we are Palestinians.

As long as we do not know the difference between the mosque and the university because they are derived from the same linguistic root, what is our need for a state so long as it and the day are facing one fate?

A large sign on the door of a nightclub: we welcome the Palestinians returning from the battle. Entry is free! And our wine does not intoxicate!

I cannot defend my right to work; a shoe shiner on the pavement.
Because my customers have the right to consider me a shoe thief – a university professor told me!

“The stranger and I are against my cousin. My cousin and I are against my brother…and my sheikh and I are against myself.” This is the first lesson in the new national education in the dungeons of darkness.

Who enters paradise first? The one who died by the bullets of the enemy or the one who died by the bullets of the brother?

Some theologians say: Many an enemy of yours that your mother gave birth to!

The fundamentalists do not exasperate me because they are believers in their special way. But, their secular supporters do and their atheist supporters, too, who only believe in one religion: their images on television!

He asked me: does a hungry guard defend a house whose owner traveled to spend his summer vacation at the French or the Italian Riviera…no difference?

I said: he does not defend!

He asked me: do I + I = two?

I said: you and you are less than one!

I am not ashamed of my identity because it is still in the process of being written. But I am ashamed of parts of the Prolegomenon of Ibn Khaldoun.

You, from now on, are not yourself!