Selected Poetry by Amirah Al Wassif

August 14, 2020

Photo Source: Pexels 

 

If you give me your eyes

 

If you give me your eyes,
you may become blind, but i swear I'll take care of them.
I'll wash them every night from filth and grief
I'll keep them from

agony and salty tears.
If you give me your eyes,
You may not see again
But i assure you that it is a little thing to lose
I'll hang them on God's tree, and let them watch
All the directions of heaven and hell
And they'll dig under the sacred tree with

sense of humor and curiosity
They'll figure out how to peek into the chest of the truth,

without pretending that you are a learned man.
If you give me them, I'll take your eyes for a walk, we'll be stoned and delighted through our walking between God's arms
We'll laugh from the

bottom of our hearts,

we'll measure the distance between the awesomeness and beauty.
If you lend me them, I won't give them back to you, how dare I?

While we're on our way to put the seeds of tomorrow.
If you give me your own eyes, I'll let you see my paradise where all the scientists set by their inventions looking in amaze, wondering how small their eyes to the eye of God.
Where they all thinking is that eye is the sun? Is that eye is the moon?
If you give me your eyes,
I'll knead them like the pugs, and I'll gather their ashes wrapped it in a precious kerchief, 
if you do that, I'll free your eyes from the darkness slavery,

and let on

they plunge in the brightness of the horizon.

 

 

 

 

 

Against The Broiling Sun

 

 

 

 

                    

                  I stood on my tippy toes

                      Near enough to touch

                     God's arm.

                     My grandfather on his

                     wheelchair

                                                                          

 

Laughing as if his whole life

Is a joke.

Everyone knows that he could

Shorten his long life through laughter.

My mother on the ground

Peeling the beans

For preparing its soup.

Although she could use her grief

Instead of the salt

She insists to pretend that

There is a great difference

In each taste.

My back against the broiling sun

It's flames hurt me

Whipping my flesh.

Corn husks dolls tucked

Between my legs

We sell the joy

To the needy children.

On my toes, 

I watched my family

Gathering the pebbles

To make a house.

The flower which had grown

Between my lips

Create a magical ladder

To the sky.

We murmur verses 

Through our flight

From corner to corner.

We have no walls

Between us and God

My mother used to

Say that.

Her tender eyes

Reflect how the

Heaven is.

Working under the sun

Equals praying.

Each doll was given to a child

Plant a star

In our darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

When I met the devil

 

 

 

Last night,
I met the devil.
He was in his wheelchair
moving through 
the shelves of my library.
I kept silent
to watch him.
He hadn't tusks
nor claws.
Only a powerful motivator
to absorb my diary.
I heard him
Repeating my words,
Saying them 
In excitement.
The first line
of my diary
Made him sing
With cheeks flushed red.
The second line
forced him
To fly in craze.
I kept watching him
On my knees
If he paid attention
To me,
He would hear
The cracking
Of my bones.
The devil ate
my words
Stoned by
its delicious.
He continued 
Orbiting around
My moments
In amazement
Until his eyes
Caught my last
Line 
He sank in
Eternal sadness.
It was my first time
to see a Devil
Cries.
The devil
kept reading
My diary in awe
His strong tone
Changed to
Mourns.
I still remember
how terrific
His looking was
when he witnessed
my written griefs.
I also recall how
the salt rained down
from his eyes
while breathing
our tragedy
As humans.
I met the devil once
Since then,
I still wonder
Do our petty diaries
Have that ability
To turn the devil's
Hair from black
To white!?.

 

 

 

 

Prayers on our house roof

 

 

We were boiling bananas on the roof of our house.

My mother's laughter clutched the heart of my ears.

She was gossiping with her neighbor, knocking softly on my body with her delicious words.

Although, my mother doesn't know how to write, her telling is as sweet as poetry.

I love to watch their tongues playing music that called a conversation.

My mother and her neighbor were working on their knees; their chests pump gladly, their noses colored by the smoke.

For us boiling bananas

equals praying

We murmurs with verses, we sing with faces up

We live in our own paradise, making art through peeling bananas, slicing it into pieces of heaven, boiling it on the fire, hoping for a kiss on a cheek from a bird,

or an old hymn bathe the exhausted soul.

I was sitting on my mother's hip, my special view that overlooking the cavern of God

There, where i could spy on the kingdom of mercy

I saw god cooking

for children like me

Just like me and the only difference is that

They are dead, but i am still alive

Every time we boiling bananas, i watched god preparing the dinner table for the dead children

He was feeding them sweetly

I felt the warmth of their soup, i touched the magic of their setting

Every time I ran to my mother, crying in childish tone saying that i saw god cooking for dead children.

My mother smiles and completes her talking with her neighbor

I yelled at my mother, but she smiled again.

Then, I kept watching and spying

God was making delicious food upstairs, one hundred children on their knees look forward tasting the yummy dishes.

I was waving to them, smiling at them,

but they didn't notice me at all.

They were gathered around the God, in longing, in awe,

I have always wondered if god boiling bananas for the children like our mothers do for us.

And i imagined many times how delicious is it.

The smell of our rooftop carries kind of hope.

Under my little bare feet, bananas peel and two bowls, one for us and the other one for the hungers people in our neighborhood.

It became a habit since we all heard of

One hundred child died of hunger, one hundred innocent soul vanished, disappeared, all the my folk said that, but i swear to them, i swear to my mother that i saw god cooking for the dead children , but they said nothing, just kept smiling at me.

 

 

 

 

 

I am a published poet. My poetry collection "For Those Who Don’t Know Chocolate" that published in February 2019 by Poetic Justice Books & Arts, And my children book The Cocoa Boy and Other Stories published in February 2020. My poems have appeared in several prints and online publications including South Florida Poetry, Birmingham Arts Journal, Hawaii Review, The Meniscus, the Chiron review, the Hunger, Writers Resist, Right Now and several publications.

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