Poetry Pause
on rest
As I continue celebrating the one year anniversary of maktoūb, I am revisiting my intentions for this work. My hope for this container was (is) to cultivate a sacred writing space, where I can show up week by week and offer what I have, giving space to what wants room to grow. A ritual to allow myself to flow with what wants to be said, rather than force. And so, inevitably, there comes those weeks (like this one) where the words do not find me. When I find myself reaching, stretching for language that has yet to form.
Ingrained in my writing practice is the belief, named by Toni Morrison, that “language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. Language alone is meditation.” And like any meditative practice, the lesson comes from falling and getting up, the loss, the reluctance. Saturday’s Virgo Full Moon painfully reminded me of the need to pause, to stop and observe. How far I have come (proud) and how far there is to go (hopeful).
Tricia Hersey instructs us on the primal importance of rest, she explains, “Our bodies are a site of liberation. We are divine and our rest is divine. There is synergy, interconnectedness, and deep communal healing within our rest movement. I believe rest, sleep, naps, daydreaming, and slowing down can help us all wake up to see the truth of ourselves”.
And so, as I rest my vocal chords and re-awaken to the words seeking me, I dedicate this week’s essay to Sudanese womxn poets featured in Israa Abbas’s poetry archive project, I.A. Poetry. All poems below were originally published on PANK magazine.
"My body is at rest, eyes open wide. Mama’s hand drifts over my lids. She is the last thing I see My ears operate the same nonetheless Dua’s are being spoken Condolences are being sent her way She has called for Yossra But no relief will be had Her youngest daughter has left this land My feet signal upwards, my desire exposed. My heart is still, palms open wide. This is it, the end of life. An angel is by the door, of what was once my mouth and nose. With one last tug, he frees my soul. I am free. The clouds are gone, far, far below us. I am among the stars, where I belong. I pray to never leave. Others soar by me, heading to a destination. As I move gradually, Malik lugging me along. He knows what is going on. In the afterlife, there are two choices And I know to which I belong. And so I pray and pray to stay in limbo, To always have just left and never arrive. The in-between is my only rest." Limbo by Shams Hamid
"The little-used narrow staircase in the back of the campus center Shabat shabat shabat of some other student’s sandals Qul huwa allahu ahad all over again Holy words breathed against dusty floor, the motes fly up to pray with me A thousand fitting rooms with a thousand dresses I never intended to try on hanging on the door Playground grass with the birds chirping the adhan That was a dishonest bit of imagery – I hate birds But you understand what I mean Something about nature and harmony And interconnectedness And passing families frankly gawking And I am too old and too young for self-consciousness Some rock in Costa Rica Some old bit of dried lava rising to meet my face The ocean crashing into the cliff below If I died here would they send my body home It’s not a melancholy thought. In a row with my cousins, bowing behind my uncle Lying close to my aunt Her heartbeat tattooing a bruise on my forehead like the prayer marks of older men Oh, Lord of this world and the next, please –" Places I've Prayed by Zeena Mubarak
"Braid my cheese and slaughter a goat for my graduation, Overstay your welcome, Unspool prayer into cupped palms & spread it over our gleaming faces, feeding us sweets at funerals and 3aseer laymoon in sickness, Burn down all hotels & industrialised hospitality, Cry every bayt is baytak, every home is home did you want gossip or cumin? did you just say mabrook at a funeral? Give me a room that swells and animal fat in green bottles, salons in shadows and women shapeshift into sandalwood, stroke my palms baba and repeat 9abaa7 9abaa7 kisra bil moolah, Sing to me your question bayt al 3aroos wein & set the bottomless trap, let me giggle gidaam & giggle gidaam & giggle more than 4 spoons of sugar? did you just say al baraka feekum to the bride? Gal lek fi wahid, who reads Hiba and wonders Vaseline-shining girl or gift, (gidaam) her empty of small talk is filled with Allah’s remembrance and stories about this graceless tongue: (gidaam) she asked for mokhadarat at a vegetable stall! and called her tribe Jalabiya! she steals every joke from a passport! Marvel as I release them all with gidaam & Spit sleeping giggles resuspended from underarms, Mother of all punchlines!" Ya khawaja by Salma Ali