I want to write
But I’m trapped
My ego wants to construct something profound
A piece which adheres to all the rules
And I forget what I really want to say
I neglect how I really feel.
I yearn for the past,
Like a burnt forest, forever colourless.
Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
If I were a kitten
the world would be smitten
but I am a seven year old war-bitten
little honey-eyed girl
Locked up in detention.
Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
Mum had named
Her newborn Moses
To guard against
The nonchalant sea
So he would help
Part the hungry ocean
When God gave His decree
That ‘t was time to flee
But six months ago
The phantom Pharaoh
Sent his birthday arrow
And gifted from a thousand mile
A misguided guided missile
Mum’s shell shocked cornea
Recorded her guardian
Sear
By a shrapnel the size of a Chardonnay
And flap
Feeling for his intoxicated airway
Flap did baby Moses
Blood fountained from his neck like an octopus
Gushing out a dozen roses.
Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
Such is tyranny, hard and cruel
Morphing gifted men into fools
When the splendid past haunts their dreams,
They smile, douse themselves and set alight the fuel.
Illustration by SAMA SAMI
Ramadan
The Holy Month
Ablutions
Before the song of sparrows
In the nick of time
Sohour + dawn prayer
Sunrise to sunset
Fossicking the fridge
Watching the wristwatch
The scent of scripture
Dusk
Call to prayer
Drowned by mum’s dish
Iftar
The breaking of the fast
Almost breaking the dinner table
Making a wish:
“God, please end poverty.”
Dates
Eating them, not going on them
Prayer, over and over
For those in need
Remembering
Those in need
The felicity of charity
The hues of gratitude
The rarity of restraint
For all we need
Is God’s colours
His Mercy
And them dates.
Original Artwork by MARIAM SAWIRES
I turn, bidding to see life, and whenever I do
I see pain and poverty, hurt and hunger, labour and liquidation
But instead, I adore but these, infinite sensations
I like to descry a wildflower, gentle
I have never seen a flower give birth
But I have seen mothers separated from their offspring
In Spring
I like to touch the lilies and feel their coarse and supple silk
I have never seen a flower make love
But I have seen lovers hung from ropes, forgotten
In Autumn
I like to taste the rainwater left on the bracts overnight
I have never seen a flower so thirsty, it begs to die
But I have seen children ripped by a sniper’s tender bullet and sinter
In Winter
I like to listen to the soft wedding bell melodies created by the petals as they marry the grass
I have never seen snow bury a flower in cold blood
But I have seen powder detonate and deliberately rob the soul of a lover
From next Summer:
I will turn and accept life is full of these unfair stories.
I wish it weren’t like this.
But I’ve learnt these injustices harden my flower.
Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
Yet, I am here.
All because of the moments I cannot remember.
original artwork by Mariam Sawires
The Master ordered
And the Generals gave salute
And weary and worn-out men
Danced to the flute
They strapped their green cotton-armour
And funeral-black leather boots
Brides back home awaited their grooms
To walk them down the aisle in genteel charcoal suits
But mothers,
Mistresses of intuition
Saved money
And bought coffins.
To all the women in my life who teach me what and who a man is. Everyday.
Mum. Grandma RIP. Sisters. Aunts. Cousins. Soulmates. Friends. Colleagues. Girlfriends. And all the inspiring ladies I’m yet to meet.
Happy International Women’s Day.
Osamah is 19, and his main aim during Ashura, a ten-day Islamic ritual, is to score the chat-room nickname of Houda, the girl whose long eyelashes feed his new obsession.
Listed as iTunes Best Podcast in 2015.
Good Muslim Boy published by Hardie Grant; book cover design by Mark Campbell; weaving by Cathy Tipping
