Month: February 2012

Kreativ Blogger Award

Today I woke up to something wonderful!

It appears there’s something called the Kreativ Blogger Award. And if this isn’t a figment of my mind’s creation, and I’m not imagining things, I was awarded it! I have the lovely Suad Shamma to thank for this honour, and I’m very grateful! Click here to visit her blog 

It also appears that I have to do a few things to be entitled this award. The first of which is to mention ten things about myself,  so:


1. I try to slow things down with my mind, so that I can enjoy them more before they slip from within my reach.

2. My earliest memory is of my younger sister and me running somewhere. I can’t remember where.

3. I have a slight stutter. (Only goes away after a few moments of silence.)

4. I go on walks frequently, and reading in parks is a particular favourite!

5. I’m no fan of nationalism, and I don’t like labels of nationality, but if you absolutely must class me, under “Egyptian” shouldn’t be too far off the mark.

6. I love being a wearer of glasses. It makes feel … powerful? (Not the kind of glasses that shields your eyes from the sun, the kind you wear when you have bad eyesight.)

7. My first crush was in kindergarten. She was cute. I never worked up the courage to ask her her name.

8. I spend a significant portion of every day being the Hug Dispenser!

9. Cold chocolate is ruined chocolate, I say! Leave it out of the fridge!

10. My initials spell ASS. (It’s also a very popular set of initials, believe it or not!)


Okay, next step: it follows that I nominate blogs I think are worthy of the award. The following are blogs the owners of which inspire me, and whose blogs are entertaining and delightful! They’re all brilliant! Honest and sincere and always well-worded is their writing. Here, in no particular order:

  • Rebel-ution: An enlightened philosopher’s online abode.
  • Just sayin’: Eloquence paired with interesting reflections, with a liberal dash of hilarity.
  • Layers of My Soul: I’ve cried many a time while browsing the virtual pages of this gem of a blog.
  • Organica: Much like its owner, this blog is admirably daring. Original and always a great read.
  • Caffeinated Rory: poignant observations on life. Honest, witty, and hilarious!


Now, if you accept this award, you must do a few things, namely:

  • Display the award image on your blog.
  • Acknowledge the nominator.
  • List ten things about yourself that readers probably don’t know.
  • Pass the award along by nominating six other blogs you enjoy reading.


The Garden Road

A lot of young men with a lot of guns

The cement floor is cold; and
still is; for the blood has dried.
The small pools crust along the ground;
with prints of military boots intact.

Here, in the garden road,
along this floor
we grow anger
we grow love, too; and
many a heart; sore.

I walk along the garden road; the road watered
with waters red; their blood
seems a river that cuts cement and stone.
Two fell there, now; three under my feet; and
in the distance; four
And resting here, in peaceful sleep
I find some more.
It has been long since their roar; like them
died away.

I crouch down beside him
His eyes frighten me
I see in them my own leaving; from
this tiny world; I continue my search
for it is not him.

The boy along the garden road
The boy with the tranquil face,
the military outfit that does not fit,
the hole through the heart, the half-loaded gun
he is not my son.

The Blackbird’s Lament

In a meadow green with life
With too many a rose to bear
At the end of a winding faraway road
Waits a blackbird; sunk in despair
For only when the reapers fall to work; it sings
Fills the meadow’s sweet air.

Now it sings:
Hers were bright eyes; they saw
Clear dreams of a shining knight
Silver sword in hand; right at heart
He who pulls the forces of evil apart
Riding a brown horse
A beast of honour and power
A silky mane; black as night.

A moment; then
Arrives another, in quick order they come
Its tiny chest fragments at the news; its back bent
And the blackbird sings again
For none else can sing a song
As beautiful as a blackbird’s lament.



I hear your voice in birdsong

Two-Word Name for a Poem

Not just a place with a bed and pillow

This is a maze
this; my life
endless and constant and
I’m stuck within it,
I have not a spool of thread or a light.

Another dead end now
Fall and pull at broken branches

I see many faces glow
Meet many; they love; they
Live; think to myself
Are they like me?
Do they also have
what I carry in my chest?

Backtrack, retrace steps
Another route discarded; useless
I was wrong
Another route to be taken; now
A brand new road
Strewn with uncertainty
That chokes my sight.

But it’s beautiful
Like her brown eyes
Inviting; I know
I will find it; in the end;
where the road halts and I will too
One day I will belong
One day, I will stop; cease to wander
Cease to roam
I will find my home.

And it will be so; a home
Not just a place with a bed and pillow.

Nine O`clock, on a Street

Note: the entirety of this is real. No parts have at all been made up or had their truth changed in any way. This is not a story.

Walking down a street made me realize that I love many things.

I hadn’t brought any money with me, so my options for going back home from the lecture about film and camera dynamics I’d attended comprised only one: walking back. Just as well, I love walking. I’m one of those people who makes a point of doing small things I think are healthy. I try to walk and run as often as I can (several times I walked what ultimately is a two-hour journey on foot from the school district to downtown).

It was 9 pm, and the streets were empty. Only a car or two were to be found on the road at any given time. I love that. Sometimes, when it’s late, I walk in the middle of the empty streets where the cars are supposed to be, and feel like it’s a post-apocalyptic film; the city falls silent, and no one is anywhere within sight. If people in this city stay up late, they do so away from where I can see or hear them.

But it was 9 o’clock, and people, however few, still walked the street. At the first zebra crossing I walked by, there was a lady with a baby stroller. Sitting inside the stroller, looking fascinated and perhaps slightly afraid, was the lady’s baby. It reminded me of old pictures of my mother and me. My mother would take me, her first-born, out in a pram and we’d go on adventures together. We waited until the light flashed green, and when it did we crossed the street, along with everyone else who’d been there.

Ahead of us the street narrowed, so I stopped so she’d walk ahead of me. I didn’t want her to have to walk behind me in the narrowed road; I was walking slowly, and I didn’t imagine anyone would like that, least of all she who reminded me of my mother, if only slightly.

The street widened again, a lot larger and busier now. Downtown. The entire time she walked ahead of me, I kept thinking maybe I should help her with lifting the stroller over the elevated edges of sidewalks. I don’t know if that’s offensive. Would it be condescending of me to help in such a situation? I only wanted to help. Which I didn’t do.

I walked by the Lebanese restaurant and for the few seconds it took me to walk past it, through the large window, I saw two fighting inside. One was the cook, his outfit betrayed his identity. The other wore a suit, he could have been the manager. They were loudly shouting and gesticulating the way people who animatedly fight do. Maybe someone had got a wrong order and complained; or got their order with an unexpected -and perhaps unwanted- addition. I don’t know, I didn’t listen in.

Then I walked by one of the coffee shops that shall not be named. You know them, they’re everywhere now. I don’t like them. I’m not the biggest fan of coffee. Through the window I saw the table where The Rambling Observer and I usually sit. She orders her cup of cappuccino or frappuccino or something, I honestly don’t know; I order nothing because I don’t like coffee, as mentioned. I thought how much I valued our friendship. All my friendships, for that matter. I’m what they refer to as being blessed; in that, I find I`ve been dealt a favourable hand of cards in the poker game of life. I’m thankful.

Then I walked by a man loudly talking over the phone. He was walking in the stream of pedestrians walking in the opposite direction of that I was walking in. A man of around fourty. In a cheerful voice, he said: “Ezzayak ya ‘am Mohammad?” (“How are you, Mohammad?” in the Egyptian dialect of Arabic). That was the only line of his conversation I -unwillingly- heard as we brushed past each other. For some reason, unsupported by any evidence whatsoever, I though Mohammad was his friend from his university days, that they had not talked in years, and that on that street they were reunited after the long absence over a phone call.

A few yards away from the apartment building where I live, there was a four-by-four car the driver of which seemed to have driven into the raised area separating the sidewalk from the street. She or he then righted that, and drove down into the underground parking structure. I stepped into the building,  greeted the doorman and smiled, (I always do, every day, without fail), and stepped into the lift; the third one from the left. Out of the four there, it is the one most frequently displaying the G sign, so being the one I ride the most.

In the time I rode the lift I made a series of faces in the mirror. The Supermodel. The Superman. The Goofy Guy. The Snob. The Sad Cute Face. The I Look Surprised As If An Alien Spaceship Landed Before Me. I then dropped the used tissue I had in my hand in the small metal trash can in the corner of the lift.

My sisters had left the door unlocked for me, so I simply walked in. I found my laptop and thought, Maybe this is worth writing about. So I did. If you’re reading this, that means I didn’t decide it wasn’t worth showing anyone, highlighted the entire text of the file, and deleted it.

I love the little things that make up my life. I’m only happy when I take note of their existence. I love the faces I saw and will likely never see again as long as I live. The fact that this day will now be burned in my memory. This feeling of contentment. Now, if you are reading this, I want to hug you.

I wish you happiness, human/humanoid/creature that has developed the ability to read and browse the Internet.

In the Wastelands They Wait

Dressed in her rivers of ice

The Warrior

Rode to the land of The Consumed

To relieve them of their misery

The price of serenity

Bears much.



Those emptied, left for dead

Victims of vile intention

Dumped in the wastelands

The homes of those used,

Those broken,

Those wanted no more.


There they were to wait

To dwell upon their undoing

To regret, again, again

But no more, she will remedy them

She will end the streak; for now

She has arrived; to

The land where shed tears cut the skin.