Category: Poetry

Aisha L. Kunting

A mother—she wakes and she walks—miles and miles on rubbles of rocks,
Searching for food for her family of four, once a happy family of six before.
She knows that she travels a dangerous road. At any moment she could be taken, shot, and towed.
But the love for her family urges her still, she would tread any valley, desert, or hill.

A father—he cries in the night—hugging his child wrapped in a clean sheet of white
He will never hear her laugh on this earth again, nor see the brightness light her eyes as it did back then.
He mourns and he prays till the early hours of day, for paradise for his child taken away.

A brother—he carries his kin—injured and bleeding, body alarmingly thin.
“I’m thirsty,” he whispers. “Where are our sisters?”
Together they search, but where to even begin?
Rubbles and bones stretch what once was a street, with strangers and friends alike trapped just beneath their feet
Under destruction and debris, in the harsh cold of the night or the heat of morning light,
Their blood entwined in the earth like the roots of olive trees.

A child of five—he endures. His skin is blistering and agitated because of water-contaminated
Like burn marks on his skin, around his neck, and all over his arm.
What did this innocent child do to warrant such harm?
For months now he has known only hunger and pain,
No comfort nor relief, too young still, yet so familiar with grief.
Why do the innocents suffer while evil roams free causing harm with their hands?

Like many of the people of the Olive Tree, every day they fight to be freed.
Their homes were taken from them, lands stolen by an evil disguised as men.
Yet, their hearts beat with hope and resilience.
They stand strong and unbroken, enduring with faith and persistence.
Have you ever witnessed a nation bear with such patience despite being so shattered and confined
As much as our resilient and unyielding brothers and sisters in beloved Palestine?

Lourd Greggory Crisol

Hinay-hinay kong gibuklad
ang nakaputus nga dahon sa saging
ug nitumaw ang aso
nga naghatod sa kahumot sa manok.

Sa tunga niining nakahapin nga dahon
nakaplastar ang usa ka takos nga kan-on,
giibabawan ug sapal, lamas, ug unud.

Huwaran ko kini ug palapa
ug dugmukun,
sagulun ang timpla sa manok
sa mamaak nga kahalang sa sili ug sibudying.

Mupudyut ug katunga sa kumkum nga kan-on,
dimdimon ang kalami ug kahalang.

Samtang nagkalingaw kog hungit,
nakalingi ko sa akong palibot,

nakita ko mga grupo sa babayi nga nagkumbong,
mga laki nga nagsturya nga kanako banyagang pulung.

Ug sa ilang mga mata ug hagik-hik nabatyagan ko
nga tungud niining usa ka hawop nga kan-on
nga giputus sa dahon,

nibuklad ang pahiyum sa among mga nawong.

 

I slowly uncover
the wrapper made of banana leaf,
slowly releasing the steam,
that carries the aroma of cooked chicken.

In the center of the leaf
A cup of rice awaits
topped with coconut shreds, spices, and meat.

On this dish I slowly pour palapa
and start mashing,
blending the chicken’s juices
to the spice of the sili and sibudying.

I take a portion of the dish using my fingers
and relish the heat and tastes.

While I partake my feast,
my eyes can’t help but wander,

a group of women wearing kumbong, I notice,
men speaking tongues which are foreign to me.

And in their eyes, and laughter I pondered
that because of this moon shaped rice
wrapped in banana leaf,

happiness unfurled on all our faces.

Ahmed Hataman

Quietly,
I enter their chambers,
Every night that I can,
And as the rest of the world falls silent,
cause one last, selfish interruption

I softly lean in, tired as they are
kiss their cheek
And quietly, as I leave
Say, “Love you, salaam”

Only then can I sleep,
Only then can I rest,
For if the Creator decides
to take them before dawn
They will at least know
All is forgiven, only thanks is left
And they would have felt my love
before the end

That day will come,
Of this I am aware,
Unless the Lord of the Worlds,
Decides to take me first

Until then,
I enter their chambers,
Every night without fail
Praying if they’re gone by morning,
I would see them again.
At the end of it all, I could run to them –
wrap them both in my arms,
And it would not matter if I held on
For the next thousand years.

Mirra-Edora Esmael

Once, I offered myself to the stars

I scooped up scraps of me
Ugly edges, opened cracks
Faults, flaws, and ruins
But they slip eagerly between the hands
How unfair it was! How unjust!
When I finally solicited bravery
The fingers have gone tired, they trembled,
Unable to carry all the thunders I rolled
Beneath the corners of my flesh and bones
Still, I gathered these and held them tight
I took it on a ride to the depths of the night.

dogs howling
lamppost flickering
air sweeping
people
dust
and leaves
on empty streets
echoing
mechanical
squeak, whirr;
a staccato.

I toss myself under the watchful skies
Abandoned and stripped my mind
But the moon has fallen asleep
How unfair it was! How unjust!
When I finally solicited bravery
It has grown tired of people’s tears,
It got bored of people’s whims,
So I asked, instead, the stars
Pleaded them to accept, to hide,
All the sins, chunks, and scars —
To string constellations with tonight.

trees slouching
walls whispering
air thickening
melting dew
light
and soil
on silent streets
echoing
mechanical
thrum, whirr;
a staccato.

Distant, diamond eyes pierce me
Like mirrors, doubting, suspicious
Questioning the unshapely fragments
I dragged and hid in my shadows
So I took the tail of a wandering star,
Scraped down the worst parts,
And offered them up above
But they don’t weave constellations anymore
How unfair it was. How unjust!
When I finally solicited bravery
The stars have grown tired of waiting,
And I am left with my rubbles, begging.

One star took pity,
And so it called and asked me:

“What do you think makes me shine?
Is it air, space, or time?
Is it me who created this light?
Or is it the darkness where I lie?
What do you think makes me twinkle?
My light that hesitated to travel?
The black spaces that ate my sparkle?
Or your eyes, which failed to discover,
All these fragments creating my flare?”

eyes drooping,
earth snoring,
air blowing,
bursting colors
shapes
and skins
on lonely streets
echoing
mechanical
hum, whirr,
slowing down,
singular sound;
a staccato.

 

Aminah Fernando Kunting

Conclusion

Sometimes,
the buzz of the world suffocates.
Sometimes,
I have to focus on simply breathing.
I force myself to feel
the air enter my nose,
visualize it go down my lungs
and feel them expand.

Sometimes,
I have to close my ears.

Most times,
I try to find the peace.
Mostly,
I swallow my pride and anger
and hope people learn what it means to be kind
Mostly,
I grapple at air and old wisdom
trying to remember what sabr means.

But
most often,
I simply shuffle my feet,
and tell myself this is all momentary.

Other times,
I blink
and
everyone is older
then I wonder,
where has all the time gone.

in those times,
I regret this:
“I could have done better”

and yet,
time always seems to catch up
right
before the promise.

Still.
often, lately
for now,
I keep my pace
steady.
I
watch one foot ahead of the other,
walk as steady as I can
to the end.

til before then,
I yield to gratitude.
remember:
I am not
whole,
yet.
and it is
not
the end,
yet.

 

I Dread

When, inevitably, I shall be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
hands, scratched and bruised,
blistered.
still searching under the rubble
for any sound of life.

If I were to be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
fractured lungs, desperate for air
wheezing
still laughing at little joys
of seeing children alive.

If I were to be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
battered arms and legs, unable to walk or grasp
immovable
still with a smile to pass, they have fought
to hold their right.

If I were to be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
disfigured shapes, all just a mass
ignored
still a full life left behind them
always hoping for the truth

If I were to be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
damaged, scarred, maimed
patient
still seeking to relieve others of their hardship
despite of

If I were to be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
lips, despite despair
consistently moves: “Hasbunallahu Wa Ni’mal Wakeel – حَسْبُنَا اللَّهُ وَ نِعْمَ الْوَ كِيلُ”
repeating
“Allahu Akbar”. “Allah is sufficient for us.”
Continuously. Relentlessly. Despite of.

If I were to be asked to spell fear;
I will show you Gaza—
because I cannot spell fear
without unearthing and unveiling its true manifestation:
that even in ruins,
with grace and quiet,
will not falter and break in this dunyaa.
that, even in obliteration,
still trust Allah.
despite of.

 

“Abd, Abd”

I keep forgetting
it is not how much I do
nor how much I forgive;
it is not how many
orphans I feed
or the number of
sunnah prayers I pray;
it is not how lacking I have behaved
or how patient I have tried to become;

I keep forgetting
it is not me or my deeds
but
rather,
Allah’s Mercy
Allah’s Greatness
Allah’s forgiveness

that keeps me
here,
still.

…

The flower opens quietly
its petals ruffle slightly
as the wind blows

the stem stands firm
and rooted to the ground
irrespective of where the head sways.