Jahara A. Solaiman

Malong Weaver

Her companions being
A backstrap loom,
Vibrant filaments of every hue,
The weaver
Conjures magically
The warp and weft
Handed down
Through the centuries.

From her deft fingers
And the back and forth
Of the strands,
Colors, textures,
Patterns, motifs,
Simple and intricate,
Spring forth.
Treasures come into being
Whether it be
A landap for a sultan,
Or the rare andon for a bai a labi,
Perhaps an ampik for everyday.

From dawn to dusk
Sitting at the weaving-frame
She basks in the mastery
Of  her craft.
The loom
Making the same music
Her forbears had played,
Her creations meant to stand
The test of time.
She weaves
The song of her people.

Rock Garden

My soul dwells in a place
So secure,
That if you hurl
Boulders of hatred,
Cobbles of insults,
Pebbles of spite,
These will just drop in vain,
On the grassy courtyard.
Like stray cannon balls.

Do come again
For the next round.
By that time,
You will not miss
Seeing that
Your debris of strife
Just made a beautiful rock garden
Out of the rubble.

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.

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

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.