The Poetic Margin

  On the background of the whole earth a brush stroke of blue and a brush stroke of pink and god revered between the two the ground is the ground the trees are the trees but something about this evening is so profound. The sun settling in the west The moon, half dark half lit But the sky, the sky is in its wildest splendid and sublime  sparrows in the centre dancing like dervishes  Soaring In spiraling motion, seduced  Just like I was But I am a spectator and the sparrows are actors And they knew how to thank god  they knew the dance and the music by heart Yesterday, was a very random day Until I found myself in the presence of greatness And the absence of decay. The modern life of the city painted in much less confident strokes The colors are of ashes and smokes If one thing I know, is that it's a pity Those who leave the art and the artist go unnoticed  Those who fail to look up and those who lack apprehension Fight with darkness in a room fully lit up....

  A pixelating tv screen, no Consistent image, nothing Is there to see, anyway. This roach has been struggling to die For hours, lying on its back Waiting For A Final Smash Death in life Like a dull knife Barely useful Halfway through Nothing beats despair A face so monstrous No one seems to dare.     Prayers to the lost souls Cries put to bed Happy endings are truly Truly, rare.   The baby girl outgrew her pink dress The baby girl has no one to hold hands But a mesh fence It’s rusty, all so rusty   Kids playing outdoors A ball kicked back and forth No breaks taken Remember when we didn’t think about our hearts beating We kept on going, our bodies filled with life And Our heartbeats ahead of us The taste of things, raw Pain can be meaningful. If it’s quite enough, The screech will echo And your spine would shiver From hearing the train breaks A sad solo violinist   His fac...

  "The world has raised its whip, where will it descend" ( Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf)   I Those who on their back the whip descended, Are Walking with their backs hunched, Their heads lowered, defeated. For some people, two years and eight months ago, Was the big bang. They were whipped once, Big bang! The wound is still open, bleeding. Life separates a lover from his beloved, The mother from her child. But for me and you it was a mech fence. Men locked up with their sins, Their tragic flaw, And a moral lesson at the end.  II Fingers clenched to the tiny little gaps, You’re too close but not close enough. I’m afraid when this war comes to an end, The fence removed, the border taken down, And I would hug you but it won’t fill the void. I’m afraid of you leaving this place but it won’t leave you, I’m afraid the words that you should say will be trapped Forever Inside you, like they always been. Your body has always known...

     Does An Ideal Husband Celebrate Human Imperfections or Encourage Corruption? 2018 was the year I went from high school to college where I had my BA in English literature. The first semester I took an introductory course in English Drama. It was there that I read Oscar Wilde for the first time. The professor picked Lady Windermere’s Fan to be our only reading. A couple of months later after the first semester was finished, I went to Cairo’s International Book Fair, a habit that I easily broke over the years. There I bought a collection of his works just because I knew I was going to need it sometime very soon. But that “very soon” came four years later after I finished my degree, I decided to pick up this book and get back to Wilde from where I left off. Customary, I started with Days of Being Earnest , then Salome , A Woman of No Importance , and all the way to An Ideal Husband . Reading all the plays collected in this book in order. After an entire week of livi...

  خواطر حول رواية الفقراء لدوستويفسكي شرعت في قرائتي لرواية "الفقراء " تماما بعد اربعة أيام من انتهائي من درجة البكالريوس و قد وجدت في رجوعي لقراءة الروايات بعد انقطاع دام طيلة شهر الاختبرات ملاذا و أنسًا. الفقراء أو المساكين رواية دوستوفيسكي الأولي و تدور أحداثها في ييتسبرج بروسيا في القرن التاسع عشر تحديدًا   بداية من شهر إبريل في سنة 1844 أو 1845 نهاية بآخر شهر سبتمبر من نفس السنة . فكرتها تبدو بسيطة للغاية إلي حد الملل و هذا ما دفعني عنها لسنين، و لكنها حينما وقعت بين يدي عندما كنت أنتقي كتباً جديدة من مكتبتي المتواضعة لأقرأها في اجازة الصيف قلت و لم لا؟ خاصة ان ترجمات سامي الدروبي تستهويني و يسهل علي قرائتها في معظم الأحيان. لن أمضي و أقول ان الرواية شيقة للغاية علي غرار فكرتها فستكون هذه مبالغة شديدة مني و لكن هذه الرواية بالذات أخذتني في رحلة حقيقية و مؤلمة جدًا لعوالم شخصياتها. ماكار و فارفارا يسكنان في بنايتين متجاورتين، و تنشأ بينهما علاقة محبة و صداقة معقدة. يتراسل الإثنان فنتعرف علي كل شئ عن حياتهم و ماضيها و حاضرها من خلال تلك الرسائل التي بفعل معجزة او بمع...

Modern Love A poem about what we call 'love' in the digital age.   I Swipe left left left, Swipe right. Fingers sliding on a smooth surface Of seductive possibility. A soulmate must exist. He should be close enough, Hopefully of a considerable height, Looks alright, The rest can be taken care of.  II A desperate act taken for aesthetic. What are your plans for tonight? A casual search for a lover In the 21th century The human subject is replaceable No Orpheus will follow you to hell. Isis’s fidelity, after all, a myth. Love, instead, is forced, Like everything else, catalyzed, artificially hurried. Nothing comes naturally, Not any more.  III I remember how it felt, On our last sunny Friday encounter; When You laid principles of love to me. Soft, the kind of lover you were. I was too inhuman, I admit. Now I dream all-day, And long for the inscrutable all night. Now, now I stand, Where everything is made of sand. ...