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Your Name

Take your name away from the Sub-Saharan Sand storms,

dip it into the lost rivers of Aden,

sprinkle it on the Gardens of Eden,

Or let it sink within the greatness of the Nile.

 

Steal your own name from the fury of African jungles,

the faithlessness poisoning our inherited history.

Your name is an eternal reminder of my agony.

 

I hear the sound of midnight sirens,

filled with lust and desire,

in between the letters of your name.

 

I hear the stories I was told as a child,

Of kings and prophets; men of faith and destiny,

Fighters, survivors and men of bravery,

In your name, I hear my serendipity.

 

It’s the universes I wish to see,

All the worlds I ever been,

Your name takes me to where it all begins.


In the whispers of the night I hear your name,

In my journey for the truth,

for answers,

for peace,

I find your name.

 

I’m a convert, and your name is my religion.


Your name is my compass,

leading me to the home I yearn for,

search for,

your birth place, is mine.

 

Your name is a black hole; devouring my roots,

I’m no longer Nubian,

I’m a reborn lyrical kitten,

Rhythmical tigress,

Love goddess

- Alaa Bit Hashim -

There will be revenge
but it will be different from yours;
it won’t involve blood or murder
or deception
it won’t turn sophisticated people to rubble
then call them
underdeveloped, primitive and backwards
it won’t need military budgets,
fear, prejudice or gender oppression
it will be simple, uncomfortable
and absolute
it will present itself calmly
there will be no screams
there will be no protest
just this

you are the owner of all energy
needed to destroy or create worlds
within you lies the peace of Akhenaton
the vision of Imhotep
we can go further
the first messiah
you are the writer of knowledge
the keeper of truth
it’s looking at you through the stones
the history of the mountains
in the DNA of the earth
you’re there
this wicked narrative is new
it’s evil and unwell
1000 years ago you were teaching them
they were lost, barbaric, never knowing
the evolution of language
of culture the influence you had
you still have, you must have
because you’re far from dead
listen
to the speakers, the knowers,
the ones who tell you to open pages
and find yourself there
reinvent the past
pay the oppressor little mind
little minds fear genius
because it knows your story
it knows about the old Kingdom
and the middle periods
from Moorish Spain to Muslim medicine
it knows about African mathematicians
and the stone calendar circles of Nabta Playa
it knows that’s why it denies
that’s why it tells you to kill yourself
death has many faces
if something is made ill
why swallow it?
Don’t accept it, renounce it and go back
to before the chattel
the division and genocide
before the White Jesus
before the crusades
and the foreign religion that came with priests
and swords
discover the hidden world
because history is self-serving
self-for-filling look in the prisons,
look in the armies,
look in the places filled with the broken,
the destitute, the trampled on
the us but not them,
look and see
what happens when you
become apathetic
when revenge is just for radicals
when you believe the story
they tell you
when your only weapon is a gun
when your only hope is a fantasy
when your knowledge is obsolete
when your woman is a bitch
when your brother is a threat
and your oppressor is your master
your standard, your ideal
don’t ask for mercy
it won’t be given
lock it off, leave it there,
its dead its done the damage
consecrated the sickness
it doesn’t work
so start again
with just this:-

When they ask you for a beginning teach them
about the Grimaldi
about Menes and the first dynasty
When they ask you about women
speak to them of Isis of Hatshepsut and Cleopatra
When they ask you about European languages
refer them to Coptic and Western Semitic
tongues, explain how 50% of the Greek lexicon
is comprised of a non-Indo European language
give examples,
When they ridicule you for saying init
claiming the word as being
Jamaican Patois let them know that it’s
a contraction of isn’t it, which is a contraction
of is it not, which is English and not Patois is it not?
When they ask you about war and peace
inform them that the word war comes from the
Old English Wyrre meaning to bring into confusion.
Mention the Golden Age of Egypt,
communicate the fact that civilizations
which have experienced the greatest periods of peace
have been matriarchal - say that twice.
Include the fact that 70% of Native Americans
did not ever wage war with each other, refer them to
Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indian Genocide
by Andrea Smith
Keep close to mind the Haitian revolution,
Toussaint L’ouverture and Dessaline
if they interject calling you Afrocentric or a conspiracy theorist
reply with these names:-
Volny, Gerald Massy, Martin Bernal, Bouavl and Brophy
continue
discuss human nature, how we remain
products of our environment, how we mirror what we see,
how certain genes are activated or deactivated
in our childhood
determining who we become later
explain what you mean by White Supremacy
as a political tool to divide and undermine those
that don’t fit the aesthetic
discuss Thomas Spence and the making of the English working class
look at denigrate families in the US and Anthony Stokes
speak of Palestine with courage
declare that before the 15th May 1948 Zionists had already
expelled 250,000 Palestinians
emphasize that people are not born bad
that before capitalism and feudalism communalism
was how we lived
not primitive but equal.
Do not negate your women. There is more to feminism
than her physical appearance, you may wish to talk about
Simon De Beauvoir, Bell Hooks and Angela Davis
then poetry, the spoken word that predates the written word
oral tradition, art and storytelling.
Speak until the sun has risen and set 1000 times
wear the crown that doesn’t need a stolen jewel
to shine,
assure them that you are made from love
that you speak from love because that is from where
you were born
play them a song, read them a haiku
teach them how to dance:
many will laugh at you
many will brand you insane
yet when has madness ever really mattered here
some will listen, some will stay
and you will grow into friends,
into solidarity into the forever
we dream about
so treasure your woman
treasure your man
because we’re all we have,
peace is the master’s revenge
so stand in the present, draw for the future
and shoot with all the ammunition of the past
The Master’s Revenge; Anthony Anaxagorou
There will come a day when the fear of death will be the favored joke passed amongst corpses
and they’re already laughing.
My love, please don’t be afraid, but there will come a day when field mice play in our empty sockets, when our bones become homes for living creatures other than our egos and when time will jostle our skeletons out of the composition that is me and you.
And will write with us love letters that spell I owe you eternity. If we believe in life after death, then I often wonder why we assume the dead like coffins, when people were never meant to live in boxes.
So I pray that our children will have the good sense to leave us a little wiggle room, leave us exposed like stray dogs in a thunderstorm. And I will hear the breeze but I will not know it as the breeze. And I will feel the rain but not know it as the rain. And I will behold the sky but not know it as the sky. Instead, I will hear the breeze and think it is your laugh returned into the hearth of my ear. And I will feel the rain and think that it is the pinprick of your kiss and when the rain is tender I will know that something has softened you and when the rain is violent I will know that something has shaken you.
And, in this new found understanding, without eyes or ears or hands or lips, our bare bones will make love in the dirt; never knowing our nakedness.
Imagine, the wind coursing through a calligraphy of weeds, in our disrepair we have grown gardens of ourselves, sprouts of curious grass shooting from our eye sockets. Our knuckles, hard, smooth skipping stones meant for children’s play. And the devilish sun, picking its way through your missing teeth and neither of us can keep from smiling these days.
And the days go unnoticed and the nights go unslept and we talk with our souls through the holes in our ribs where the organs once sat.
Imagine, your skull and mine both reduced to grins. Both washed clean of our sins and our skins, going young again, forgetting why we ever wrinkled or why we ever furrowed our brow with the plow of anger.
Become dust with me, insignificant and everywhere for I will love you even after your marrow has become a whisper and your bones; nothing but the snickering of gravel. Let us soak in the spaces our shadows left behind. Your skeleton, laced with mine, I will tie your soul to my ankles and know what it is like to step into a dream. And you will try on my backbone and see how bad it hurt the day you said you were calling it quits.
I don’t remember why you left or why you came back. I don’t know how many years have passed, I’m not really sure years passed at all. All I know is the rain falls; you kiss me like a rain fall. The sun, it bleaches us clear and every day is a romance. All this to say; we are already laughing. There is a wedding of earthworms and pebbles waiting when our tuxedo skeletons no longer fit. There is a place for our faces to lie planted beside, forever smiling. There exists a place where we can still be in love. There exists a place where we can be still and in love. Just two gentle skulls.
Death Poem by  Alysia Harris

Birth

Seduce me with the brilliance of your verbal intelligence,

Kiss me, tenderly, to  implant your scientific notions within my womb,

Impregnate me with dense emotional mathematical equations,

Of cosmic reflections and dimensional  collisions.

Watch the world comes to its knees,

As I give birth to the union of science and passion,

A child of architectural music,

 Physical light,

And chemistry love.

 

- Alaa Bit Hashim-

Linguistic Climax

If you really want to turn my lights on,

All you need is a little bit of “word” play,

To stimulate my mind, and rouse my soul,

You don’t need to wink while you lick those lips;

I want to see them freestyle their way through my hips.

With rhymes and verses seductively poetic,

You don’t have to worry, my soul will willingly come.

I’ll follow the sirens of your mind, let you take me for a sensual ride,

Between the poems, the music, and the beats of our hearts,

Your words will cast an orgasmic spell into my ears.

You’ll take me to the moon, to heavens and back,

The way you phonologically touch me and play me deep inside,

How you pull the sexy words and poems in me outside,

Hear me as I call your name..

In all Roman, African, Hebrew, and love languages…

Read me, as I write your name,

In all my verses, stanzas and all my past present poetries.

With all the sensual pleasure you insert inside of me.

Your love is the eternal linguistic climax,

I always yearned for,

I always wanted.

I finally got.

 

-Alaa Bit Hashim-

 

                                                                                        June 2013

Death Call

The Laws of life do not protect the foolish lovers;

A lesson learnt a tad too late,

I did not read the “terms and conditions”, 

As I signed blindly, with blood this love- affair agreement.

I would rather die a silent death, 

Asphyxiating in between your lips, 

or have my heart strangled by your cold, cold hands.

But please, please, please, 

Don’t leave me to die a cowardly death, 

Bleeding my passion in poetry and songs 

Until I ultimately dry out.

It was in your arms that I took a sip of death, 

And now I’m addicted, I’m so possessed.. 

I need to get drunk on your poisonous love.

I yearn to be murdered, 

I crave to be lost inside of your heart, 

Inside of your soul; 

Butcher me with your thoughts,

Cut me to pieces, 

And devour me whole.

Suffocate me with your dark existence. 

Wrap your shadows all around me.

You’re my angel of death; 

Set me free!

You brusquely seduced me into your forces of darkness, 

I subconsciously fell in love with the countless demons that made you, 

Who you were..

All the while you were draining the light out of me, 

You drank my music and swallowed my rainbows, 

You gradually transformed into a dawn of positivity,

But you left me drowning in your negativity.

How could you leave me?!

-Alaa Bit Hashim- 

A Post Love Plea: Love Me

“High heels, a leather black dress; her goal was for him to be impressed.  Everything she did & wrote was screaming: love me, Love me, love me”

I breathed in a random thought of you,

Your name crept in and filled my lungs,

Your existence smothered me;

You are the death of me.


Your memories rush through my veins burning my insides,

Every memory is as intoxicating as the poison you planted carefully within my heart.

All that music you played in my soul;

Passionately beating the drums of my heart,

Stroking the strings of mind.

That music has gone softer,

And I can’t feel your musical rhythms within me, anymore.

I can’t hear your - synchronized with my heart- heart beats.

You’ve turned off the lights, 

Shut off the curtains,

Hid the sun in your pocket and left me to be devoured by demons of the dark.

 

Yet in this eclipse of emotions,

I still write for you;

A song, 

A poem,

A letter,  

Love me…     love me….. 

love me!

 

But your heart is blind to my screaming words,

Your soul is deaf to my shattered heart,

Your mind is on a mission, pursuing a plan that doesn’t include mine.

 

What’s the point of painting my thoughts in words?

Why am I writing all of these poems?

If it shan’t bring your heart closer to me?

What use are my poems,

If it has no power to make you love me?

Love me…

Love me!


It’s not only within my poems;

You can see it in my voice, crystal clear.

You can touch it in my soul, colorful.

You can feel it in my eyes, whenever you look at me,

It’s too deep, too intense to be mistaken for anything else.

It’s in these tears that you never saw, that you never believed to exist.

These tears; just like my heart fall for you every time I see you,

I fall for you again, with every breath.

How can anything be so intense, yet so comfortable?

I do not understand,

You do not make any sense.

Are you my madness? Or are you my logical sense?

How can you be the air that I inhale?

Yet, you’re the one that takes my breath away?

Every time I breathe you in, I suffocate.

 

How many times do I need to tell you,

That what you are seeking,

What you need,

And all that you hope to find,

Is right here within my heart,

Waiting for you to collect.

 

Why are you so blind to see?

The happiness you’ve lost is right here,

Your joy, your contentment, your happily ever after…

Your dreams, your reality…

They are all here, with me….

Love me; that’s all you have to do…

Love me… Love me…

Love me!

 

Breathe me in; take me to where I belong…

Heal me, and let me heal you.

Play my heartbeats into a musical tune.

The magical combination of me and you;

Red and purple,

Rhythms and rhymes,

Science and poetry,

Sense and sensibility,

Why is it so hard for you to see;

The affinity of you and me.

 

Oh my king!

Open your heart to me and hear my poetry moan:

Love me, love me,

love me!

 


-Alaa Bit Hashim- 

My Wordsmith- Part II

When the magic fades away like a dying star, only true love remains..

But who said the flame has died and the magic was gone?

Watch me as I lose my breath, again and again; every time he comes back to life.

He was, he is and he will always be my poetic muse..

 

He is the one…

The one that makes my heart skip a beat,

And later pounds strong fast- paced thumps, to the harmony of his vibes.

The one that makes my soul dance to these synchronized beats,

And merely his name is enough to take my breath away.

 

I was drunk on his love for the longest time.

A hangover of him that seemed endless,

With fuzziness towards the world; clear sight of only him.

 

And in my soberness, all my senses are filled with his essence.

He is not –simply- my moment of weakness..

He is more than just my madness..

He is my cup of coffee,

My consciousness,

He is my strength and my sanity.

He lifts me up to heavens;

While holding my feet tenderly to the ground.

 

I have fallen in love with his soul before his eyes,

His mind before his smile.

Now I am in love with everything that he is.

Inside and out.

 

With him, I’m the realest I can ever be.

The closest to my true self I ever was.

He sets me free

His insanity keeps me sane.

He makes me forget who Idris Elba is….

 

Idris who?

 

For in my eyes, Idris Elba doesn’t even come close to him,

And Mos Def got nothing on him.

He is the candy to my eyes,

The music to my ears.

 

He is my favorite song,

My most heartfelt poem,

The best fictional novel I ever read,

He is the most colorful piece of art.

He is more of everything to the extent of limitlessness.

He is Hope of better days.

He is life’s gift to me.

His name is my peace of mind.

 

It’s no secret,

Everyone can see the love in my eyes…

Everyone can hear the beats of my heart..

Whenever he’s around..

 

And when my heart is so full of him,

My mind turns into an empty white page.

 

 

He is the untold story:

Of..

Soft pillow talks sounding hazy within the memory,

Only the tender taste of his name on her lips remain engraved..

The serene music of his heart beats soft on her ears pacifying her whole, drifting her off to the peaceful sleep she never had..

And when it was time to say goodbye..

She left him a souvenir..

Something to remember her with..

Whispered poems lingering on his ears…

And a taste of Nubia; within his lips..

 

-Alaa Bit Hashim-

 

I once dated a writer and

Writers are forgetful,

but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
like ever,
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful
because
they’re busy
remembering
the important things.

(Source: ofheightsandhollows)

“Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ”

Pablo Neruda
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