When Insomnia Meets Quarantine – A Spoken Poem

May 16 2020

I stand before my window counting the minutes to sunrise. I watch every raindrop race through my window and enjoy the sound of rain violently meeting the roof. It is the only sound that reminds me I am here. I stare at the bottom end of my glass and see which drop makes it to the finish line first. I let the scent of wet mud occupy my senses, this night will be a memory amongst many. This night is a dream I see at 1 p.m. when the birds are returning to their nests, and me to bed. It is a line in a forgotten poem, it is a piece of myself I cherish but do not value. I look at the stars and hope to see your face smiling back at me on the moon, do you remember me like I do you? it is in my loneliest nights that I remember to remember you, until the white thread of dawn becomes distinct, until it turns pink then paints the sky blue, I remember you and then you are gone.

I sit before my window counting the minutes to sunset and wonder how I manage to make every poem about you. I watch every raindrop race through my window and enjoy the sound of rain hitting the roof, it reminds me it has been days since I last moved. It is only then that it hits me, that first drop to reach the bottom end of my glass is not the one I was rooting for. The scent of wet mud deep in my veins does not look good on a sunny sky and green spaces but it is the only way I know I am alive.

My room smells like wet mud and dying jasmine. The rain keeps falling as it reminds me of the tears that dried on my pillow. I can feel it ironically begging me to go cry and be human for once in a while. This night is a dream, it is a cycle, a routine. This morning felt the same three mornings ago, five nights ago, I cannot tell the day from the night anymore.

Author: Nourhane Atmani.

Philippeville – Poem

May 15 2020

Algeria, Philippeville, Poem, Skikda

O radiant Lily of the East!

Your myriad wounds of the yesteryears have now waned

Yet, those infinite memorials of your dimness are penned

Those scars, those wrinkles and the leftovers of the beast

Shall all remain as a token of your splendour and bravery

O Rose of the East! Oblivious to your scars and wounds,

I have only known your eminent annual Strawberry Feast

Until the musk-rose of Rusicada ingrained you within me

And I soon embraced thee! I soon embraced thy grounds

Homesick to Collo’s sweet-scented zephyr unreasonably

As if I have once dwelled in that soft transcendent village

Is it your daughter’s charm or am I haunted reasonlessly?

Your valuable earth shall not be down to ravage or pillage

O venerated city of Algeria!

The Martyrs of August shall reside in our soul and memory

For their intrepid martyrdom is our mere reclaim of dignity.

Rusicada, the Fort of France, Philippeville or simply Skikda

Beyond -and regardless of- those appelations of your history

Oneness with thyself -and us- shall remain like a soft remedy

Or like a soothing therapy to stitch the immedicable damage

Of all that disarray and melancholy brought by the adversary.

Sparrows from Hippone presently, and blithely, chant to thee

A hallowed soft hymn to venerate our East-ness in harmony

Never have I been infatuated with another city like Rusicada

Save the magnificent Daisy of the West- the African Grenada.

Author: Sara Mehadar.

Ode to Spring – Poem

April 7 2020

ode, Poem, poetry, spring

Ephemeral winds of the South, scattered hither and thither,

Fade and shrivel away despite the wrinkled dream of King.

Haply the Twinleaf comes untimely and Alyssums wither,

Shall I dance and evermore confuse all seasons for spring

Or shall I dangle my spring and chase my palpable winter?

Lithe morns placate my anguish and lush earth my ferocity

I shall henceforth defer my acrid storms, and blithely chant

A hymn of budding spring clothed with a greenish alacrity

One moment past midnight and I still sing blasé of all Pain

O, for a passage full of beauty! O, for this change of heart!

Adieu! Adieu frosty days of the unprecedented tranquillity

These Eastern clement wafts enliven my sense and my soul

Upon my heartstrings they play, and my murky Pain wanes

As though of Lethe I drank or slumped into a state of torpor

That only unleashes forgetful moments and earthly ecstasy

O, for a winter full of cryptic warmth! O, for a warm spring!

Tasting of my Mother’s coffee in a Mashta behind the vale

And of the fragrant flowers reminiscent of the years of yore

I know not what fall and winter might have left in my soul,

Save what the vale of tears has thrown upon my shoulders.

I know not what my friends or foes might have knit for me

I, all the same, know that Twinleaf shall trounce Alyssums,

For the sapphire sky and the June charms cleanse all shade.

Rustles underneath my feet, springy chirps from the boughs

And easeful ripples from the dales fall like balm to my ears.

I know not what heavenly bliss spring might cast before me

Nor what that West twist might affix to my profound fears.

Still, I chant a hymn of budding spring oblivious to rainfall,

For the voyage of subtle metamorphosis demands a rainbow.

Author: Sara Mehadar.

The Goody-Goody Hag – Poem

April 3 2020

goody hag, Poem

A goody-goody hag,

With a pretty goody bag,

Had a little wooden crown,

With a lot of dots in brown.

She just came to see our town,

Upward the mountains and down.

Smiling, she drew near to us,

As we were nearby the bus.

Quickly, she was stepping ahead.

We screamed at her and we fled.

She told us not to worry,

But we ran away in a hurry.

She told us she had some candy,

Which was sweet and very dandy.

Although she seemed very kind,

We could hardly change our mind.

As she stepped forward a little more,

We got on the bus and locked the door.

She drew back as she seemed sad.

She made us feel very bad.

Then she said that she was nice;

And her only friends were mice,

Lily, Ben, and Mini-Bice.

She could even turn dust to ice;

She shaped it in cubes like dice.

She showed us her shoes in white;

They turned into black at night.

She showed us her talking goat.

It was hidden in her coat.

She said she named it Luciano.

It could sing and play piano.

She showed us her pinky toe,

And she named it Little Poe.

We could not believe our eyes!

All that magic! What a surprise!

We rushed to her right away,

“We are very sorry!” We had to say,

“A little longer can you stay?”

“My dears, I have to go on my way,”

“And I’ll be back another day.”

After giving us some candy,

She played with us handy-dandy.

Then she was ready to leave;

It was so sad to believe.

“Farewell!” she said and away she flew,

How unhappy we were and blue!

We waved goodbye as sun was set.

It was a day we’ll never forget.

Author: Wafaa Bouroubi.

Many Blue Mondays – Poem

March 27 2020

bad days, blue mondays, Poem, poetry

There are days when my body feels too heavy to carry, and it is then that I need myself most. when heaviness is no longer a feeling but a state of being.

Today, I am heavy,

I am the weight on my shoulders, I am the words I barely blurt out, I am the lack of confidence, I am my stage fright, I am my loudness, I am my clumsiness, I am the ugly I feel on the bad days, I am the bad days, and although everything comes to end, today seems infinite.

Today, I lose the rhymes to write my poetry, I lose count of how many times I scribbled I love you in my notebooks, I lose count of how many times I longed for love, for a warm embrace to tell me what I already know “everything will be alright” I whisper to myself, but it isn’t my voice I need to hear, today it is his,

It is my friends’

It is my mother’s

Today, I need to hear anyone but myself.

I lock my tears hoping they won’t escape me again. Today I learned that my body has an exquisite self-defense mechanism. My body will declare a state of emergency and trigger an iceberg to prevent a breakdown, but every defense-plan has a downside. The downside in this story is that I break down regardless. I break down in silence.

My body locks the tears away and pushes the screams further down my throat, so far away I choke. Before I know it, I am hostage of my own body, I am hostage of my psyche, of the demons telling me I cannot, and I believe them.

I am the darkness of my shadow

I am the blue of my sorrow

Maybe, I don’t deserve the dreams I see in my sleep, and this is who I am destined to be,

Maybe greatness is not meant for me

And that is okay. I will be okay

Authour: Nourhane Atmani.

Addiction – Poem

February 12 2020

addiction, anxiety, depression, pain, Poem, poetry, struggles

human bodies

remember the infliction of pain

the memories, the injuries

the human body

has a fascinating way of making you live the moment

all over again.

i am addicted to voices in my head

telling me what i am worth

and what i am not

where i do, and do not belong

my body is barely leaning against a wall

against a background of my nails scratching the dried up blood

the stories of pain and conflict are told in its corners

reeking through its cracks

every mistake I ever made

until it risks its fall

but the wall stands tall, i

am the wall.

i wake up

to the same scars

to the same bumps on my skin

dried up blood on my sheets and a

“oops”

did it again, well

we did it again,

didn’t we?

my bathroom floor already knows me

a little too well

the blood in the sink was the hardest stain to clean

but i remember all it took was my tears

to wash away my mistakes

from the nights before i disappeared

before I sunk into my own realm

and i

used to beg the voices in my head to leave me alone

but now that they’re gone

i am lonely

i have grown used to their company

to their echoes

feeding off my psyche

and I guess I am not really clean

since they’re still using me

the human body, registers the pain

and what causes it

and how it feels

just not this time, I think it failed somehow

it only feels like reality

looks like reality

but isn’t entirely real.

Author Nourhane Atmani.

Photographer: Mwangi Gatheca.

To a Bird in Mid-May – Poem

February 11 2020

Bird, English, Loss, Poem, poetry

O wingless bird!

Thou canst not fly, nor sing in thy wakeless sleep

Thy wings perished by long disuse

And all the birds perch on a tree by the dale

Elatedly they tweet and flit in seasonless ecstasy,

And I watch thee in a sullen silence

Of breezeless mornings, and tears unshed.

O noiseless bird! Thou canst not sing anymore,

Yet thy song sings itself in my retentive memory

To thy melody I dance oblivious to all Pain,

And I go insane, for it becomes my empty heart.

Like a lightless star in the sunless blue sky,

Thou canst not shine, nor canst thou be anymore

Thy nest, thy songs, thy beams, thy whisperings,

And all the memories sit heavy on the soul

All suffused with a patch of light, and clouds

Enshrouded in the mystery of the blue yonder.

They all come upon me, in a moment they haunt me

And I long for thee, for thy tweet

I long for thy nonchalant yet reasonable lunacy.

O little bird of mid-May!

Hast thou even seen halcyon days?

Thou canst not hear the birds nor would thou be heard

Thou canst not bear this windless sphere,

Nor can the birds endure thy complete lightness.

O precious bird of mid-May!

Thou hast gone, in the beyond thou dwell

And here I stay in the shadows of thy absence,

I wonder, I wander, I ponder, I whimper with pain

But thou hast gone, in the beyond thou dwell

Farewell, little bird, farewell precious bird.

poem