Wednesday, May 03, 2017


She stood in the middle of the sea
With dead jellyfish floating around;
She opened up her arms and said,
My heart is big enough for everybody.
I did not believe her.
I still don't.

The plucking of the strings
On a white wall that's rubbing off,
Footsteps on cobblestone
And a silence that only the heat is capable of...
Her lies smell like orange peel,
Tart and bitter.

I still comb the shore every now and then
For pieces of jellyfish from that day
But there's nothing on the sand but foam
And the smell of orange peel.

May 2017 selection for BaseNotes' Scent Verse
(Originally posted on Sept. 8, 2004)


Anonymous said...

This is one the poems that I especially fall for like I fell for “Iodine”, perhaps, meanning it remains in my memory and I set it as something I would give as a testimony of your poetry,. Very simply, one of “the really really good ones”. Naturally, the first part is most powerful and striking. It has a very eerie Surrealistic quality to it that is just outstanding. Lovely. “I did not believe her./ I still don't.” is especially breathtaking.

Your second part is like that time when Marcel Khalifé’s Julliard son doze off amidst “Indac Bahriyé Ya Rayise” I think, deserted the strings of your self-rubbing wall, and went on plucking the strings of the piano instead; generally sturdy, but hardly relevant. Now whether you give a darn about that or not is up to you and Julliard boy, but that is another issue. “Footsteps on cobblestone” is something we are to discuss, “And a silence that only the heat is capable of...” absolutely swept me off my feet, dazzling. The last two lines here are well positioned as they relate the whole part back to the mother jellyship. Their similie is catching, but such a format you use often (that of likening the abstract to the sensual or the reverse), and we are to discuus that (expect my letter!).

The last part is very well written; It is surdy and gives you the feeling of a conclusion, and its mood is very appropriate, you can seriously smell the silence that follows as poem. “From that day” is desireably melodramatic, and “but foam/ And the smell of orange peel” is a brilliant liaison to the second part, something that I admire greatly.


Ton frère Ahmad

katy said...

i tried to write this poem once. it didn't make it as far as yours did. it's my turn to be envious.