The Mother

When she lies down to face the night
Her hands still smell of the mince
She lovingly prepared for tomorrow’s dinner
Her clothes bear witness to her daughter’s breakfast
Her face, etched with love,
Carries bags of exhaustion
Hanging beneath her eyes
Her hair frays upwards
“like the £50 note man!”
She jokes to her husband
No time for oils to pat it down
Sometimes the mirror tells her
Look at you. Such a mess. So ugly
And sometimes she tells the mirror
Look at me.
My face speaks of the dedication
Only a mother can possess
These tired hands weave the future of my family
And that smell of garlic, and the chicken soup in the air, are the
Memories of my children

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The Followers

Leaving this one for the reader to interpret…

The Followers

“I am the King of the Castle”
He stood atop and felt smug and good
Macbeth, Oblivious to the moving woods
“I am great- I reached the top of the hill!”
Cried Jack as Jill leaned into him
“Look on my works and despair!” Ozymandias sneered
The cracks on his visage beginning to appear…

And Macbeth’s soldiers sang along with him.
The townsmen smiled at Jack.

Of Bread and Blood

On the 23rd December 2012, aircraft of the Syrian regime bombed a bakery in Halfaya, Hama, outside of which civilians had queued to buy some bread. 94 civilians were killed. It was not the first time a bakery was bombed- several before had been shelled in Aleppo and across the country, resulting in atrocious massacres

Unruly Child

Looking through my archives, and found this. Written earlier in the year. It was interesting to remember how I was feeling at that time, and whether I feel the same way now. Unruly Child, ah my Unruly Child.. anyone want to guess what the unruly child is?

Addressing the Tyrant

This is not peaceful poetry. This is a response to the way the Syrian regime flaunts its power, dances with it, stripping humanity from the human, dignity from the dignified, rising arrogant, rearing its head like a snake, asking… who will dare challenge? Written on 19/10/2012, the day Wasim al-Hasan was assasinated in Lebanon. Because the Syrian regime does not only dance to its own tune in its country, but on neighbourly soil as well.

A moment of quiet

Sometimes I feel like this. Or I feel like I need this. But if I can’t have it, then I will retreat into the world of my mind and imagination. There I can rest from what is around me, be at peace, and then emerge stronger.

Composed upon hearing the final ruling for Babar Ahmed to be extradited to the USA, 5/10/12

I wrote this upon hearing the verdict given by the Judge to Babar Ahmed and Talha Ahsan, allowing them to be extradited to the USA after years of their struggle for justice and being held in prison without trial.

That moment
you laid your verdict
The world did not shrink around me
Mountains did not strangle their weight upon my neck
The earth beneath me did not tremble