Day Twelve : The Smell of Sunset

The grey canal empties
sluggishly into the backwaters
meandering beyond the third balcony
on the seventh floor. The wind
smells like forgotten fish
and sometimes like jasmine
My neighbour smells like that, too.

Voices carry from the parking lot. Sharp
tones cut through the general clamour of
traffic and jackdaws. My father is flirting
with the cook. She’s repulsed, but she
needs this job. We watch till we can’t.

The ocean is very close, the salt taste
lingers in my room, I can’t resist the urge
to let the ocean into my room
when I’m so close. Every evening I let it
roll onto my tongue.

The water stays murky.

The sky doesn’t care
Colours wash over my face
They smell of sunset

©️Yusra

12.04.2018

I forget sometimes, that there is no end to hate.

I don’t like that word. Hate. It implies weight. It is a burden. It is a two-edged sword that you cut yourself on, when you hold it. Like a snake that’s poisonous from the non-bitey butt end too.

Hate is important. It gives you reason. At the very blind white hot rage edges of sanity, when anger consumes you and your nerves are spitting fire trying to hold your composure, it’s Hate that sustains you, not love. Love comes later, to be sure. But in that moment, hate is very, very important.

My father was talking to a person who’d visited our house for the very first time today. By means of introducing me, he said, “This is my oldest daughter. I’m going to hire a driver for her soon, to take her to a park so that she can run. Look at how fat she is.” The man stared at the ground, embarassed and mumbling that I wasn’t all thaaat fat. I stared at my beast of a father, beyond a boiling fury and yet, completely still. In that moment, I realised that I was always find reason to hate him more. Hate. With a singularity and purity that I only have for one other thing in my life: Love.

I love me. I love this whole utterly fucked, unspeakably glorious and splendid world I live in. I love the sunsets in the third balcony on the seventh floor, even if they reflect prism-like over a brackish and smelly stream. I love my friends who forget me, I love my friends who don’t, I love my battered family units, I love that wonder who holds my heart, I love books and words and music and -me. I love me. Madly so, because they and we and he and I deserve it.

And I hate him. He deserves it.

Day Twelve of NaPoWriMo. I’ve written a Haibun for the prompt, with prose, followed by a Haiku, that briefest of forms I seem to shake hands with only every NaPoWriMo.

Did I forget to say, I love you all too?

And man, do you deserve it!

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Foothills

I’m in the City That Never Sleeps.

It doesn’t let other people sleep either.

How beautiful the stilled chaos can be…

Blood Music 

I knew a man with laughing eyes 

Who thought the world could sing 

And in keeping with his philosophy 

He did everything 

He could, to make even the mute cry 

The seeing would go blind, not to see 

The songs people sang to for him 

Scarred their voices permanently

I knew that man with laughing eyes 

Too well, oh 

Too well 

And if only I could sing again 

Oh, the tales I would tell

But I left him, to his bone music 

Not far but far enough behind 

And ran into another man, headlong 

Who’d been waiting for me some time 

And he didn’t mind, my grave like eyes 

And the blood music in my head 

He’d learnt from a girl with laughing eyes 

That it’s better to have ones that are dead 

Now this man with dead eyes holds my hand 

And my lifeless ones sparkle too 

And it doesn’t matter, that we don’t sing out loud 

Because we have hearts that do 

© yusra 

18.06.2017 

Hiraeth 

Hiraeth. A welsh word for a lost home that can never be returned to. 

I’m curious, though, why the feeling is present strongly enough in the welsh, for them to have a word for it. I know precious little about them- maybe one of you could explain why?

Or maybe, they just recognized something so many people ache for, and cannot precisely name. 

A lost home. Homes lost in people. Homes lost on people. Loss. 
Still finding, 

Yusra ❤️

Day Twelve- By Heart 

Relearning Happiness 

It was like learning how to pray 

How folded hands and murmured words

Led to understanding the truth 

Hidden behind empty gestures 

That God was not the property of 

Apoplectic corpulents

It was like recognizing injury 

Palpating for wounded feelings, verbally 

Cautiously probing what prodded 

People to lash out, unreserved 

That I was not to blame, it 

Was not deserved 

It was every instance of healing 

Every time I consciously, heathenly withdrew 

Every time I groped for an answer 

Smiling at what I knew was untrue 

With the short term memory 

of the broken and the uneasy 

the flawed and the restless

the faceless unnamed  

the damaged and the lamed, 

It comes as a taste of the glorious 

a recognition of your own holiness 

Like a mouthful of sunshine, every time

That you relearn happiness 

©Yusra 

12.04.2017

Libre

d

I drank a glass full of light
It was cold, bitter even
There was something in it
So unforgiving
A lingering aftertaste
Of truth, I suppose
Harsh
Seared my throat
as I swallowed
It burned
But the enlightenment left me awake
And weak
Limbs trembling in realisation
Sudden and bleak,
That I’d been altered permanently
And eventually, I’ll be alright
But I’ll never be able to go back
To drinking sweet lies

Libre

©CM
02.12.2016