Poetry taps into the human condition through the use of specific sensory stimulants, narratives and metaphors. As such, the more specific the stimulants, narratives and metaphors the MORE relatable it is to the reader and their own lives.
This blog is an attempt to tap into your emotional state and life experience with both narrative and abstract poetry.
Poetry has come a long way over its history. Revolutionary innovations, such as William Shakespeare's breaking of traditional iambic pantameter, are now considered extremely restrictive. Rules about meter, rhyme and punctuation, as well as format in the computer age, are basically non-existent.
Poets are now free to express their work in any way they see fit. The only repercussion that exists is the perception by readers of its quality.
These changes are evident across cultures, as even traditional poetic societies, such as those in the Arab world, are adopting less strict and formulaic guidelines as to what constitutes good poetry.
The number one criteria of good poetry nowadays is its ability to move you, as a reader, into heightened emotional states which trigger the memory of a past event or series of events. I have also made presenting to you material which accomplishes this goal my number one priority.
First and second-person narrative tends to accomplish this better than third-person narrative (although it can be done in third-person). As such, you can expect most, if not all, of the narrative poetry here to be in first or second- person.
Do not confuse the narrator with me, as the poet, because even those poems that reflect actual events in my life contain a narrator who is not me. As long as your comments are appropriate, feel free to contact me at Seifeldeine@gmail.com and I will get back in touch with you, as well as share with all my readers any high quality mail. Hope you enjoy!
About Poetry
(1)
Childhood
(2)
Countries/Cities/Regions
(5)
In Remembrance
(3)
Love
(1)
Metaphors for Poetry
(2)
Narrative
(3)
The Middle East
(6)
The Rose from the Concrete
(1)
War
(2)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Ireland
Rhythm rolls over your poetry
like green hills roll over your countryside,
wet with words as the grass with the morning dew.
Tend to your stanzas as a shepherd would his flock.
And when the poem reaches maturity, carve it with the precision of a butcher,
but drink only its blood.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The Refuge
The barriers kept cars out of the Palestinian neighborhoods,
windows boarded, the balconies crashed down to the sidewalk.
The apartments rose from the ground like ant hills. The Palestinians swarmed
windows boarded, the balconies crashed down to the sidewalk.
The apartments rose from the ground like ant hills. The Palestinians swarmed
to collect enough to survive.
A girl stood white against the Syrian neighborhood,
her skin mud against her teeth.
With her hijab, she looked like a girl who rose with the sun to pray
fajr. A man, too thin for his years, drank sun-dried lebnae: crust
white on his beard. He shouted orders.
The girl came to me and took my hand.
Men on the block took knives and dug them through the skin of lambs
and twisted until the blood
flooded the street,
the lamb’s eyes frozen
and twisted until the blood
flooded the street,
the lamb’s eyes frozen
forever in shock.
She led me to her home,
a hummus-covered rug - the dinner table,
She led me to her home,
a hummus-covered rug - the dinner table,
the pillows placed on the floor for seats,
the chairs bent at their joints, the old oven
and a hole in the ground at the back.
The girl’s mother sat on the edge of one of the chairs
and rocked its joints looser
and rocked its joints looser
and looser.
Water from her eyes wrinkled her skin
and wet her lips,
Water from her eyes wrinkled her skin
and wet her lips,
puckered on her white rosary beads.
The girl took my lira
and then took me into her bed,
weaved straw like a bird’s nest.
weaved straw like a bird’s nest.
A lamb billowed as the butcher slaughtered her.
I finished and walked to the door.
The girl’s mom left her chair and ran her hands,
slick like the pages in the Quran,
over my fingers. She began a prayer:
“Bismee ‘llah ah rahman ah raheem,”
In the name of Allah, the most kind, the most merciful.
Labels:
Narrative,
The Middle East
Beirut
The bright desert sun shines down on the tram,
overlooking clay biniya that sit between-
grassy mountains and the sea, cradled like a new-born.
The Mediterranean crashes
against large, rounded boulders like the stomachs of customers
bloated with shawarma and cous cous.
Cars speed through red lights
cruising around al-humra-
biniya,
malls, jewelry and clothing stores
of impenetrable glass.
of impenetrable glass.
The other buildings hide in bombed-out clay
and broken stone like the Wailing Wall.
A twelve-year-old janitor
mops up endless sand from the marble floor-
as I grab my hose and puff on arguilay,
wrapping my mouth around smoke rings-
just to prove I can.
Labels:
Countries/Cities/Regions,
The Middle East
Mission Accomplished
The little girl
in front
of the armored
humvee.
her hands
holding
candy
out-
to the soldier,
“wad you git der,”
he smiled.
Her head
Folded-
by her arms
into-
her torso
and his hands,
folded,
kissing-
his chest.
In remembrance of:
William Carlos William's "The Red Wheel Barrow"
and Coalition Forces in Iraq.
William Carlos William's "The Red Wheel Barrow"
and Coalition Forces in Iraq.
Labels:
In Remembrance,
Narrative,
The Middle East,
War
Highland Park Block Party
Mr. Tarka wondered
"Why do wild-eyed girls
with long curly hair
with long curly hair
waste days
reaching
for the skies
for the skies
on the Showalters’ trampoline,"
as he twisted his handle-bar mustache.
as he twisted his handle-bar mustache.
He watched the street fill
with ribbon-covered bikes
with ribbon-covered bikes
and the fields fill
with grills and expecting stomachs.
That night, his lights
were on 'til two
with grills and expecting stomachs.
That night, his lights
were on 'til two
as the basketball
kissed the net,
kissed the net,
making less noise
than a cricket.
than a cricket.
Twelve o’clock heat
roasted my skin
while I headed down
to the pond-
where I saw his baby blue pickup
drag dirt in its rear
roasted my skin
while I headed down
to the pond-
where I saw his baby blue pickup
drag dirt in its rear
as frogs left wet drops
on green lillies.
I followed him down
to an empty lot
where he was building a house
with little more
than hammer and nails.
on green lillies.
I followed him down
to an empty lot
where he was building a house
with little more
than hammer and nails.
Labels:
Childhood,
Countries/Cities/Regions,
Narrative
July 4th Carnival
Indulge in caramel apples
and hold its sweet smell
like kindergarten valentines
red, white and blue
ponies
on the Carousel.
And all the colors
wash over you
like sprinkles - dipped
in caramel.
Labels:
Childhood
Between the Mountains and the Sea
The mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sheets
covering the cars, parked half way on the streets
and halfway on the sidewalk between the feats
of Khalil Gibran Khalil and Arab treats.
So sweet with honey-
Lebanon does not need Arab money,
or anything in the cents
of Americans envisioning tents,
or mansions paid by oil rents
when Lebanon is not Palestine
and when Lebnan is not Kuwait,
and where Lebnan cannot be mine
and Lebanon spreads her sectorial state,
still if she were a girl she would be my date,
a marriage made in love and hate
and one thing sure about our fate,
that we shall live forever to mate
those fractions of us that won’t stay
longer together than a day,
but come together as if to say
truly in Lebnan only the mountains can exist-
three cities and towns betwixt-
the sea blue and the cedar green,
love is cruel, love is mean,
the sea blue and the cedar green,
love is cruel, love is mean,
love is Lebnan, in between.
Labels:
Countries/Cities/Regions,
Love,
The Middle East
South Sudan
My brush begins to paint a story
Bristling black, green and red gore,
Tents as far as the eye can see,
Blood as deep as red can bleed,
Bruises as deep as black can be,
The wind batters tents against burnt grass
An armored jeep prevents a pass,
A child cries, a mother dies,
Free at last, free at last
Free from hands so calloused they don’t heal,
Free from peace so brutal they can’t feel,
Bashir signs a treaty, and then violates the deal,
Makes a move for the land,
While the people weakened, can’t stand
Up to the homicidal maniac,
Employing child soldiers, cuts filled with crack-
Burning farms so there’s no back
To the food and water they lack
And legs so weak
They can’t stay on their feet.
Labels:
Countries/Cities/Regions,
The Middle East,
War
Qurayshi
Ar’rabs grab sandstorms,
placing their open mouths on the hole,
A bousay- soft to your first born,
roll it over al-naar, string sand to glass.
Chords strung out
like praise to yarub.
like praise to yarub.
Sand beats like a drum on dune-swallowed tents.
Tightly-tuned ouadan
burning notes in the night.
burning notes in the night.
Poets string words as blowers stitch sand to glass.
This is Quraysh.
Tribe of Mohammad.
Children of sand.
Labels:
Metaphors for Poetry,
The Middle East
For Brailey
The fireworks whistled
Red, green and orange
against pitch black.
Some spinned, some crackled.
Yours shot high,
Starlit,
Into the sky.
(In Remembrance: 1988-2005)
(In Remembrance: 1988-2005)
Labels:
In Remembrance
The Rose that Grew from the Concrete
Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Provin nature's laws wrong it learned how to walk without havin feet
Funny it seems but, by keepin its dreams
it, learned to breathe FRESH air
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else even cared
No one else even cared..
-by Tupac Shakur (1971-1996)
Labels:
In Remembrance,
The Rose from the Concrete
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