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Middle Eastern Journal

@middleeasternjournal / middleeasternjournal.tumblr.com

"Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder." -Rumi
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heartsacrossthestreet
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poems-of-madness
Habibti,  he says when I am honey. And leaves me hungry for spices. He leaves  me angry and in love.  I love you. I  say it so desperately and it does not calm me. And he does not always say it back. I guess it’s too European for him to say: I love you too.   Albi,  he says when I am alone  in the kitchen, crying softly, before I cut a pomegranate. I tell him I miss him and he does not cause the lust might  devour me tonight. He only misses me  when another man’s hand is on my thigh  for my body is his  property.  Hayati,  he says when he  has spoken to his mother about my Henna tattoos. But he has not said anything to my  father about the white sheets. I say marriage. He says Insha'Allah.

Arabic Is The New French from The Immigration Series by Royla Asghar  (via poems-of-madness)

#poetry#spilled ink#a reblog after many months#middleeasternjournal
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concealednotes-blog
In Beirut, the sound of an explosion deafened a young boy to his mothers laugh and his fathers voice. The blasts left a community stripped off any sense of security. Not a day had passed until, in Baghdad, a funeral branched itself out into over twenty more funerals, and mourners became the ones to be mourned. Hours later, in Paris, gunshots spread the news of the terror that is the world today and wounded bodies spilt in the city like yolk from an egg. Less than twenty four hours left the earth shaking with fear. Three cities grew silent, while the world shed a tear. Cities that bred love have hate splattered across their streets, as innocent souls fell victim to the brutal games of greed. What did those poor souls do for you to snatch away their heartbeat? What did their families do to deserve such misery? It is a pity, what the world has grown into, it’s a shame how little we can do to help, except hold one last thread of hope. So, here’s our hopes for Beirut. Here’s our good wishes to Baghdad. Here’s our prayers for Paris. Here’s our longing for peace.

THREE CITIES GROW SILENT, THE WORLD SHEDS A TEAR, Disha Ahluwalia (via concealednotes)

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thevintagearab-deactivated20180
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everydayegypt

This hot beverage shop is owned by Mahmoud Zorro and his brother in an alleyway in Boulaq, downtown Cairo. As basic as their shop may be, they keep it very clean and organized. Mahmoud’s nickname is Zorro because he thinks he looks like Antonio Banderas.

Photo by Tinne Van Loon @tinnevl #boulaq #tea #coffee #colors #minimal #cairo #downtown #egypt #everydayegypt #everydayeverywhere http://ift.tt/1EcNvqK

#photography#thevintagearab#everydayegypt#egypt#cairo#middle east#middle eastern#Zorro#coffee#boulaq#tea#minimal
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notjustcookies

The Small Vases from Hebron - Naomi Shibab Nye

Tip their mouths open to the sky. Turquoise, amber, the deep green with fluted handle,   pitcher the size of two thumbs,   tiny lip and graceful waist.

Here we place the smallest flower   which could have lived invisibly   in loose soil beside the road,   sprig of succulent rosemary, bowing mint.

They grow deeper in the center of the table.

Here we entrust the small life,   thread, fragment, breath.   And it bends. It waits all day. As the bread cools and the children   open their gray copybooks   to shape the letter that looks like   a chimney rising out of a house.

And what do the headlines say?

Nothing of the smaller petal perfectly arranged inside the larger petal or the way tinted glass filters light.   Men and boys, praying when they died, fall out of their skins. The whole alphabet of living,   heads and tails of words, sentences, the way they said,   “ Ya’Allah!” when astonished,   or “ya’ani” for “I mean”— a crushed glass under the feet still shines.           But the child of Hebron sleeps with the thud of her brothers falling   and the long sorrow of the color red.

Naomi Shihab Nye, “The Small Vases from Hebron” from Fuel.

Source: poetryfoundation

#poetry#naomi shihab nye#notjustcookies#middle east#middle eastern poetry#small#vases#from#hebron
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notjustcookies
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tridentgallerywintermeditations
On a dark, black night, love lights a lamp. You can’t hear the voice of the One whose love carries your heart away. Forests, marshes, and frightening swamps, where one fears tigers with every breath. Those whose love is perfect, Bahu, cross deserts, seas, and jungles.

Sufi poet Sultan Bahu (d. 1691), from Winter: A Spiritual Biography of the Season, edited by Gary Schmidt and Susan M. Felch (Skylight Paths Publishing: 2003), p. 169. (via notjustcookies)

#poetry#middle eastern poetry#middle east#Sufi#sufism#Sultan Bahu#notjustcookies
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