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 Mar 2017 Ali Qureshi
hellopoet
"the eyes have it"
but they don't - -
blanker darkness,
glassy, stare of
fish no longer
able to breathe;
those eyes had it,
perhaps they did,
but now no more
 Mar 2017 Ali Qureshi
sunprincess
My father,
staked his claim
upon the sun,
moon and stars
and love

and he gives me
his daughter
everything
this morning I woke up to you sleeping softly.
you opened your eyes and looked into mine,
held my hands and told me you were late for
work
 Mar 2017 Ali Qureshi
Anais Nin
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
( reply to Sappho )*

I took my guitar to the sea and said:
'Come now heaven, these fingers bled,
Wrangle and rain for thoughts you deign
And all the listeners dumb shall proclaim,
Strings are merely— vibrations of the soul
And soul is merely one mirror to the gods,
Take my dying art and throw it— to wind
Hear my song, strung, sept to your kin.'
I Took My Lyre

I took my lyre and said:
Come now, my heavenly
tortoise shell: become
a speaking instrument

                 — Sappho, ( circa 600 B.C. )
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