Nabiha Hijazi Hajouj

Nabiha Hijazi Hajouj Nov 2020

Calm, scary nights shine above my head
Sealing the world from pains of the dead
Whispering breaths among shadows in bed
Keeping secrets of past stories once read

Far, floating rocks haunt my sight with mild fright
Echoing my heartbeats through a lost flight
Pondering as to where would be the next site
Fading beyond horizons of the light

Dark, wavy clouds shed mournful tears of rain
Watering grounds that shall be grown with grain
Sheltering ponds and lakes on every plain
Weeping over graves that growl with disdain

Loud, rumbling thunder shake minds of those pure
Threatening torment that one can endure
Arousing tragic moments so obscure
Confusing ears with roars quite insecure

November 20, 2020 NHH ("Plume")

Nabiha Hijazi Hajouj Nov 2020

The Paper

“To be or not to be…”
Words as old as the sea

Words as these cross my mind
Whose meanings I can’t find

I question why I am here
Why I’m in constant fear

I might become the past
        Whose presence went quite fast

I might appear today
Hours, days,…I can’t say

I might come tomorrow
       One, two, three…in a row

I’m kept in a place
   So cold against my face

I am brought out to light
       To a job colored white

  I’m rubbed against a zone
       Onto which words were blown

I bear with you the pain
       Which you’ve caused on my lane

I am shattered in bits
That fly off as one hits

  My remains fill the room
       To be cleaned with a broom

December 8, 2011 NHH ("Plume")

Nabiha Hijazi Hajouj Nov 2020

The Armchair

I am made to sit still
Against the back of my will

I am tied to a floor
With rags it once wore

I am dressed limbs to chest
Upon which all can rest

I am kept with bare ends
That still serve their errands

I am blind but can see
All that they wish of me

I am deaf but can hear
Cries…laughter in my ear

Books and I both do share
Matter to be dealt with care

I am wordless they say
But worth books if they pay

I am…insensitive?
Yet warmth is all I give

December 1, 2011 NHH ("Plume")

The “plume” (a French word for feather) has got all the secret; weightless and agile, but nonetheless, lost amidst an array of adventurous travels. It is determined for a destination, a landing, yet howling winds and envious skies ****** it further and away. The plume is who I am.
Ambitious? Certainly; dreams solely pending in the realm of imagination. Skilled? Exhaustively; a “melange” of university degrees longing for achievement. Confused? Terribly; an open door to eternal misery. But yet, and again, the plume has it in store for me. Across the past many years, with vivid and melancholic memories, the plume has come to find peace in a sedentary kingdom: the fortress of writing protected by the expression of its glorious pen!
My journey begins here with you as the readers and my long-discovered passion for writing is pinned to a series of poems…“Poetry Made Fun” attributes itself to indulging yourselves and your children with hints about objects of our everyday lives.

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