"habibti" poems
I was eight,
My cousin was eighteen.
He called his mother Mom
"When will I be old enough,"
I asked
"to call my mama Mom?"
Mom seemed a privilege
to be earned with age.
Eight year olds had to say
"mama" or "mommy"
I experimented with Mom
such a deliciously Western term.
I addressed birthday cards to Mom
and mother's day cards to Mom
She didn't seem to mind
so I started calling mama Mom
But the novelty wore off
and I got sick of Mom and of mom
And I wanted nothing to do with mom
so I wouldn't even call her Mom
She was Alia.
I called her by her first name
because I resented Mom and mom for loving me.
I called her Alia
She called me Daughter
a forceful reminder of the umbilical cord.
Then I went away to university,
over the Atlantic Ocean
a 14 hour plane ride away.
And I wouldn't call at all.
I wouldn't call to call her "mama" or "mommy" or Mom or even Alia.
But she would call
And she would call me Daughter
or "habibti" or "my sunshine."
And I didn't want to hear it.
I was eighteen
and I didn't need Mom.
I was gone eight months
and I didn't miss Mom
I didn't miss the Middle East
I didn't want to be home
I think She hated me for a while.
Then I was back in Toronto
University got hard
And I got tired
And I couldn't sleep
And friends proved false
And I got fat.
So I called Alia
And she stayed on skype with me, singing
Arabic Nursery Rhymes
until she saw I was asleep
And Mom watched me sleep.
But "mommy"
kept the laptop on all night
In case I woke up scared
and needed to call out for her
from across the Atlantic.
And "mama"
is at home
waiting for me
with a hug
And I just want to go back
and do it over
so I could take back every day
that I didn't call her
mommy.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
Stunningly beautiful, soul full of pride,
The vision of perfection, by my side,
Enhanced is the feeling, swelling inside,
Price is platonic; our hearts must collide,
Heaven nor hell, unbound by earth’s shackle,
Euphoric by design, our love entails,
Nostalgic I’m not, we are no debacle,
View the world, no map marks our trails,
Inglorious, is the search for love
Ethereal, since you are but a dream,
Illusion is grounded, fly now my dove,
Reality is us, we are a team,
After all, you are my Aphrodite,
Yalla habibti,
Dec 8, 2009
Dec 8, 2009 at 10:31 AM UTC
This is a thoroughly post-modern phenomenon.
[Breathe, don't be nervous. It's fine. Wallah, you're not doing anything wrong.]
Digitally arranged meetings with ostensible strangers yet with more familiarity than our ancestors could imagine.
An arranged meeting,
a warm greeting,
a sensing,
a feeling.
“Are you Sami?”
“I am,” as I posture for a hug.
[She’s actually more beautiful than I expected. Her ample curls smell like conditioner and sunshine.]
“So you’re Kuwaiti?"
"Yea, I moved here when I was 18, to Kansas of all places."
"To be honest, I had to look up the emoji flag from your profile. My Muslim WhatsApp group helped me out.”
“Oh, okay. So you’re Muslim?”
“Yea, I was raised Muslim; my mom married a Kuwaiti in the 80s, blah blah blah.”
“What? Your mom lived in Kuwait?”
“Yea, kinda crazy, I know, but it’s a small world.”
[Small worlds make the gaps between souls smaller.
Who knew such a small place could leave such a big impact on so many lives?
Certainly neither of us.
Serendipity?
Allah y3alam.]
“Why do lesbians discriminate against bisexuals? You’d think of all people, they wouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“You’d think, but you’d be wrong. It’s like we have a plague.” Her voice goes on, but my mind drifts off.
[Tortoise-shell glasses, beautiful lashes, manicured eyebrows that frame flickering dark eyes, encased in a forest of curls, legging laced thighs, oh my. ::Deepsigh. Pay attention to what she’s saying! Oh my, she’s my type. This is bad. No, no, hamdilah, this is good.]
“Do you want another round?” the bar keep’s inquiry snaps me back to reality. I interrupt to suggest a change of location. [Perhaps something less commercial, less public, less straight, more private, and more intimate.]
“It’s only a short walk.”
“Yea, let’s do it.”
[By short walk, I mean three doors down from the bar. The perks of suggesting the venue.]
“Shoes off?”
“Yea, it’s habit, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
She sits, crosses her long legs, and gives me this look. My heart flutters; I remember my manners:
“Can I make you a drink? What’s your poison? Gin or *****
I mix our drinks and think:
[She must like me.
This is good.
I’m glad we did this digital dance to find romance.
What a treasure, finding this post-modern habibi.
Alhamdulilah,
Lucky me.]
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
Oh Habibti.
Why are you so beautiful ?
Your smile seduces my heart.
Your gaze brightens my soul.
You are the most beautiful woman in Gaza.
I want to make you my beloved wife.
Oh Habibti.
January 2025
By Alvian Eleven
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 2:33 PM UTC
You're the reason
my phone is
on as I
sleep,
I'd rather talk
to you all
night long than
rest.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 2:27 PM UTC