"immodesty" poems
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like that of a full moon
bringing light
from the One
who has commanded me
to wear it
to my face
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a merry-go-round
rotating with a joyful force
in places near and far
illuminating its power
a reflection of my soul
and inner beauty
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
the way whirling dervishes move
we're so high
aspiring nearness to Allah Masha'Allah
our act of wearing hijab daily
deserving of much respect
and Insha Allah
The Seventh Heaven
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a spinning wheel
many made
in different colors
and in different textures
each brightening the world
and when wearing it
like Khadijah (AS), Fatimah (AS), and Aisha (RA)
attracts attention of the best kind
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like Big Ben
I'm so high
dignified
a visible ambassador
of Islam
saying no to immodesty
and saying yes to our Majesty
Hijab is my crown
shaped in a circle
around my head
like a halo
starting my day with Bismillah
and looking into the mirror
to carefully donn it
I remember
I'm doing this to help men
married and unmarried
from sinning
and to protect myself
from impurity and immoral acts
as
Hijab is my crown
for me a Queen
By: Najwa Kareem
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 2:42 PM UTC
Disclaimer: I did this as a creative rewrite for one of my university lit courses, and all the inspiration and quotes belong to Robert Browning the original writer of "My Last Duchess"
HIS LAST DUCHESS
ARRIVEDERCI
_“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.”_ (I’m not)
Alas! Me, “a wonder.” He calls.
Now wretchedly refined and pasteurized.
To be consumed, now, for genteel eyes.
Pity! Should you ever see me roll mine.
Behind those curtains, you might have been surprised
To see my countenance whimpering
At you Sir; and seething, at _Him._
Must you not be fooled by that sickly decorum
Upon which his manly pride resides.
The Duke—what rich talent in envy he has,
And of pithy idiosyncrasies! Pardon me now
As I speak of his infamies: Is it not,
Too preposterous of a Duke, to sulk
And take offense, over a blush?
(As if the blush was his to wield and shun.)
Am I not allowed to flush _at all?_
And must I be ashamed of being swooned
By the casual offers of life’s grandiosities?
Each and every, dropping of the daylight,
Ripen cherries in May and chivalrous gentlemen,
my dear white mule; must I then weep
at them all, only to prove my fancy for him.
And when does gracious gratitude itself
become in vain: a finite honour—
deemed excessive elsewhere?
Never had he plucked me out, for censure,
Before he gave commands, I knew he did
To pluck the smile out of my face.
Utterly clueless—he thought I was
To find myself throttled, for immodesty.
A wife, an appendage to a Duke,
Loosely felled, to stroke a green-eyed ego.
My fault it seems, is a mere generosity
Of affection: falsely opined, if not
Misread, to fare a defect of temperament,
A chronic malady, doth be cured by death.
To cement the farce he will, soon, bring you
Downstairs to meet a friend. (a fiend)
A prized possession: Neptune, taming a sea-horse.
His hubris incarnate, cast in bronze.
But you must know the truth, for the sea-horse
Did not perish for naught, she is freed from him
At last.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
I look into the mirror to find
emptiness.
I should be seeing my pale skin
and brown eyes,
but I find betrayal,
dishonesty,
evil,
immodesty.
I see sin.
I see sin.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.
By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.
Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.
As the summer teases, she writhes Lolita-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Oct 7, 2020
Oct 7, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
alessandro
botticelli said
let there be venus
(said
let there be you.)
you
running your hands down your own curves
blind;
the mirrors are all broken here.
it doesn’t matter
if you want this.
i want this
dotted i
(crossed t)
wants this
****
is this, for instance.
a pear:
bruised
muscled like
holy breaststhighs
completely inmoving
(outmoving)
breathe—
celebrate
the words
going upward to the sky and the
strawberry-red hair cascading down
it hungers
(like you)
to touch my back
gently
curl around my shoulders like your cold fingers in January
**** not
skeletal.
let there be
me.
let there be—here is where
the words stop mattering to me—
let there be caramelchocolate skin of sunlit honey tint
melting into itself on the wooden floor
(we all
scream
for ice cream)
titian and
anadyomene me
wringing long wet
raven hair
my legs are covered in salt
sand
once the sea goes dry.
almond eyes
upturned
(angular)
marvel at your own geometry.
lips of salome
drawn upward into a not-yet-smile
(cherubic)
to the women who give their thin
pale bodies
to muscular men with perfect
arms to hold them down:
i am for you.
i
with my
******* that blossom at your winter touch
my thighs
scarred by ivory teeth—no.
i
with
******* in full bloom
(orchids)
thighs sculpted by
God himself
don’t you want to make love to me?
doesn’t the world
want to make
love?
love that tastes
more metallic than the blood behind my lips
don’t you want to bite it out?
taste the sweetness behind them?
run your hands over
the elysian fields of my thighs
and the valley between them
don’t you want
my legs slung over your shoulders
don’t you want
your tongue
on my vast skin
sweat made of sugar
and salt.
(bittersweet)
you want
lips crashed against yours like
w
a ves
eyelashes sweeping your cheeks
you want
don’t you want
me
**** with nothing to cover me but my
blanket of raven hair
for immodesty’s sake!
perhaps
i am (is) small.
but
the mirrors are all broke}n here
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
The Ummah is sweltering with the heat of sins and immodesty.
When will it transfer into an oasis of humanity?
When will there be a loving bond like one between the Ansaar and Muhajireen?
When shall shamelessness be shunned away?
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 7:07 AM UTC
There is something heroic about dressing simply
Because you need to be clothed well and without superficiality
With the true and natural expression of your knowledge of self
For striving for the ideal self
And for perceiving one's self as already ideal
There is a heroic quality to being the physical embodiment of an idea
Whilst maintaining sincerity, heart, passion
At the same time pragmatism and sobriety
If holiness is synonymous to being devout
Can it be the same for those who go against the grain?
The modesty when most choose immodesty is truly not an act of virtue
But an expression of individuality
Following the rules indicates intelligence
To disobey suggests a higher calling
This is merely about the beauty of being heroic in your wardrobe
Your choice of words must not be wasted
Neither should your choices lack style
Heroism is about doing what routine least expects
There is nothing predictable about the one who blends in
And pounces with strategy in order to devour your heart
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
I'm a little too familiar with
gas station coffee
(and restrooms)
I know all of the roads and the mountains
that line them
I have known every cheap motel
stared at every continental breakfast
(burned coffee and rubber eggs)
and I can pack for anything in ten minutes or less.
I have known cities lit by the night
and passes comfortably fringed by fog
skeleton trees on dead beaches
gas-station Cheetos eaten at 3 am
sleeping on a friends shoulder
or listening to another iPod playlist
alone in the dark
the casual immodesty between traveling partners
and wearing 3 layers of sweats
to ward off the cold of the journey.
I re-read poetry by flashlight
while ghosts of headlights flutter
as I leave everything behind me
again.
I love the road blazing by
because it takes me a way from everything I remember
away from the family that is not mine
away from the cages and bars and lies about my beliefs
about my identity
the oppression of mandatory religion
the self-destructive hate
who I used to be.
I wrote poems about my knives because they were my comfort
they were beautiful to me
I romanticized my pain because I was a romantic at heart
but a romantic without love
and so I turned to blood and knives and tried to make it into poetry
thought that it could somehow be beautiful
and the sad thing is that it was
it gave more comfort than my family,
it was closer than my friends,
more reliable than any god.
The road scours that all away, reminds me
that I can leave, I am free, there is more to the world
than what I grew up knowing.
More than Rush Limbaugh and misogynist preachers
more than latent racism and open homophobia
more than my shame in my acceptance of these as normal
there is a whole world where
people don't live chained to bibles
and that gives me hope.
I have never known home here,
but driving and driving and driving
shows me that the world is larger than I know
and maybe I can find it somewhere.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
If you're in His image,
Then I am too,
And I am not a lesser man
(Or maybe I am).
I doubt His image has a head
To tonsure or to cover as seen fit;
It is, in fact, invisible,
Seen only in faces as reflected.
If I'm in His image, I imagine
Material immodesty is nonexistent--
For if not applicable to you in sight of Him,
I doubt His view of me is very different.
If I'm not in His image, then neither are you,
And every blessing you make is a blessing to rue.
The word is holy, if not your definition of manly;
And if I can't fulfill your obligation you never will, surely.
If I'm in His image,
Then beg my forgiveness.
If I'm in His image,
Then mind your own business.
And if I'm not,
Then neither are you.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Dip your toes
into receptacle of embellishments
whilst
hoisting your trouser-legs
above your shining ankles thus
preventing traces of
immodesty.
conjure an entire
genus of rhombi
to think
outside of
at interview:
bubble
and dress
in clothes, preferably.
try not to fold your arms or look bored
and always remember
to be someone you are not.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
.... Is
( as we all know from reading the
Poems
Of hello poetry )
:::
Is that they never work out
And so one can enter into a
Love affair
With total abandon
Knowing that no commitment is required
Because there are no expectations
That any "entanglement may occur
••
A
FUN ROMP
thru the body
And our
****** FLUIDS !
//
The pretensions of maturity !
The sense of superiority !
The immodesty of genital exposure !
//
Just a simple subject for the beginning poet
To wrap ones legs around
With no significance whatsoever
To anyone !
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC