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Ash Jul 20
I remember the first time I got admitted here
I was the girl with the Burka,with an actual muslim name
No one sat next to me,none talked to me
Am actually London  born but
The sorority girl passed me and said
"Isis go back to your country"

Rumours fled on for days
There was an Isis member in school
It was easy to believe I mean my name is Zanari Ashan right?
It was clear I was the ticking time b__b
The tension was clear my dorm mates fled
Soon I was called in and asked to stop wearing my burka.

The other day my brother and I met at the startbucks
we were hugging and talking you see he is in UCLA
Catching up that's all,you see I don't have my hijab
My brother though he still looks Arab
Soon four officers said someone made a complain about him
Soon we weren't allowed to sit together,eventually were asked to leave

You see am different things to different people
At my home town am the  valedictorian from Palmers Green High School
People know me as the Pianist,Violinist and dancer
Others as a full time student at Stanford University

I have other titles too you see
On the streets it's terrorist,migrant
At the Airplain am the suidical bomber,the Terrorist
When my Hijab is off I am a racist bitch because I am white

Out of all this what shades my day is that word Terrorist
Terrorist come in all shapes and colour
It does mean because I originate from Iraq,Egypt,Syria I am a terrorist
So please I am not less human because I am a Muslim young woman
Stop trying  to fit me  into your mould
No am not a terrorist,No am not Isis
Am just a girl who apparently is a Muslim.
Evelyn May 17
You have one headphone in the left,
the radio in the right
as a stranger drives measures in clefts of night.

Kiss him how your feet kiss sand or
a soloist breaks off from the band
until the pianist beckons him back,
tuning deft fingers to a single track.

Open your ears to sound’s wordless talk,
beats in a measure a half-step off.
Blue’s lips tactless, sucking you down,
Blue’s lips fastening ankles to ground.

Then sudden and brace;
a rock in the road,
an anchor thrown
as you're caught between verses and words you don’t know.

Then sudden, the break;
pianist's mistake.
Notes shift under toe as the ocean lets go.
Mos Jun 14
The tangible entity of consciousness is fleeting
A elegant party but not quite extravagant
Clinking wine glasses echo through transparent walls
Twenty-two hundred lulls over the city like that of a shadow
This isn’t an ungodly hour nor is this a typical night
It starts when She enters in a red gown that elongates her figure
A pianist smirks in the corner — a grin that’s almost sinister
The clinking of wine glasses abruptly stops when its replacement of grim notes fills the glass house
The attendants still seem cheerful
(How peculiar?)
A stranger pulls her into a waltz but his eyes look hauntingly familiar
Unbenounced to her, He too dances with a stranger
Both on separate sides of the glass room
Both dancing with the unknown
Yet each pair seems to recognize some prominent feature
Nostalgic for what has never been
(How do you preserve a memory in reality?)
Through the glass house mirrors sit in obscure angles
One could see that within each reflection He and She were projected into the other room
Each glance towards the mirrors posed no questions
For both pairs seemed identical
Now their lives may have been content in accepting this dance with a “stranger” I suppose
But that was not the plan of this party
For guests grew tired of sipping on Beaujolais and listening to solem tunes
The pianist presented a different song, more lively yet equally eerie
Their feet paced with the new rhythm which called for a spin
(An act as dramatic as such was only proper for the scene)
With a grand gesture She turns, finally seeing the glass barriers
And for the first time that night He and She were face to face
A perfect dilemma to entertain an audience
In a frenzy She tried to speak
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
But each plea for affection deemed futile
For the grin on His face became that of the pianist
Her emotions were a downward spiral of gray shaded confusion
And with a sinister laugh He (or he) smashed the glass, shredding all source of reality
He was the hallucinogen and She was angry at him for making Her feel
And each guest cheered “bravo” demanding an encore
But this tragedy, dear friends, has come to the end
She’ll never know how the stars look where he is
(Is such a loss truly a loss?)
This poem is for two people
Kevin Sep 21
in the puddle beneath the pear tree
I watched the galaxy weave its web
and my fingers could tug it's strings,
like a pianist at the keys,
tugging at infinite light and sound
pulling me closer to this eternal truth.
guiding me through the endless paths
and showing me the difference

between those
and rabbit holes,
folding into folds,
unfolding into new,

you whispered in the night, "i'm here".
but I couldn't find you in the sunrise
or in the field I cleared for you.
Wk kortas Jan 2017
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)


There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)


I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)


Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
With a tip of the cap (and a rather profuse apology, as well) to Ms. Dorothy Parker
Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank.
Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress,
A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans,
Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness,
Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad.
I followed her to the bank, but once I got there,
The place but harbored still and humid air;
An uncomfortable silence was all I had.
Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare...
I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass,
And I hurried outside; somehow I thought
There was an exotic restaurant she sought,
And once an Indonesian one came into view,
I knew I would enter the restaurant too.
Yet once again, when I entered, confusion
Had conspired to make silence an intrusion...
Apparently, Rain had communed with air
Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere.

Sometime later I brushed with her again.
Though we didn't speak, something told me
She was off toward the train station
To acquire tourist information.
I wanted her, I wanted her by my side,
Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside,
Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach,
Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air,
Every nonchalant lift adding to my care...

I awoke to a charming morning stare...
It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird
Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound
As if to say I had been mad, absurd.
I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass;
I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves,
Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist,
That plays upon a keyboard of leaves.
What a silly boy I had been to let care
Conjure up restless imaginings,
When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there...
When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door,
I carried a heavy head
Of drunkenness. She bought
Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed
And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam
Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...
I knew her time was nearly at an end.
Having been a world-class pianist in her prime,
having been a pillar of Russian learning too,
having been accomplishment and motherhood
rolled into one, she offered her view...
I needed some precious stone in my pocket,
some reminder of what she held deeply true,
a sort of compass for the rest of my life.
By the living room window she sat,
glassy-eyed, my question seeping into
her consideration and morose eyes...

Sensitivity has been your second name
as it has mine; we've both been blessed
by it, Yasha; on account of it,
north and south and east and west
have become the vast petals of a rose,
the perfume of life, as well as the soil
that nourishes the fruit that grows
within the artist. It has cursed us too.
(Richness and happiness are not the same.)
Sadness and turbulence had made their claim
on us, we've been wounded, no thanks to it.
Yet I wouldn't for the life of me trade it.

You'll need wisdom, wisdom to balance it,
to cradle that softness that cries
and laughs wide-eyed. You'll need wit
as the companion wing of your innocence;
not only refinement, but good common sense.
You'll need attunement to others' needs,
to accept their peculiar pace and stage,
to accept they may not want the sage
or illumination or insightful things,
to see they may love their diseases more
than the light that meditation brings.
Don't bring them Dante, Mozart - some other star -
don't speak of Plato and philosopher kings
when all they asked for was maccaroni and cheese.
Yasha, you need to understand:
not all want beauty that brings them to their knees,
not all want culture, learning, or high art.
If you don't see this and accommodate them,
you'll needlessly disturb your heart.
You'll be angry, and what is more,
you'll miss some of the teachings
that may live and glow behind their door,
for everybody knows something
someone else doesn't. Being but aware
of what flies and thrives in rarefied air,
you may miss the jewel in the dirt -
or one that may be found anywhere.
Be modest and open enough
to dispense with what "ought to be", with "should",
seeing in others their peculiar good.

Above all, as beloved Shakespeare said,
be true to yourself: your resolve and hue
needn't grow wan if or when you see
others are far less concerned with what is true.
Yasha, you can achieve great things. You've shown
you are well on your way, but the play
of green envy will come upon your way;
you will meet with cynicism and mistrust.
Yet your heart, in the end, must carry the day,
and it is in your heart that my essence will live.
The stronger, you become, exuding light,
know that in your heart I'm taking delight.
Be intimate with only a few.
Let silence and restraint guide you
with others - not words that you take to be true.
Although I'm generally not a big fan of Shakespeare, there clearly are Shakespearan echoes in the last stanza. And yet I faithfully record here my mother's advice (with some creative license, of course).
Mikaila Sep 16
I could say
That without you in the world
Silence would fall on the whole planet
All at once
Like a blanket of snow
Like a curtain on a lit stage
And everyone would become a silent film-
Board meetings
Crowded trains
People standing puzzled,
Voices stolen by a universe
Holding its breath.
I could say that the color would leech from everything-
Traffic lights and flowering trees and oceans
Bland and gray and flat,
Husks of beauty.
I could say that all the strings on all the violins in every orchestra
Would snap at once
And hang limp
Like bits of litter caught on tree limbs.
I could say that
Every song would be wiped from every page
And every long fingered pianist
Would freeze at his work
Hands shaking
Suddenly unable to remember
What his own mind sounds like
And unable to cry out
In dismay.
I could say that the stars would slide like tears down the face of the sky,
That the old gods would turn in their graves,
That the roar of the world would come to a halt
So suddenly and so completely
That every person in it would stop and stare upward
A billion faces all lit with fear confusion and grief
A billion voices
Bitten off like unwary confessions.

I could say all of that,

But I won’t.

Because after all,
It would only feel that way
For those who knew you,
Wouldn’t it?

For everyone else, the sun would rise like always
The wind would whisper
Time would march on
As it always has.
Colors would remain firmly in place
Just as beautiful
As any other day.
Music would swell in subway cars and concert halls and little houses.
Children would laugh and shout in schoolyards
Deals would be struck, fortunes would be made
Vows would be said
And bows would be taken to thunderous applause.
Choirs would sing
And raucous men in bars would shout at tv screens.
People would swarm blithely through airports and streets and museums
Murmuring, laughing.

And somehow...
Somehow that is so much worse

Because none of them would know

That silence should have fallen

And didn’t.

— The End —