SWEDISH LAKE

I dive, shivering.

The lake locks behind me.
Water’s indifference swarms.

I am a hollow reed falling

to where there is no wreckage.

In the bunched black,

I am too deep to hook,    

cleaving water like a prophet.,

A child crawls in my ear.

Does anyone know I’ve gone?

My hair flails -  a creel of eels, a terrible nest. 

I am Medusa turned to  stone, sinking. I cannot look back.

My heart, a howling mob of blood, cannot save  me now.

The lake holds me down with weedy fingers,

 until the mouth is breached,  the skin bowl floods,

 pours  libation for the  fleshless drowned.

I kick and  turn, scuff the mud,  and in the wake,

my old self sinks,  an ancient plague settling.

My eyes lift, migrating beyond shadows.

Something shines, a stellar corpse.   

I am at the threshold, carrying a bride,

milky white, as light as a fledgling.

Water is torn as easily as silk.

I am breaking through,

birthing myself,

a molecular evolution,

grasping air as if it were a trapeze.

My hands strike the water.

An infant moon fragments.

Voices call  from the jetty.

Below the surface, I am nameless.

                           More of my poems in http://www.warscapes.com/poetry/not-revolution, 
http:// www.rowayat.com (new Egyptin literary magazine in print), http://www.chanticleer-press.com

  

  

MEDIA BREAKFAST

While working as a journalist, I used to write about the effect of conflict on women and children. I was an international editor for Marie Claire magazine UK and at the time we did some ground breaking features which were often picked up by the mainstream press - (eg the  effect of the UN sanctions on Iraqi women). 

But times changed, and a new editor arrived with her Gucci handbag and Versaci jeans. When I approached her with what I thought was a particularly interesting a story concerning women in West Africa, she said that she was no longer doing 'worthy' stories and that unless a celebrity was involved she wasnt interested. As I couldn't drag Angelina Jolie along with me, I didnt get the commission. Another story, involving women in Afghanistan who were setting fire to themselves in protest against the Taliban, was turned down by a Sunday newspaper magazine because "people wouldnt want to read about this while having breakfast." .

I dont know if you are having breakfast while looking at this picture, and I am sorry if it upsets you, but the destruction of Syria  has been going on for too long, and maybe the media needs to print more pics like this if people are to put pressure on their governments.  We need to fully understand the trauma of Syrian people, and sometimes only a photograph can do this. We need to understand why they are leaving in their thousands and what they have witnessed and lost. 

Refugees are not warmly received in any country (although Sweden  briefly opened its arms to Syrians) but until we realise the truth of the full horror of the stories that refugees  bring to our countries, we will never be welcoming hosts, and the pressure on butcher governments

will remain as lax as ever.

SIDI GABER MOSQUE

In the shadow of a minaret,
crouched crow women perch on steps,
each one a prayer turned sour,
wings packed into black cloth,   
faded henna hands 
like fallen leaves.

THE MONSTER BRIDE AND THE TAXI

This morning I was driven through a sleeping Amman to the airport. The driver and his sleek, clean car obeyed all the traffic lights. The streets were scrupulously clean - and empty. We talked about the high cost of living in Jordan and he pointed out the string of bright modern universities lining the main highway to the airport. Every town has its own university, Shawky said proudly. Amman's Queen Allia airport has a W.H Smith and a number of overpriced designer stores. No one hassles you, everyone is polite. A painless airport experience. A bottle of water had leaked in my bag and an airport employee had noticed the pools of water following me around. My passport and ticket were soaked. He escorted me to the ladies and told me to hold them under the hand dryer. 

Ninety minutes latter I arrived in Cairo. No one seemed to know if I needed another entry visa. The person who did know was grumpy and surly. (They are all no doubt, overworked and underpaid). Outside Arrivals I was shoved around by a flock of taxi drivers but managed to  jump a bus to Terminal 1 where I was told I would get a bus to Cairo, but no one knew where in Cairo. Finally, agreed a price with a taxi driver and jumped into his skeleton car.

As I juddered into a weirdly quiet Cairo, I fielded the usual questions - Where you from? Married? Children? Age? Husband wiz you? (I always lie, and say 'Yes') Do you live together in same flat? He Egyptian?   Today was the wedding of the new president, he told me. Was Sisi taking a second wife? (Muslim men can marry up to four) Could be a smart move. Another wife might up the support of the more religious sectors of his country...especially if he beat her. We passed the Marriott hotel in Heliopolis. The taxi driver gave the gate a regal wave as he passed. His wheels wobbled, and the clutch clunked at each gear change. 'Big wedding today. We have new president,' he said, waving both hands in the air and accelerating.

I asked him if he liked Sisi. 'He's strong man. We need strong man. He is like Mubarak. Mubarak was a strong man. We must wait a month and see what he does.  People want to see homes first, and jobs.'

He told me he had five children aged from 19 to five months. 'I earn 300LE a month (£30). It's impossible to live on this. The people are watching Sisi, and if he doesnt show us anything after three months......' he moved a hand across his throat and chuckles, 'Like Morsy.'

Against all odds, I arrived home and he doubled the agreed price. Too tired to argue, I handed him the money. I watched him as he drove away, his car groaning  slowly round the midan ... outdated, rusty, parts stolen and not replaced, speed dial broken, petrol gauge useless, beyond retro - like the behemoth his country is. 

Today, a former soldier  finally 'married' his monster bride at a time  when Egyptian marriages are shorter and  increasingly end in divorce. Memories and honeymoons  are short, and sooner or later, everyone gets to know if the groom is firing blanks or not. 









 

THE LEFT FOOT OF KINDNESS

I bought these sandals in Alexandria a year ago and love them! But recently, one night I was walking home, when the left sandal broke. I had no choice but to walk with left foot bare, and broken sandal in my hand. This is a dodgy business in Cairo streets littered with rubbish, broken this and that and crumbling pavements. I was a street away from home when a man approached me from a well-lit garage. He looked at my feet, threw up his hands in despair and invited me to sit on a chair which he carefully placed in the middle of the pavment. He was insistent, so I sat down. He disappeared into the garage, while I tried to balance on the chair, feeling rather strange sitting alone the street. I could hear voices from the back of the garage, and after some time the man returned waving a pair of flip flops in the air. They were several sizes too big, but very welcome. He watched me with a big grin as I resumed my walk home. My sandals were fixed and, of course, I returned the flip flops. 'Bombo" and I now wave and smile to each other whenever I pass. 

I wore my sandals for a few days, until they broke again in Alex. Same sandal. I hobbled down Port Said, avoiding broken glass and the stares of passers by and was relieved when I reached the lift to take me up to the flat where I stay. A man joined me. "Where are you from?" he asked in perfect English, "and what has happened to your foot?" We gazed down at my grubby, dusty left foot. I told him the story and showed him my shoe. We got into the lift. "Fifth floor?" he asked, and I wondered how he knew. A smell of fresh baked bread rose from his string bag and filled the lift. "I am Mr Assad and I can repair your sandal for you," he said as we zoomed towards the first floor. I politely thanked him at the second and said I was going back to Cairo the next day. He was insistent as we scraped past the 3rd floor. By the 4th floor I was changing my mind and about to hand the sandal over to this very nice man, but I stepped out at the 5th and thanked him for his offer, and said I thought it was probably better to take them back to Cairo as I wouldn't be returning to Alex for a couple of weeks. He tipped his forehead and smiled. "If you have any other problems I am on the 7th floor." The doors closed and Mr Assad and his bread soared heavenwards. 

The kindness of strangers can be found everywhere, but very often in Egypt. Even the man who runs the stall I usually buy my veggie from, gave me a little present yesterday. "Take this madam," he said with a flourish.  It was a cucumber.

FIG

He offered  a fig with run-through-my-hair fingers,

Split it with a sex-in-the-afternoon mouth, 

licked seeds from  his ready-to-kiss-tongue.

I smiled  my  maybe-I-will-lips.

His I-want-you-eyes watched as 

I sucked at the juice with take-my-time-lips.

He whispered, ‘Bellissima,’ in an undress-me-voice.

The fruit disappeared, we gazed at the air.

He took a step closer on dance-with-me-feet.

I flashed him a hold-me-tight-smile,

Then  walked from the shop with  an I’ll-be-back-walk. 







More of my poetry can be read on http://www.odyssey.com, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html

A WOMAN IN A DIMLY LIT ROAD

I was looking for a cafe in Garden City, a quiet, residential part of town, not so far from Tahrir Square. I was lost (as is usually the case) and people kept giving me conflicting directions (as is usually the case). I found myself turning into a badly lit road which ran past what seemed like a deserted old building surrounded by a high wall. I was alone in the street apart from a soldier in full combat uniform guarding the gate. He was standing directly in my path and staring at me in an unpleasant way. As I walked towards him, he began to click the safety catch of his gun.

I didnt know what to do and thought if I turn round, I'll have my back to him which didn't feel like a good idea, if I say hello he might shoot me but at least he'll know I'm friendly, if I say nothing he could still shoot me, if I continue walking I'll also have my back to him. To be honest, I just wanted to drop to the floor and curl into a ball. I reminded myself that I had looked down a few  barrels of  guns  in my journaistic career, and  in Kabul had heard bullets whistle past my ear as the Taliban fought their way into the city. In these situations I tend to want to piss in my pants. 

The words of my father, an ex-soldier, came to mind, 'There is nothing more dangerous than a bored, badly trained soldier.'  I continued walking, hoping Egyptian soldiers were well trained and that this guy was working out a particularly challenging Suduko in his head. I avoided eye contact. He followed me a little way up the street, clicking the safety catch as he went. 

You never know what's around the corner.