Category Archives: Dubai



A very dear, very old friend of mine is on my mind a lot this week. He is going through some difficulties and it makes me realize how important basic communication is. So many people I know do not connect with others. I do not know how they do it. People are important.

This next poem is for my wonderful, brilliant and unique friend. He knows how much I love him.

Do your friends know you love them?




You knew me before i was this woman

poet scrounging for words


witnessing together the triumph

of that journey we took to

become us, in the making, ever and

again, unmade and replaced by

a newer carcass

lost to our youth, how your smile still dazzles

me and sends me letters in silence

across distance we

never paid attention to,

you knew me awkward and afraid

attuned to the tacit agreements we

signed to love beyond the

geography of convenience

beyond the shape of the atlas

beneath the earth that separates, to dwell in the

quickened internal rhapsody

of your fleeting poems, a prayer, an amulet to protect our laughter

burying the days of despair we count over and over

brutal score keepers noting each other’s failure

fingers unclenched to protect you

from yourself

i am bare,

that hideous form i cower from dispelled in the mirror

of your hands, for

to you, i am no shape

i am no matter

but a collection of stars free in your night

a simple sun ray beaming through a window of time

stretching to where you stand solid

that lights the horizon of memory

from here

to there, to you. And now i am tempted to cup my hand

across your face, to lean in and touch

the absence of distance, to mold

my thoughts after the

pattern of our speech, frazzled,

connected through stutter and the singular way

there is no other like you,

none ever. You keep my past safe in renewed breath,

i forage the world to dream close to you

willing this life to break


a tumbleweed of love fragile

to be swept up

in the free wind


Morning Poetry.


I wonder if all the people in the world who start to blog ponder who reads their blog, if anyone. Sometimes, I think its fine to write for yourself and just let it go out into the world and live its own path and not be concerned with results, enjoying creating sentences that could serve as a diary, a memory for collective introspection sung out through one voice, a history of words that’s not personal.
I will continue to blog, whether anyone reads it or not.
Coffee, friends, the open door of the terrace bringing in Dubai birds chirping, sunshine that is gentle, and many a work to-do item on the agenda for today as I sit in my room and music washes out the urgency.
But for now here is a poem. Good morning cyberspace.


I would like to stalk you in lands distant
Gouge out your address from numbers jumbled
Buy plane tickets in secret
I would like to wear heavy winter coats from my desert heat
to your cold winter and hot food
I would like to beat down your walls with Arabic wrists
Etch poems in English on your building walls
Embarrass you in front of all the disapproving neighbours
Shatter bottles of concentrated musk I sweat thinking of us
Wail out love to you as if we were on sand dunes before Islam
As if we were Greek tragedies before we knew of heaven
I would like to sing Abdul Halim to your sleep
Tell you of Um Kulthoum and her ocean
all night long in voices hoarse and wanton
I would like to rattle your shoulders and shake you into love
Slam my body against your refusal
I would like to lock my thighs around your flight
Harness you to all my softness
Imprison you in warm water like silk
I would like to stamp kisses in ink permanent on every vein of you
Burn marks of all my stories into retinas unable to blink
I would like to whisper to you in dreams
I am a thousand years old
and can cast spells eternal which you would not seek to unbind
I would like to touch you
I would like to touch you
I would like to battle you into love
I would like to
I would like to love you

Bassara by Rewa Z.


Rewa Z is one of the favorite writers and indeed, women, I have had the pleasure of meeting and hearing the past couple of years. An unwavering poetician, a rock solid lady, and a strong voice. Enjoy. Her bio is under the page, Poets.


“she who sees”

Comes from the arms of faraway sands

her hands stains of carob trees

she dances her bare feet like jewels, liberated

by the bands of khelkhal around her ankles.

She follows to where I don’t tell her I am going

and the blue crashes against the rocks underneath

the concrete underneath our feet. She wants to read my palms,

hers engraved with maps of henna and I

at home at last, to last.

She draws me in as she massages sadaf

against her fingers as if the lines in my skin

aren’t telling enough. And her hair is henna and her eyes henna

and her skin is henna-hued as she converts the sun into amber

eyelids and the bronze of her palms and the shape

of her mouth as she reads my hand,

only to tell me I have so much leaving.

On a Bus, traveling.


Working a lot this week, in production, moving constantly and dealing with events and deadlines and battling sunsets and light. Not much time to update our poets section and start introducing you to the fantastic group of writers who have joined Poetician events. I promise to get to that next week.

For now, I leave you with an exhausted poem I wrote on the way home from filming in the desert yesterday.

It is inspired by a colleague and is very simple.


Written on a bus

UAE, 26/1/2010

A man I worked with

for twelve hours in heat rising

in the deserts and big cars of our gulf


takes out his homework on the endless road home

to beds and ginger tea and sanctified sleep

and studies, quiet.

Why are you learning Spanish we ask,

watching him pour his last few drops of power into curling lines

new words

new meanings

new language life rhythm music and spirit

my wife is from Argentina he says

simply, answer enough

I am silent, envision a faceless woman he

will hope to hold forever.

I had a lover once who learnt Arabic for me.

He asked for coffee and spelled it kahwa

never wanted sukkar

he learnt to put the correct h in habibti

he learnt to say help me, ana mareed

he chose to call my eyes small almonds

to make love

dirty words in Arabic breathless new found intimacy and patience

I call him lover because he loved me

repeating words from countries alien to embrace closer the woman he pronounced

out of millions of bright eyed strangers in New York city

he took on a language a life music rhythm and spirit

and today

a gulf


we travel

and I cannot get you to even take on our possibility.