Tag Archives: lust

Giving up.

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I have been hearing so many friends telling me lately that they gave up on love. I guess its hard not to feel that way after going through one unsuccessful affair after the other. They also tell me our world is no longer made for long term commitments. Temptation is too easy and too available and we have been become used to living for our own selfish interests.
Ever since I turned thirty, I have been plagued with the question: is the daily settled life with some partner superior to the wandering frenzied yet possibly lonely one? Should we have a partner even if we start bickering, get bored, the passion dies down, we take each other for granted? Or should we be single creatures, lone sharks in the night, hunting various opportunities and then moving on, having satisfied a certain kind of bloodlust? The quick excitement of new people, new challenges, new places…or the comfort of knowing you have someone to call for any small emergency? How important is it to have someone to hug everyday? I cannot make up my mind on this question. I do not know which kind of woman I am.
Which one are you?

I guess this following poem came before the confusion set in.

Exit Music

03/2008,
Beirut.

I give up your luminous black eyes
I unleash the serenity of your smile to
hands new strangers plenty
I give up your kindness
I give up your fluidity
and lean edges to softness new strangers plenty
I remain empty
you could not love me
there were moments spent in wonder
at the glint of your face
scruffy hands pained tireless hands of power
inside me
there were moments of moans primal
moments of silence heavy

my bed is now empty

I give up your sadness I’m sorry I couldn’t gather
I give up your harsh laughter, a frenzy
of exit signals pulsing in your haven
in your sanctuary
I give up your skin to new oceans
and long limbed women chanting
hips breasts grinding to beckon you
their mad hair tempting
a virgin princess in distress
a wanton gypsy

I give up your music
that beating heart we shared
that language to use to bare
to show you cared
I give up your beauty, rare
elusive and specific in its secrecy
I give you up
lover
you could not know me
we make love in different planets
the collision of your lips on mine
brutal sexy
infrequent and alight with electricity
is but passing spark
is sheer fantasy
is delicacy
temporary

I want to hold a hand in the rain
I want the shared need of another in our daily agony
I want to explode in short circuit
fires of daily company
I want kinship and respect
and vulnerability,
I want a morning after morning to eternity

I give you up to her
whoever she is

Love will come of its own choosing
love will seek me out
one sunny day
in a whisper
softly

Poetician lust and love!

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It was a super cool event on Tuesday. I missed some people in the audience who ought to have been there, but it was such a lovely presence with familiar great faces and some new spirits who sat and listened to us, apparently happily! There was some lust, there were some tears, some heartbreak, and some anger (mostly me)…but more than anything, there was the notion that poetry read is for everyone, that listening to a writer express thoughts and feelings can be art, that there are ways to communicate beyond networking and drinking in Dubai, that encouraging people to write and read builds confidence and self esteem and a community of shared ideals and issues. I love it. It also is a great excuse to go and buy shiny Indian skirts for me…

I will share a poem I read that day. It was the opening poem for the night and is dedicated to my single amazing girlfriends, to remind them (and me) of the new RULES. Meant to be funny, it turned out a bit more serious, I guess I can’t help it, sigh, but it resonated with various ladies I shared it with. I hope it reminds you of what you deserve.

The Rules.
For all my lovely single girlfriends.
Dubai- 24/2/2010

Never love a man who has not called to
anxiously check whether you did get sick and could possibly be in bed
retching your inner guts while making excuses for
his busy self, traveling,
never love a man who answers your explosive letters with one liners that lead nowhere,
who wants to rip your clothes off only when they are
fishnet stockings and does not
encourage you to hold his hand in public, never let that man be your waking hours,
be your insidious dreams in morning desire,
never ask him how he is seven times in an evening because
he was tired a week earlier, never jump off the tired couch with your tired hands
on your tired feet to give him the ease and comfort of soul with your
magic fingers that heal, never cancel your work, your dates, your coffees, your time
alone for a man who forgets to check his phone
who does not hide in office corners to call you,
never buy him little gifts you see everywhere, because somehow everything
now reminds you of him, even little trinkets he most certainly will
hate become objects of worship you claim he ought to have
in his home
without you,
how he needs a larger mug for the tea you imagine
drinking together, never fret about what to give give give
to a man who will always leave you,
never never look in the mirror and see your curves through his eyes
wondering if he can notice in the dark
the extra hairs you forgot to shave
the blemishes you cant erase
the three pounds you may have gained, the skin stretches, the flesh dimples,
and never let yourself make love in the dark, even if it
feels like the only way,
never wait on him, never wait for him, never hang breathless wondering what
he is going to say, staring at ceilings while he moves in
other worlds ambivalent,
never let yourself be curious as to what he’s thinking, word by word,
action by action,
deciphering minutiae of nothing to the madness in
your analysis, play by play,
while he books tickets
dinners
concerts
to amuse himself,
makes plans that are a schedule for person one,
never tell him you love him
you want him
you miss him
you think of him
in all the languages he can speak
you ache for him
and never let him into your room, to come and go as he pleases,
to flee and then return at midnight to stay, never
ever deny yourself love for him, deny yourself food, music, magic, the
sisterhood that is your ancestry,
books and aloneness and your own inner deity,
never have his children,
never let go of your oceans and the jungles and the deserts to chase his name,
and never,
never ever I say,
never admit that this too is a poem for him.

Dubai nights, private mornings.

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We went to a party on a boat last night. Drove a long time to get there, with fantastic music blaring, and a great friend singing with me and laughing. I often think that going out and meeting people is a great solution to being alone, feeling marginalized, needing human warmth, finding love…all of that.
Then you realize that if you feel that way, you are going to feel that way even amongst dozens of people. Even dancing on a boat. Even in the gorgeous breeze of the waterfront.
I prefer my own company. Sometimes.
At 5 am, bad poetry happens.

5 am, Dubai is a highway.
For me, where ever I am.
Dubai,
5/2/2010

Her short ruffled skirt flew in creek breezes of paper cups lounging
vodka is finished and thin is this attendance
people do not converge
on boats we visited after late late hours of
forced laughter
everyone wanted to touch her breasts
curves fake and pointed perfect, she was cigarette tipped in this night
plastered a smile on glossed pouts
where those who are lonely looked for too
many bottles
and we don’t have enough bottles
and we don’t have enough breaths for these cigarettes
and I don’t have enough years to keep my smile on,
to nod at strangers on boats who do not
look past what we cannot offer each other

I remember you on a couch, lean legs stretched, a face to haunt all that comes after
I burn slow with mornings of sheets like maps to eternity
I burn slow with conversation like water, ebbs
and wanes in streams of thoughts you
could slaughter
and be rebirthed in your arms, a habit accepted
a home beyond the rivers of Dubai
dry
with no movement
we dance on a docked boat
stagnant like my curls trembling
the heels slip on cheap spilled red wine I retch
solitude and drink in breath of those stars
we share regardless of
travel
look at her ass we say
I’d like to touch her tits we say
she wants to come home with you, he says
lick his neck in a gesture of plea
accept the rotation of bodies in and out
of momentary rapture
and I burn slow with your eyes dark
your glances heavy
the weight of spoken ruptured flesh we made poetry
the creek ripples to taunt and say
I reflect light
I flow unhampered by desire
and I
I shatter at fleeting aches in regions hidden

and there is no love here
and there is no love here
and I drown slow with the tides of departure.