Poem: I Told You

I couldn’t sleep. Past 12AM, not ready to check out at 12PM. 
Too much energy from today, seeping through me like the soft red stains on my thigh from where you were sitting after sex. 
And I just wanted to touch your hair, that curly mess that bounces happily even when you don't smile. 

You're smart, of course, talking about politics like an old hand one moment, the next minute about making your niche in sweet potato tortillas in Mexico City, casually dropping names like Costco and Bimbo. 
You're the last person I'd expect to say she went on a diet at the age of 11, pre-puberty, pre-blood stains, but women, they see themselves in a light harsher than any sun the Mayans, Aztecs, or Mexicas ever measured. 
They worry about the water being wasted while I lather my hands with hotel soap, about not having a steady job post-university, about not finding love, or other things the universe measured by any calendar must see as small as the beautiful mole on your breast. 
(And that hair, it would make Samson jealous.) 

I find out later you were part of an all-women, American-style football team in a country where football is a different sport. 
In another photo, you are upside down, demonstrating a twisting maneuver only a contortionist would approve of. 
Little about you is congruent or straight, and as you walk beside me, in front of me, behind me, I see the black hair before I see you, and I enter your morena maze without a guide, map, or ticket. 
You kiss my eyelids and finally, I fall asleep. 

© Matthew Rafat

Tunisia

I have never felt as sorry for Muslims as I did in Tunis.

Mohamed Bouazizi’s name and spirit are missing. The men here dally in dark cafes, drinking tea with mint leaves, watching soccer. There is no trace of any revolution. Ben Ali is somewhere comfortable, his Saudi backers even more comfortable. The new-old government in Tunisia’s capital have banned a political party, forgetting Britain's lessons with Sinn Fein. Hundreds of people dead in 2011, for what?

I have never felt as sorry for Arabs as I did in Tunis.

In 1956, freed from the yoke of French colonialism, President Habib Bourguiba convinced the Tunisian National Assembly to pass the Personal Status Code, which prohibited polygamy, defined court procedures for divorce, granted universal suffrage, and required the consent of both parties to a marriage. “With this one law, women became equal to men before the courts.” (Third World Women Speak Out, by Perdita Huston)

But Bourguiba miscalculated. Tunisia’s rural villagers did not know about the Personal Status Code. When a country is illiterate, how can they know the capital city’s intentions for them? They continued the old ways.

What happened to the ideals of this leader of women’s rights, this Arab feminist? Where is his spirit in Tunis? It is in a street named after him and a statue. (At least the street is lively.)

I have never felt so sorry for Arabs and Muslims as I did in Tunis.

A capital city should be filled with activity and discussion, but Tunis at night is dead. Most shops close at 8pm, street lighting is irregular, and finding the way back to my riad is difficult. Only stray cats, graffiti, and small garbage heaps acknowledge me. Sanitation workers cannot clean the garbage heaps from the busy day quickly enough—the streets are too narrow, too winding, too dark. I have seen men using handheld carts, the kind farmers attach to the back of oxen, hauling garbage alone.

There may not be enough money to fix potholes, install proper lighting, clean graffiti, create a flag that doesn’t look like a Turkish copy, or improve sanitation, but the police near the presidential palace ride shiny BMW motorcycles. In the city centre, numerous security forces carry the latest semi-automatic weapons.

Tunisian women have not convinced politicians to pay them to stand around with guns, but they have their own defense tactics. When an impatient grandmother wearing a black headscarf crosses a busy street, she wags her finger at each oncoming driver, not bothering to look, confident cars will stop.

I have never felt so awful for Arab Muslims as I did in Tunis.

Wherever I go, I enter at least one government building and take a photo. I take the photo behind the security barrier or entrance check. The photo is always of something harmless or within easy sight, something I can zoom in from outside if needed. In San Francisco, California, the police officers do not bother me, even when I loiter in their lobby. They have discretion and are above following pointless rules for the sake of following rules. Their job is to keep the peace and bothering a potential taxpayer does not make sense.

In Havana, in Tunis, and in any society with too few women workers and too much security spending, the story is always the same. When I step inside Tunisia’s Ministry of Finance and take a photo of the tiled wall, an armed and uniformed security guard runs up to me and grabs my arm, angrily ordering me not to take photos. He knows his job is pointless, but he must follow orders, tu comprends? Not following rules affronts his manhood, and in Tunisia’s post-colonial world, enforcing pointless rules is his raison d’ etre.

Other government workers, equally useless, not used to commotion, come outside their offices to observe. They have very nice suits. A nonconformist in a Tunisian government building must be an interesting sight to behold. Meanwhile, EU finance ministers approved a blacklist of 17 jurisdictions deemed as tax havens. Tunisia is on the list.

I have never felt so despairing for young Arabs as I did in Tunis.

When I ask a guide the following day if we can enter a government building, the one over there with the interesting tiles, he calmly explains the building I would like to enter is for government employees. He does not need to add the word “only.” It is understood in Tunisia, which held democratic elections for the first time in 2012, the government does not work for him.

I have never felt so sad for young Muslims as I did in Tunis.

My host, a kind man named Oussama, the owner of both French and Tunisian passports, tells me politicians loyal to Ben Ali, the president who fled to Saudi Arabia after the student-led revolt in 2011, are re-gaining power. It is unclear whether the police or military would arrest Ben Ali if he returned, despite outstanding warrants for money laundering and drug trafficking.  

Oussama opines that the students’ 2011 nonviolent approach may have been a mistake. He does not look like a man who favors violence. He is slender, calm, has many books in many languages. He explains that after the revolution, the state disappeared and the mafia entered the void, but now the state is making a comeback. Unfortunately, Tunisians have lost the most important thing—their energy, so palpable in 2011. Young Tunisians today say they—the politicians—are all the same, which is the worst possible outcome. I do not tell him my successful Arab friend in America refers to the “Arab Spring” as the “Arab Winter.”

I have never felt so happy for Arab Muslims as I did in Sidi Bou Said.

The sidewalks are (mostly) clean, excellent coffee exists in enough places, students with laptops write eagerly, and no one objects to people taking harmless photos. Posh restaurants, late hours, and stunning views of the sea and mountains seem indigenous, as does the color blue. It is impossible to be sad in a city where almost everything has been painted blue by man or Allah.

I have never felt so optimistic for African Muslims as in Sidi Bou Said.

Men and women sit together on rooftop salons, black and Arab Africans walk side by side, and men do not need soccer or cigarettes to socialize. Police officers with shoulder-strapped guns are also here, but they bring a different energy. They are more purposeful, more determined, more proud. One plainclothes officer in Sidi Bou Said is worth ten uniformed personnel in Tunis.

I have never felt happier for African Arabs as in Carthage.

Carthage has the nicest houses, the most money, the best-paved roads, and the most interesting history in Tunisia. Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca, was born here, his military tactics striking fear and respect into the hearts of the Roman Empire.

Tunisia’s most vibrant cultural center is here, away from most government ministries. Inside, surrounded by movie posters, I see, for the first time, Heinrich Böll speaking on television. Outside in December, young men and women of every shade of color mull about, chatting and laughing.

I have never felt so happy for Arabs and Muslims as in Carthage. 

Guess Who?

I ran across this page in a poetry book recently. You probably won't guess who it is, unless you're very familiar with his or her work. 

Small Things (a poem)

Small Things

Swine flu is in the air.
CNN promises not to fear-monger as the word “pandemic”
flashes across the screen.
I think of the Mexican peso first, then of the Mexican people dying.
It occurs to me my priorities are screwed up.

But then I realize that’s the point--the constant scramble
to survive
to make money
to take care of your family,
It re-arranges everyone’s priorities,
forces people to think ahead, not backwards,
and it seems to work, until it doesn’t.

President Obama’s on the screen now,
talking about that flu again.
I think of the Mexican people first this time.
I think about the American schools shutting down,
and American kids happy to stay home.
I think of how a small thing can multiply into a big thing
and make its way up here without warning.

And then I realize a good thing can also multiply
And come here,
Something we’d never thought about before
until it came here
and changed our lives.

Small things, like six-year old Pierre Omidyar,
arriving in America from France,
his parents from Iran,
Not knowing their little boy would create eBay.

Small things, like Paul and Clara Jobs
adopting a little half-Syrian boy
born in Milwaukee
and bringing him to Mountain View, California,
where he would grow up and give us Apple Computers.

Smaller things, too, like 27 dollars loaned by a man in Bangladesh
who spoke at Stanford in 2003
and caught the ears of Matt and Jessica Flannery,
who then founded Kiva.org.
Soon came millions of dollars to help the poor.

Small things become big when they cross borders
undeterred by risk, failure, or fear.
They come, these small things,
flu particles, yes, but also the seeds of a bright future,
Burrowing their way forward.

(2009)

Poem: Lola Haskins

I finally dumped my 8 years old wallet and replaced it with a new one I had in my drawer (it's been there for the last 5 years). In the process of emptying out the old wallet, I found a short poem, by Lola Haskins. It's titled, "Love":

LOVE

She tries it on, like a dress.
She decides it doesn't fit,
and starts to take it off.
Her skin comes, too.

This was one of two poems I had in my wallet. Not sure why I had that particular one in there, other than the fact that it's one of the most poignant poems I've ever read. Can't you just feel the unnamed woman's anguish? I am still in awe of how the last line creeps up on unsuspecting readers, only to bludgeon them so matter-of-factly in the end.

Poem by Judith McCune

I keep this poem in my wallet. It's from The Atlantic magazine (March 2000, page 96), and I've kept it there for eight years. Like my eight-years-old wallet, it is fraying and may soon become unreadable. I wanted to post it here so that others may read this little-known poem. Click on the link below to read the entire poem:

http://www.theatlantic.com/unbound/poetry/antholog/mccune/theguest.htm

I can't post the entire poem because of The Atlantic's copyright (a question for the IP and copyright lawyers out there: once the author is dead, does the copyright to her work diminish in any way, even though the owner of the copyright is the magazine, not the author?). In any case, I will quote the last stanza only to entice you to read the poem:

Now when Chiqui asks me how I've slept, I lie: Just fine, I say, though by this time I've learned the Spanish word for shame.

Copyright © 2000 by The Atlantic Monthly Company.

The poem neatly summarizes my old-fashioned world view. It has hard-working immigrants, caring family members, and a continuity of time (expressed through different generations of the same family). It also juxtaposes old-fashioned values against modern values in a way that makes the new values subservient to the old ones. Whenever I read McCune's poem, I fall in love with its style and content all over again.

Norwegian Poetry

Props to the Norway for having such an eloquent king. From King Olav V of Norway:

When I look back
I see the landscape
That I have walked through
But it is different
All the great trees are gone
It seems there are
Remnants of them
But it is the afterglow
Inside of you
Of all those you met
Who meant something in your life

King Olav V
August 1977

War, Teddy Roosevelt, and Wilfred Owen

On this tragic date, I provide you two perspectives. One is from a former U.S. president; the other, from a British poet.

It may be that at some time in the dim future of the race the need for war will vanish: but that time is yet ages distant. As yet no nation can hold its place in the world, or can do any work really worth doing, unless it stands ready to guard its right with an armed hand. (Quoted in Edmund Morris, The Rise Of Theodore Roosevelt, p. 594)

Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Must-Read Poems

Here is a website with some famous love poems:

http://www.frazmtn.com/~bwallis/lovlost.htm

Pablo Neruda's Poema Veinte ("Love is so short, and forgetting takes so long") is a must-read.

Read Theodore Roethke's "I Knew a Woman," and ee cummings' "since feeling is first," and you will gain an appreciation for what's important in life. Roethke's poem is below:

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)

And now, for something completely different...

Once in a while, I will post something that is completely unrelated to anything and everything. Below is a poem I wrote today:

Shimmering with sweat,
Eyes shut,
Heavy with the day’s labour,
She nestles her face in the womb of your arm.

You see a faint glow in the small room,
A room too small for this, you think,
And you see it comes from her.

A soft light reflects on her skin,
Not quite sorrel, not quite copper,
Vestiges of a trip to Utah,
A mark where an insect had its fill days ago.

She lies on the floor,
Ethereal.

A round face, quiet with sleep,
Minutes ago was not quite like that.
I rise, but remain close to the ground,
Like the insect who had its fill.

100th Post: "Magical Realism"

For my 100th post, I thought I'd do something different. I will share with you one of my favorite poems by a little-known Kashmiri poet, Agha Shahid Ali. The poem--which contains incredible imagery--is introduced by the simple, unassuming title, "Snowmen." Enjoy after clicking either one of the following two links:

http://www.salemstate.edu/sextant/v4n2/keyes_poems.htm

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=181394

Here is the last stanza:

No, they won't let me out of winter,
and I've promised myself,
even if I'm the last snowman,
that I'll ride into spring
on their melting shoulders.

After reading the full poem, take a moment to enjoy the images--a woman frozen by a man's embrace, a "snowman" riding into the future Spring--and then check out this link, which explains the poem a bit more:

[FYI: link no longer works] http://www.himalmag.com/2002/february/passing_1.htm

From the above link:

I approached the poem “Snowmen”, from which these lines are taken as an immediate sensuous apprehension. It was later that I thought of its feminist implications. There are two things hidden in that poem. One is a poem by Wallace Stevens called “The Snowmen”. If you read it you won’t see the connection but it is there for me. The other is a scene that has haunted me for a long time from Wuthering Heights. The narrator is staying at Heathcliff’s house because there has been a terrible storm and the ghost of Katherine knocks on the window. She says, “I’m cold. Let me in”. He opens the window and the glass breaks somehow. He takes the hand of the ghost and rubs it against the glass and there is blood. It’s an amazing scene. Talk about magical realism. People think about that novel and they want neat answers. [Bronte’s] whole enterprise is that there are no neat answers. But to provide you with a neat answer: I’m thinking about my ancestry and the lost women in this ancestry who we never hear about. I know everything about my father, his father, his father’s father and so on for nine generations. But I know nothing before my grandmother. So I’m trying to find these lost women. These are difficult questions, there are no neat answers. You can have a feminist construct when you read that poem.

I love how Agha Shahid describes "Snowmen," but his explanation strikes me as too opaque. I would have never independently arrived at his "feminist" interpretation.  After all, much of the poem focuses on male imagery, such as "his skeleton," "his breath," "a man of Himalayan snow," and of course, the title itself, "Snowmen."  Shahid seems to be playing all sides by saying there are no neat answers, providing one, and then reminding us that there are no neat answers.  For me, "Snowmen" means something different. It represents the immigrant experience and persevering through difficulty to ensure that previous generations--both male and female--did not toil in vain. That's how I interpret the poem, especially the last stanza, which is my favorite.