Timbuktu

timbuktu-manuscript

I am

an ancient city,

my love.

Of stark poetry,

of hidden delights

and unseen treasures,

a womb in the desert

you may return to

someday.

 

You may see me as

crumbling walls

and ramshackle forts,

desperate hunger

and impoverishment,

but in the patient quiet of the night

I am vividly alive,

lighting the sky

with the soft glow of my million hazy stars;

singing my lullabies that are

traditional story-songs,

my willowy melodies

gently haunting.

 

I will lead you down my long romantic winding pathways,

into the hidden crevices of myself,

and there you will glimpse

my illustrious manuscripts,

read my magnificent golden script,

the vastness of my humanity

and my wisdom

unveiled

and laid bare

for you.

 

Come,

my love,

enter

inside my city,

enter

inside my story,

enter

inside me.

Hamza Al Din

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Nothing in this world is as amazing as something that is neither clear not unclear.

I was contained
within the hypnotic rhythm of the desert
the way cloudy wine of the Sufi
floats within a clay vessel.
My heart danced
and inside it the Nile was a whisper of majestic hypnotic sound,
a winding river
meandering on a musical journey
through mysterious Time.

Beat of the tar,
shimmering curtains of reverberating strings, thickly woven skeins of melody
that I channeled through my fingers as they plucked oud.
Materializing complex tapestries of ancient sound,
evoking magic
out of thin desert air.

I can tell you
that there was a richness to this life.
It was a richness
like the sheen upon the surface
of a pot of Turkish coffee.
It was the richness of date syrup;
how sweet it was!
It was a quality of light,
like the delicate dawn some mornings
of my childhood,
the sun’s rays spread in gentle waves over the desert, billowing,
like my mother’s skirts
in the breeze.
And behind the whistling play of hot wind I heard within my own Nubian ears a twisting symphony
of flutes.

Between each note,
silence speaks.
Music quivering upon the depths of the quiet.
My gentle song was always soft whispers,
intimations
of what lay beyond
in invisibility.

Like the fragrance of jasmine,
so subtle, yet so sweetly aromatic.

Reach beyond the bounds of yourself, the thin curtain, into the depths…
and there you will find me, your own ancestor,
archivist of the human heart,
a greater library than ever thrived in Alexandria,
where the spark of knowledge
emerges out of the void
and sacredness lives beyond simple light
and sound.

Baul

parvathy-at-the-elephanta-cave-2009

I am:
Baul.
I am
mad for God,
crazy for journeying
through the world
within,
singing my inner song
to the wind and the dirt grooves of the road,
to the stubbly grass and ancient watching trees,
to the blossoming flowers that grow
along the way.
A wild string of
heartfelt words,
each note
a cry
from the depths.
please return to me.
I am seeking the
“moner manush.”
The man
of my very own
heart.
So I will walk the path that knows no bounds.
I will keep playing my ektara,
plucking the strings,
desperately,
pouring out my soul
in one ephemeral moment
of delicious touch.
I will wander like a minstrel
through the faraway lands
of my own consciousness.
she has learned what she wanted to know,
but only she understands.

 

Ghazal

I once was an islamic poet, presiding over my table at the cafe in Sudan,
drinking coffee sweetly scented with cardamom,
telling folktales…
Then was an Ethiopian expatriate, gathered with friends
at Dunkin Donuts in Central Square, debating politics
over styrofoam cups of cold coffee,
nibbling stale French crullers…
And throughout my journeys across this world,
I held the power of language close to my bosom,
my poet’s pen poised in the breast-pocket of my jalabiya…
and from my heart poured forth
my song:

 

Ghazal.

I dreamed of you, my lover
each night, 
until you came 
to me.

Like halwa 
you were sweet to the taste,
like guava, like mango,
that I relished, so sweet
to me.

And still I craved more,
and tossed and turned 
in my sleep,
still called you again
to me.

So I will search for you 
to the ends of the Earth,
recreate you anew,
somehow bring you 
to me.

For this is what
the sweetness of
your love
means
to me.

So I have fasted
like a holy man
on Ramadan
and though I may break my fast
with a handful of dates,
I will not be satisfied
until I am one
with you.

Beloved.

Sufi Poetry

Belly_dancer

I decided to include some of my Sufi Poetry on this blog.  I feel it goes well with the erotic poetry, as they are really one in the same to my mind.  It is the creative tension of longing, the longing to be filled with something greater than we currently are, that lies behind our human dance, that is both erotic and spiritual.  To touch something beautiful beyond the bounds of our known selves, whether within us or without us, is the essential crux of our desire.

Outside of this realm there is only fullness.  I know because I have journeyed there as consciousness (another story for another time).  And so we are in anguish here, but we are in pleasure too.  For we cannot know the deliciousness of being filled until we have been empty.  And is this not why we have chosen to live this dream here as humans?  To experience something that cannot be understood any other way.

“He has learned what he wanted to know, but only he understands.”

— Conference of the Birds by Farid ud Din Attar

Latin Lover

20090110112734!Rudolph_valentino_i_sangue_e_arena,_1922

Tonight I went salsa dancing at El Palomar Ballroom,

watched the couples flowing

rhythmically together,

thrusting and twirling,

entwining like vines,

heels sliding gracefully

across the floor,

and I could not help but think

of you.

 

Of how at the club

you held me close against your chest,

wrapped your arms around me,

squeezed the rounds of my breasts,

your hands large, like pads of nopal,

and you kissed my ear,

and roughly spanked my ass

and said:

“I’ll dance with you

in bed.”

 

My latin lover,

you are so sabroso,

so spicy,

so rrrrrico,

so mmmmm…

 

You captivate me

with your hips

that sway

against mine

to the fluttering heartbeat

of the Earth Mother.

 

A glass of sangria.

Por favor.

Another shot

and I am drunk

on your caliente beat,

your fino brown skin,

your suave moves,

your animal lust.

When you want me,

you WANT me.

 

You are primal,

you are graceful,

you are so macho

but tender

like a squash blossom

and I want

to dance with you

all night long

until el pinche tequila sunrise.

Love Potion

photo-38

My love potion is made of:

geranium, mandarin orange, lemon, cardamom, sandalwood, patchouli, ylang ylang, and jasmine oils,

as well as other ingredients:

wistful hope,

cunning need,

fearful longing,

the surprising perseverance

of an oft-broken heart.

 

I am an uncommon sorceress,

love my only spell.

I will weave my dazzling web of dreams

for you to catch upon.

And once you do,

well…

let the games begin.

 

You must be terribly manly

to arouse my seductive passions.

But if you charm me,

I will take you

against my bosom like an eternal mother — a cute little mamacita, that is,

and hold you there in the thrall

of luscious pleasure,

spreading the length of my curves against you,

touching you

in all the right places.

 

I will feast upon you lavishly, leaving no part of you untasted,

open the mouth of myself wide for you,

swallow you heartily down.

 

I will cook you your favorite foods.

My tongue will fill your ear

with kind words of encouragement,

with decadent flattery,

stroke

your ego.

 

I will make myself delicious to you.

Soon you will begin to crave me

on your tongue.

You will become addicted

to my love.

 

So drink a sip of my love potion.

 

Then let the games begin…