The Poetry Thread

[hoody]

There once was a vampire called Mabel,
Who's periods were heavy but stable.
She picked up a spoon,
plunged it into her womb,
And drank herself under the table.

Martyn Hood

[juzme123]

Oh' bird do you fly?

By: Magool.

Oh’ Bird do you fly,
Glide on the winds,
And act for man,
With all you capacity,
In a land that does not fall,
Though weariness may occur.

Open your beak,
You knowledgeable of the land,
The faraway districts,
Wherever you are sent,
Do you find its way.

Oh’ Bird,
Glide on the winds,
Leap on top of the branch,
Let me tell you my intentions,
And have a discourse.

Stand near a waning crescent,
That fell from intentions at night,
Then call him,
And console him,
Take him to a faraway place,
And convey to him my news.

Put him on top of your wings,
And swim in the seas,
Caress the clouds,
And so that my eyes may brighten,
Land near me.

Oh’ Bird do you fly,
Glide on the winds,
And act for man,
With all you capacity,
In a land that does not fall,
Though weariness may occur.

*Translated by me.

[juzme123]

d/p

[juzme123]

Self-Misunderstood
BY: Maxamed Xaashi Dhamac

I can't understand you, curious self,
nor grasp how you're both life and death,
grabbed land and peaceful settlement,
grudging milker that makes me full,
sun set at evening whilst casting
noon's shortest shadow: how can you be
two who can't marry
yet share the same house?

How can I set this riddle and
give away its answer if
I fail to understand your secret
or even what you mean by it?

Are you something separate,
a stand-alone that leans
upon no man’s shoulder,
or such a part of the people
that you can't be parted from them?

And are you that which is Gaarriye
or two opposing halves
he cannot fit together?
I call you, crooked creation:
bear witness to your character.

I can't get to grips with you, gregarious self
are you the same age as Gurey
and his fellow constellations?
Are you all kin?

And what about the history of the Greeks,
the Pharaoh's army and
the goring of kings,
what about the groans of war,
the dynasties you saw destroyed?
Bear witness to it all.

My limbs and all their molecules,
call them to the stand:
line them up in ranks,
collect their statements;
those million monsoons that marched past,
tell them to complete
the tale of that trek
which each one took, the night-walking
and the assignations,
where they were each afternoon
when they made Gaariye:
make their stories flow like milk.

I can't seem to fix you, quarrelsome self,
you're like that riverbed, Waaheen,
shifting between long drought, brief spate –
that business you concluded yesterday,
signed, sealed and celebrated,
today you snatch it back
and poke it full of holes.
Did you tear up all natal traits,
redraft infancy and all its rites?
Or did truth grow old, and find
its essence not eternal after all?
Where does the failure lie?

Your usual impact is to put
the people in two minds,
to keep them from deciding


one casts you as the hero
they could never see back down;
while another thinks you short of wits –
your way lost, your well dry –
a barren camel; another one
misses you as he'd miss his own son –
if a speck of grit scratched you
he could not be consoled;
one casts you as cobra,
trustless as a looter; while another
has you as the strong shoulder,
a sure repayer of kindness,
deserving of good deeds,
a shelter and a shield.

Unquantified soul, secret from yourself,
ungraspable for others –
they all fall short in the fathoming.
Did anyone ever track you down
and shake you by the hand
or did they all end up lost?
Or could it be you who fails them?
Hiding within your shapeshifting,
a different colour for each place,
each night a new beast, a different face?

I can't get to grips with this garrulous self
even if my lope outstrips
the galloping of ostriches or horses,
even if I vanish from their horizons,
enter and depart from orbit
in the same instant you are with me,
you never fall short of my side.
Wherever I stand, whenever I stop,
you stand and stop with me
as though I carried round a debt
and someone said, 'Collect it!'
as though you were a good catch,
a woman looking for a husband.
Why is it you never sleep,
following me everywhere?

Whatever crime I commit,
whatever ugliness I enter into;
each shameful deed
that is my very own –
even though I gird myself to lie,
pull on another mask
to leave people at a loss –
you record each defect
as though set down on tape,
insidiously fill me with guilt,
obligation, injury:
you see through me as a wife does –
but why understand me by my flaws?

Curious, gregarious, garrulous self,
did you fail to grasp the stifling norms?
To quarrel with those who rap our knuckles
for whom only their diktats
need be acknowledged,
and not what you conclude

[juzme123]

Good Sense
BY: Hassan Sheekh Muumin

The ostrich places
Her young in the open
Where the hawk kills
But the small bird marries
And beds her young
In a nest that's safe

Different in size, the two
In manners, wisdom
And sense are opposite
See how good sense
Is superior to strength
And think on it.

The elephant with large tusks
Grazes at night in land
Where the enemy hunts him
But the termite builds
The mound we see
Protects himself within it.

Different in size, the two
In manners, wisdom
And sense are opposite
See how good sense
Is superior to strength
And think on it.

Do you know the dikdik?
She digs at the dust
Buries her droppings
But does the lion conceal his?
The path to the watering hole
He stains with his dung.

Different in size, the two
In manners, wisdom
And sense are opposite
See how good sense
Is superior to strength
And think on it.

[juzme123]

Mother
BY: Maxamed Ibraahim Warsame 'Hadraawi'

The world certainly
Would never have left night
Light not been found
People not have trekked
To a star over the Hawd
Would not have flown
Like birds of prey
To the moon in the clouds
Not have sent rockets
That appear like waves in the sky
Nor reached into space

Oh Mother, you've guided
The servants of God
To where they are today
With numbers I cannot
Calculate or count
The number of great people
You carried on your back
That you suckled
That you nourished
From your breast

When you bear a man
With support of his kin
Whose posessions men fear to thief
A steadfast hero
Mother, you are commemorated for it.

When you bear a generous man
Who says 'Please, take this.'
Who when a visitor
Arrives with nothing
Gives of his wealth
Coming closer to God
A man people wish
Would never die
Mother, you are commemorated for it.

When you bear a man
Who in his intention
Follows a straight path
When he meets one wave
Then deals with the next
Who guides his dependents
Whom all wish to emulate
Mother, you are commemorated for it.

When you bear a man who stands
Against disaster and war
Who understands the law
Deliberates on the truth
Dampens conflict and danger
When it's set alight
Who prevents bloodshed
Gives order to the people
Leads them all
Mother, you are commemorated for it.

When you bear a famous poet
Who knows the construction and decoration
The composition and the tuneful chant
Tightly forming the words of poetry
Which God has given as a gift
The artist who shapes all this
Mother, you are commemorated for it.

Women are needed in life
The ones sought after
Like a forest of fresh leaves
Men are wanting, and what
Their eyes fall on
Are those women of yours
When marriage is discussed
It is a woman, a tall heego cloud
Like ripe fruit, rich
In strength, maturity and beauty,
It's Hira, that one marries
Mother, you are commemorated for it.

Oh Mother, without you
Language would not be learnt
Oh Mother, without you
Speech would be impossible
There is no one in the world
You did not bring up
To whom you haven't sung,
Haven't calmed with lullabies,
Not one who lacked you efforts
In reaching maturity
That compassion has not covered
In the house of love.

Oh Mother, through you
Peace is made certain
Oh Mother, on your lap
The child falls to sleep
Oh Mother, by your hem
Shelter is found
Oh Mother, the infants
Benefit from your teaching
You gladden the camel calf
You, the rain cloud that cools
You, the essential sleeping mat
You, the clean shelter
You, a heritage all journey towards.

Mother, while you live
I anoint you with congratulations
Greetings and wealth
I cover you with respect and esteem
Mother, your death
Is my disaster
In both body and mind
I hold your memory
I sing still for you
Above your grave
I wear the mourning cloth
Knowing that better than here
Where the birds fly
The animals roam
Where all creation lives
By the gift of God
Better than all this
Is the hereafter.

[Medi73#!]

The crowd at the ball game
BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS


The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly

by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—

all the exciting detail
of the chase

and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—

all to no end save beauty
the eternal—

So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful

for this
to be warned against

saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous

it smiles grimly
its words cut—

The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—

The Jew gets it straight— it
is deadly, terrifying—

It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution

It is beauty itself
that lives

day by day in them
idly—

This is
the power of their faces

It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is

cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail

permanently, seriously
without thought

[streetlegal]

Liking these poems!

Here is a poem, one of the best from WW2, which muses on what it means to kill another man. It sends shiver down my spine, especially the line about the man he is about to kill: "he moves about in ways / his mother knows"--for me, one of the best lines ever written.

Keith Douglas (who I know next to nothing about) was killed before the end of the war.


How to Kill by Keith Douglas

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
Now. Death, like a familiar, hears

and look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the waves of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.

The weightless mosquito touches
Her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches.

[juzme123]

What follows next is the most fascinating story I have read in years. Just brilliant.



The serpent
BY: Muuse Xaaji Ismaaciil Galaal
Translated by B.W. Andrzejewski with Sheila Andrzejewski
Source: 1993, An Anthology of Somali Poetry, Indiana University Press


There was once a soothsayer, skilled at foretelling the future by turning and counting his beads, who had such success with his predicitons that his fame reached the sultan. At an assembly the sultan offered him to work out a horoscope for the coming year, promising him a rich reward if it came true but death if it did not. With trepidation the soothsayer began to turn his beads, but time and time again the result was meaningless, and the impatient sultan finally told him to come back in a week's time with his prediction - or die.

For six days the soothsayer wandered in the wilderness, counting over his beads, but not one intelligible answer came out, and he resigned himself to death. Suddenly he was startled by a serpent, and still more startled when it spoke to him with kind words. They swore a mutual pact of peace, and the serpent offered to help him, asking only for a half-share in the sultan;s reward as his payment. Eagerly the soothsayer agreed, and the snake began:

I have found out the secrets of the time that is to come
Listen to what I have to say!

Eight years have passed since the deeds of Ibliis, Prince of Evil.
The round of the years has brought back the jins
And all their wickid deeds
There are signs to be seen in the return of this eight year -
A wife who covers her head with a mourning scarf,
Brave men slaughtered, looted herds,
Vultures pecking at the flesh of sturdy warriors,
Disaster!
Men are preparing busily for war,
Their rusty battle-spears made newly sharp.
Horses are fattened, and harnessed ready for the fray,
And once-dry waterskins, with fastenings new-fixed,
Are ready again to slake men's thirst.
Whether you close your eyes in sleep, whether you flee,
Or whether in readiness you draw your sword from its scabbard,
Soon there wil come a fierce and determined cohort
Sand against the very dust the encounter with them raises
You will cry out to God in awe!

Joyfully the soothsayer blessed the serpent and hurried off to tel the sultan that he must prepare for war. For the whole year there was fighting, bu his people gained a final victory, and gratefully he bestowed on the soothsayer large herds of valuable animals.

As the soothsayer drove them away he remembered his promise that the serpent should get half the reward. But the animals were so beautiful - and he began to question the wisdom of keeping his promise. Would it not be more sensible to kill such a dangerous creature? He took up his sword and went in search of his benefactor - but the blow he aimed at it hit only the tree where it had been lying, while it slithered away to safety.

Now the time came when once again the sultan wanted to know what the next year would bring, and once again the soothsayer could get no answer from his beads. In despair he went back to the serpent, contrite and apologetic, and begged him with tears to help him. Th emagnanimous creature agreed, but had a few words to say first:


Mankind, O Diviner, was destined, it seems,
To be the cause of this world's woes.
Butchering each other was your invention
'Stab' was a word that you devised,
And the fire that you have kindled
Will consume a large part of creation.
When you are weak and defenceless
How fond you are of friendship
And the support of mutual aid -
But for the man you call your friend
When you were pressed by need,
You care nothing when your purpose is achieved!

You have broken the covenant in which you entered
And the pact that once was made between us.
The evil deeds of the sons of Adam
Will surely end by destroying the world!
What you say out loud with your lips
You do not really mean in your heart.

It was I who saved you from a trap
When you came to me in such dire straits.
I expected some reward from you
But instead, you dolt, the profit I gained
Was a deadly blow from a hilted sword!
The thud and crack of that sword of yours -
The cloud of dust that vexed my head -
The fear in which I fled from you -
Leaping, stumbling, dashing against euphorbia trees -
My ears were made deaf by all that happended!
O how I was taken in by you -
By that trickling tear, that gaunt aspect,
Those pleeding words which touched my flesh,
Those jinn-like supplications!

So do not look for trust from me
For that trust fell down a very deep hole.
I shall tel you this, for the sake of God -
You are a doer of evil deeds!
I have no doubt that many a time
You have oppressed weak men and orphans,
And in my view you are paying now
For all the injustice you committed -
An old debt of yours is now being settled.

Nevertheless - tell the sultan who sent you here
That a wasting drought will come.
Tell him that grass in the pastured will wither,
That trees will die, the ones that stand in groves
And the ones that grow alone and tall.
Tell him that water will no longer flow
In pool or shallow well, valley or running stream.
Tell him that those who are weak and poor
Will perish with their flocks
And only the black-headed sheep
And the sturdiest camel will live.

But tell him, too, that hard work and resourcefullness
Will help a man to survive till the rains return.


The soothsayer was almost dazed with gratitude, and this time he assured the serpent that he would bring him the whole of the reward that the sultan had promised him. The serpent only replied, "Well, we shall see!"

Once again the prediction came true, but the sultan and his people, who had been forewarned and had gathered stocks of food, came through the hard times while others perished. The soothsayer received his reward, and as he was driving his animals away, he remembered his promise to give them all to the serpent. But the love of wealth stirrid in him, and he told himself it would be foolish to give such beautiful animals away - he would keep them for himself and not go near the serpent at all.

But a third time he was called by the sultan to predict the coming year, and a third time he realised that there was nothing for it but to consult the serpent. The creature laughed when he saw him, but without rancour began his prediction:

Tell the sultan who sent you here
That the sky will bring back the clouds once more
For it is barren no longer, and carries the Dirir rains
Tell him that soon, on a night half-spent,
Flashes of lightning will be seen,
And the bountiful plenty of the Daydo rains
Will fall, just as it used to.
Tell him that showers will pass over the land
That had been laid bare by drought.
Tell him that the herds will suffer no more
On their long treks to the water-holes.
Tell him that the torrents will scurry like lizards
Through the dry scrub of arid valleys,
That fresh grass will pring up round the encampments
And that among the herds that have survived the droughts
There will be beats in milk

Tell him that the wife who was banished from her husband's side
Inthe rigorous months of the rainless season
Will soon build a hut as spacious as a house of stone.
Now she can put off her workaday clothes
And dress herself anew in the silks
She had kept rolled up against this time.
Incense-burners appear from nooks and crannies
And a mat for sleeping is spread in a snug recess,
For her husband had had no thought of love
While the harsh dry season lasted,
But now that his flesh has lost its gauntness
He will come once more inside the hut.
Now he can choose what food he will eat -
No longer is he driven by hunger alone.
Over and over, with tender little words, he will be asked
To take more, and yet again more.
His wife will come and go, fetching this bowl or that,
And as she passes to and fro so close to him
The love that had grown old will become young again,
And in their revelry and play sons of blessing
Will be conceived, sons bright as thunderbolts.

Tell the sultan, too, that the younger men
Will not remain for long unwed.
They will marry, in a befitting way,
The girls they have been yearning for,
And riding displays and dancing
Will entertain and honour them.
And tell him, finally, that a man who so wishes
Will be free to turn his ming to faith and prayer.


Everything befell as the serpent predicted, and the sultan and his people had a joyful year. The soothsayer, more than ever repentant of his treatment of the serpent, gathered all the animals together that he had received as reward and went in search of him. He offered them all to him, asked for his forgiveness, begged that they should become friends, and finally asked him, "You, who are wise, will you tell me about the world and about life?"

In answer the serpent said,

As for friendship - I become a friend to no one.
I either harm a man or help him,
According to the purpose for which I have been sent.

As for forgiveness - I have forgiven you.
As for the animals you brought to me -
I give them all back into your hands,
But nevertheless I regard the gift
As having been accepted.

Now as for the world and life - I tell you this:
World there is, but life is not distinct from it.
Your life, as you call it, goes as the world goes
For God made the world with many patterns
And it is these that rule men's lives.

When war is the pattern of the times
All men are at enmity with each other,
And thus it was that in the war just past
You took up your sword against me
Even after I had helped you,
And said to yourself, "Cut off his head!"
And then again, at a time of drought
No man is generous to his fellows,
So you ran away with all your herds,
Giving me no share of the sultan's reward.
But when there is a pattern of prosperity,
What man is ever ungenerous or full of hate?
So you came to me, offering me all you had,
Not keeping even one animal for yourself.
Each time it was the pattern, not you yourself,
That forced you to do what you did.

And now I shall tell you who I am.
I am not a serpent, but Fate, the Leveller,
And you will not see me again after this day -
Farewell!

[juzme123]

A Terrible Journey
BY: Maxamed Abdille Xassan

A story of betrayal. Late 1800's

A trailing of rosy light, hazy wisps high above,
Towering precipices of clouds, flashes of lightning,
Thunder reverberating, flood-water rushing in spate,
The earth and air vibrating with the sounds ahead,
Last nights heavy rain that roared like a falling meteorite,
Showers pouring down, the speldour of spring rains,
A pond filled to the brim,
Pools overflowing, hollows swelling with water,
The parched land sprouting grass, thickets rustling -
Like this will your longings be alleyed,
As when a camel slakes her craving
When the salty water is poured out for her,
For I shall entertain you
With a poem like a preciouss stone.

Listen to my words then -
Tonight I shall pour them out for you!

When I was staying in my homestead,
I and the troops who were my kin,
No man ever uttered to me
One single hurtful or offensive word
No one came to me who would have robbed me
Of even the smallest scrap of leather.
I studied the commentaries of the Jalaals,
I persued religion through ecstatic states.
In the quiet comfort of my own headquarters
I joined the congregation in their communal prayers.
Whatever I wished was given to me in full -
I had all the good things of this world,
Frothy sour milk I drak, and curds,
And I was never deprived of food when I wanted it.


A picture of the headquarters, Taleex fort complex.

Then folly possed me
And cheated me of the jewl of my life-force,
Me - a man not devoid of high purpose,
And ready to climb the mountain peaks,
Who like an unbroken he-camel
Has never known the touch of a bridle!
But when the words that called me to come
Were uttered, and prevailed on me,
It was by an ordinance of God
That I was compelled to do what I did.

There was a thicket of Xagar trees,
There were Jaleefan and Qurac, and the cutting Jinow
The close-growing Galool, and the Sarmaan
With its pods that whistle in the wind,
The swinging and recoiling Jimbac,
The intertwining Jiiq trees,
The Jiic shrub and the Siiq wild fig,
The stining Jillab nettles,
The shrivelled Jowdheer gum tree,
Jagged branches inflicting grievious pain,
The Jirme with its thorns,
The Jiiqjiq with its prickles,
The Jeerin and the Yooco flame tree,
The Qaroon, the Jaaful and the Seerin,
And tree-stumps everywhere along the path I trod.
Journeying through the night I tore my way
Through tick-infested bushland
And I stumbled and fell
As the ground dropped steeply beneath my feet.
A lion roared, its front paws as thick and rough
As an old pack-saddle.
He followed me along the track of footprints
That I myself was following -
I could hear his steps behind me,
And time after time I turned to look back.
Spies were lurking on either side,
Watching as I made each step in fear,
Stretching out my arms before me.
With strips of bark I warded off
A wild dog and a hairy-tufted rhino,
A leopard shrieked at me, possesed by jinns,
And suddenly a whole crowd of beasts of prey
Were playing and sporting there.
Stalking marauders appeared far off,
Prowling in the scrub of the waterless plain,
And then a hunter passed close by,
Cautiously crouthing as he walked.

I came to a stretch of broken ground
Where not one family camp was pitched,
I trudged across a waterless land
Where the vary air engendered thirst.
The Francolin screamed at sight of me
And the ill-omened Bustard uttered his piteous cries.
I trekked along a drought stricken road
The wind of the Xagaa season licking my face.
My eyes lost their power as without cease I peered about me,
And I had to turn my face from the springing, whipping branches.

Marching from early morning, marching again in the afternoon,
I pressed on towards the East.
With every swing of arm or leg
I could hear the clamour of my cracking joints.
On that long journey I counted each weary span I trod
As thorns shed by the trees snapped under my shoes.

How prickly and sore was my skin -
What distress I suffered -
What sharp blows to my ankles and pains in all my tendons!
Stumbling and tripping I hit one foot against the other -
Spine and sinews were racked by the hurt inflicted on them
And I even broke a toe on a tree-stump in the ground.
I tore through euphorbia that crackled like crickets,
Through caltrops that pricked and entangled.
I was exhausted by the trek, parched with the heat and hungry
And as I marched on and on my body grew lean and gaunt.

Springing, I snatched my foot from a Jilbis and a Good
Only to step on an Abees as it lay, coiled and scaly skinned,
While the other snake that goes chrak-chrak-chrak, dashed into me
As it clattered on its way.
I fell to the ground exhausted
Yet I could not rest where I lay,
And moaning, I bent my limbs, then stretched,
Then bent them once again.
Through hunger and thrist my gullet was blocked
And in no way could I free it.

When the morning star appeared I resumed my march,
Trudging to the ring of my sandals on the ground.
On that early morning journey
My countenance grew haggard
And there was a roaring in my ears
As loud as a falling meteorite.
But I got into this plight myself
And the body that I injured was my own.
The fate I am suffering was ordained for me by the Lord
And driven by want I had to drain it to the dregs.

Had there been no answer from Boqor
I would not have craved for the coast as camels crave for salt.
My body would not have suffered hurt
If he had told me to stay away
But it was my affection for him
That drew me to the sand-dunes by the sea.

The journey across the steep enscarpments
Must have been decreed for me by God
For only an ignorant man does not know
Whither he is being taken by a leading-rope,
But it was Boqor dangling before me a shawl of honour
That brought this trial upon me.
There was a time when he and his men
Had gifts from me of horses and bellowing camels,
Herds of humped cattle and flocks of sheep and goats,
And I untied prodigious sums of money
And crammed their pockets full.
For them I slaughtered gelded camels, big of flank,
And cut them the choiciest, fattest meat.
For them great dishes of millet
Were in friendship filled and filled agin,
And vessels brimmed with fresh milk from flocks, newly calved,
That crooned and murmured to their young.
I gave them splendid brides
And houses decorated with screens of skin,
I offered them jars of honey and well-smoked meat to eat,
For them I burnt Jaawi incense and filled pots full of tea.

These were men whom at the assembly-hall
I took care never to offend.

But never did I expect any reward from them for all I did,
For my meed will come from God alone.

***

Not matter what plans a man may make,
The outcome will be decided not by him
But by the constraining forces of the times.

[juzme123]

Arrogance
by Maxamed Xaashi Dhamac 'Gaarriye'

Wandered brood of Adam,
lost, bewildered people,
hear what I have to say.

Stop for a moment before the mountains
and for the simple sake of awe
be humbled, let your tears fall.

Look to, look through the air above,
be moved by the sight of stars,
watch their bodies wheel.

Ask the thunder, see what lightning says,
the rain-bearing wind which blows
the good grey cloud, ask them.

The camel's old keen for her calf,
be hushed and hear it, hear how
the birds' song weeps with it: weep with them too.

How the sea sounds out its old chorus,
what moves in its abyssal womb:
acknowledge these and what they mean.

Examine the earth at your feet,
the rush of the rivers,
raise your eyes to the clouds.

Glimpse what lies above
the auroral mist, the winds,
understand what these things have to say.

The scent of wild acacia -
inhale it, relish it, and
delight in the green of pastures.

Count up the lineage of all life,
mark the endless days and days:
this worthless arrogance of yours,
you have to let it go.

All nebulae and galaxies,
the Camel of the Southern Cross,
our own burning sun, who said these
were lit for humankind?

Before a man was made in this world
didn't Virgo blaze above?
Aren't all those gatherings of stars
far older than us?
Since when was their high light
kindled only for you?

Exactly when do you think the heavens
were told to carry out the order
‘Confine yourselves to the human race'?
If you simply ceased to be
wouldn't their light continue?
Wouldn't it be then as it is now?

Wandered brood of Adam,
your bluster is a lie.
You shared this womb with all
wild things that roam,
all roots that flourish,
you entered this world together.

All creation is your cousin,
each creature your equal
and you share an ancestor:
all living things are to you
as stick is to bark, bark to stick.
You and they are like two eyes -
when one sheds tears
the other weeps.
They were not made for you alone,
nor were they created to serve.

Of everything which is, half is secret -
however things appear
the meaning is always deeper.

[juzme123]

She
by Maxamed Xaashi Dhamac 'Gaarriye'

Is she milk, is she more, is she buttermilk?
Is she bread, is she bread and milk, is she?
Would you say she's good luck? Would you say
She's a riddle, or maybe the answer?
Is she kindness or thought when it's solemn?
Is she thought, is she more - an idea?

Is she clouds that give rain, clouds that gather,
Clouds that bless, clouds that crowd, clouds that linger?
Would you say she's good luck, would you say
She's the pattern of stars struck at nightfall
When the day will bring cloudwrack and rainfall?

Would you say she's green growth in the rainfall?
Would you say she's the sun in the morning
That soaks up the dew, that disperses
The mist? Is she water that gathers
In pools after rain? Is she moonlight
Reflected in pools? Is she starlight
So bright when it floods with the moonlight
That you're blind to the land that you stand on?

Would you say she's green growth that the rainfall
Has washed and made sweet? Is she water
That lies on the land like a blessing?
Is she herself sweet, is she shapely?
Is her sweetness the perfume of water?

Is she beautiful, thoughtful and clever?
Does she live as she should? Does she honour
The qualities womanhood stands for?

You can see she's not weak and not foolish;
You can see she's not lazy and sluttish,
Not stubborn or sloppy or rowdy,
Neither a shrew nor a nag, she's
A woman who keeps a full larder,
A woman who'd greet you and feed you.

She's the lie of the stars that brings rainfall,
Not the set of the stars that brings drought to
The lie of the land that you stand on.

She's not fat, she's not thin, she is perfect.
She is modest - she dresses discreetly -
But it's clear that her body is perfect.

Oh, Cabdi, you see her as I do -
The way that she sways as she walks is
The reason I call her Catiya,
Catiya, whose walk is a rhythm
That chimes with my heart when I see her.

In the evening, she brushes her hair from
The crown to the tip and the breeze lifts
Each strand, so the eyes of the young men
Follow the stroke and the windblown
Hair as it catches the last of
The sun as it sets and makes firebrands,
Black but shot through with the sunset.

The colour of Catiya's skin is
The colour that all women envy.
Her eyes, soft and brown, are the eyes of
The desert gazelle, while her nose is
Perfectly straight and her gums are
Black, black as charcoal. Oh, Cabdi,
The white of her teeth and the down on
Her cheek! Can you see how her waistline
Is curved like a spear; can you see how
Her arms make an elegant shape in
The air as she moves, how her calves flex,
How her neck, with its dapple of amber,
Lightly creases: the neck of a Houri.

There is nothing to fault in this woman,
Not a flaw to be found in her beauty.
She is never impatient or angry;
She never complains. Could you weary
Of a woman like that? She could never
Lie or be troublesome. No one
Ever spoke ill of this women:
Her soft speech, her quick mind, her modest
Way in the world - this young woman
Whose future, I know, will be brighter
By far than the star of the evening.