Photo credit: Sydney Sims
By Elia Daaboul
As he sips on his ice cold coffee
swallowing her poison
as bitter as the memory he kept away from his pen,
he remembers how she sat in front of him.
Her eyes spoke of happiness,
her lips of love.
Her hands trying to find their way to his face
while he kept talking about how beautiful her hair was.
She kisses him.
The same way she kisses her cigarette,
the same way her soul kisses life, she kissed him.
Reflecting on this memory,
fading deeper in his irony,
He can write again
but it hurts.
He can love again
but it burns.
Second cup of coffee,
the place feels empty.
Only torn pictures and distant laughs
with his words on the paper and smoke in his mouth
trying to decide, should he continue the story or end it like every time
with his muse dead and a pencil through his head.
He can’t kill her because killing her is like making love to a sad song.
Climaxing with every note until you reach the last chorus
knowing that the song will be written again, but never with the same pen.
So he keeps on writing,
not about how her eyes brighten up like night stars after a rainy day,
nor how symphonies blossom in his ears with every smile she makes.
He writes about how empty the place feels without her.
How his coffee, made the same way, doesn’t taste like it used to.
His tears an ode to what could’ve been a love poem
sacrificed for a lie never spoken
for a moment that was broken while watching her walk away
leaving the car door open.
Over a cup of coffee the story ended
with brick walls screaming silently
and chairs standing vacantly.
A floor full of unwritten thoughts
torn papers engraved in thorns
reminding him of the day when she sat in front of him
sipping on an ice cold coffee.
Photo credit: Odette Scapin
I write to enlight
myself to survive
the path I chose
to have in life
so I scream
who could hear?
to the kid who
at the break
that are made
his soul and craved
in an art form
so he could have a home
to bear the storm
coming to reform
of his instincts
so he keeps distant
trying to keep a link with the
and it works
the layers of the skin
that makes my head spin
every time I remember where I have been
Photo credit: Hakim El Haj
that’s just the way
words worked –
They aligned themselves
in perfect symmetry
and exposed all the fears
of the human race:
The things we whisper
while we lie awake
late at night
The things we don’t dare think of
and relegate to the farthest recesses
of our minds
The things we do to each other
Photo credit: Rene Bohmer
Inside there’s quietude
An uninterrupted hush
Outside there’s a bustle
Everyone’s in a rush
Deafening car horns, chaos
Construction cranes, drills
Inside, thoughts on mute
A numbness and a chill
Overwhelm my senses
Eyes gazing into open space
And a sudden warm blanket
Spreads across my face
Tears, pouring without sound
Slipping through my fingers
Splatter on the ground
Outside, the chaos resumes
People walk by indifferently
No one looks up to my window
I watch but they don’t watch me
Only the sky joins in my sorrow
The clouds gather like sheep
Summoned by the shepherd
Then they begin to weep
I thank the sky for its sympathy
Nature is far kinder than Man
Inside, life ceases for moments
Everything turns pitch black
Outside, life moves forward
Like a train on an endless track
Outside, umbrellas and puddles
Little children chased by rain
Inside, a dull uninvited headache
Hammers at my brain
For the first time ever
The rain can’t make me smile
This untimely change of weather
Mimics the fickleness inside
Outside, the first rainfall
Inside, the last chapter ends
Outside, a new season
Nature is a mistress of pretense
Inside, we’re still very broken
But move on like we’re just bent
Thank you to every writer for the thought infusing poems contributed and
thank you to every passerby for reading the art of our talented poets.
If you would like to have your poem or image published for the next
Beirut Poetics edition
send your poem or request to be a “visual artist” to firstname.lastname@example.org
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