the fly in the kitchen

There are dishes in both sinks, and a fly
glides languidly through the kitchen air
In multidimensional sweeping curves
glorious to graph on every plane

a casual audacious promenade
incriminating the state of my affairs

love, though perturbed, kept silent for the peace
sliding me through on sympathy
not knowing how to coast on this affection
confusedly I idled, then careened
in self-expanding potholes
my dazed tires spin

stalling myself by discovering
excuses with elaborate taxonomies
distancing them from a feared common node -
a soul undisciplined

so watch me with your thousand-shards of eye
as you land, dexterous horizontal, at the window
like a shuttle on Mars, to survey
an undisputed territory you claim -
to challenge my response at your reign

and will I say again I'll deal with you in time
or make no answer, mute my mind, and drive

just the trains

So you're taking a plane, summer vacation
Have a safe trip, and I'll see you soon
And it's no big deal but it's just like me
to feel something like crying coming on;
I guess I'm just drained from losing my friends
even if I know you'll be back again
I'm so grateful; but it won't be the same

when you come back, you'll take a new turn
when you come back, I'll walk a new road

I'm just getting round to discovering
the full extent of my absurdities
and I'm scared I can't change enough in time
to face the changes toppling on my life
all I've got is earnestness
but after never, there is less
so I'm trying, and I won't be the same

I'm sorry I have to be so strange
if my mind's clattering, it's just the trains.



--

a quiet acquaintance

for B.W, former classmate

I stumbled on something you wrote
the other day and was surprised and glad
glad of the path you seemed to have taken
glad of the change that came by your token
glad that you were the same

as I remembered

you, soft spoken, wary of breaking
a confidence, wary of shaking a word
and rather than hurting a conscience
you spent your waking conscious
like a concerned hummingbird over blooms

there were heaping spoonfuls of creativity
in your camomile attitude
with such contradiction in an aura
you truly never ceased to amaze me
so I can use that clichéd line without flinching;

like the time you delayed handing in your writing
at the end of the writer's course, for marking
delayed, as in, indefinitely.
were you frightened of judgement?
did you discount yourself, or were you lazy?
I really don`t know; you weren't there to clarify.

or the time you had that performance in the play
really it couldn't have been anyone but you
but then, to the cornered eye, it couldn't -
you didn't seem the sort when you receded.

you won't remember me; I don't mind.
I consciously tried not to talk to you much
we don't need to strike up a camaraderie
you know I won't do it out of modesty
I know you won't do it out of respect

suffice it to say I honestly liked you -
you're a deeply swell sort, so may God guide you;
I think you have the spirit of a tree
waiting to burst into Spring.


--

the plaque

so we really teared up when they gave you the plaque
wait - we clapped first, hard-hitting hands
our cacophony sounding loud our support for you
and dissonant protest at your imposed leaving.
then, like a loose-hinged door swinging back
it hit us, then, what it really meant:
that engraved steel sheet was a certain cold finality
so our eyes, confused at the situation
dipped into wells of memory
and filled with enough to weigh down our hearts
as we came to you with inadequate arms
you wore your quiet serenity around you
and our fingers burned for having made a sound



---

to a Bahamian friend

Hey girl
I love you man
how can I say this?
Look, if you were drowning
in the middle of the Atlantic
and I tried to swim and carry you back
I'd stay and hold your head above the water
if I got cramp, and could barely hold mine



---

publish my Java

Were you there, you know, when I was thinking about myself?
No, you weren’t, you were at work, and I took a day off because of
conjunctivitis, I said, but mostly anxiety.
If only we could make a living out of being there,
if only we could just pour the thoughts out in a paper cup.
My mind is well insulated, I tell you,
my thoughts'd make good hot coffee,
good enough for Starbucks at least. But, the question is,
would you buy it?


--

My neighbour's baby

My neighbour’s toddler pottering across the floor mat.
Planting plump fingers in my DVD speakers and
Perfectly contented with just pressing buttons
She babbles as the audio comes on
And fast-forwards it.
Hang it, oh, you’re just too cute.

Bending down delicately to pick up her di-di
(pacifier, hardy and loyal)
She pokes her finger into the cheerios holes before eating
Then pulls out tissues from the box and flops down
Cleaning the floor for me.
Smart girl, mashaAllah

I go off into my dresser to find
A string of plastic hearts for her to play with
She puts it on and off, on and off, smiling
Me exclaiming loudly at how she knows it’s a necklace
She handing it back unprompted with sweet understanding
when her mom calls her from the door

I ache for a kiss before she leaves
And my heart butterflies at such responsiveness
In fact, she gives me two.

It’s easier in film or books to match the insides
If I were a character I’d have a lit cigarette, pasted eyes
And give myself a name like Inconsequentia
It would make it easier for that moment
to be understood.




----

I bought a bag

I bought a bag because you talked of bags
recommended bags, thought you liked bags
So I bought one just like you said
Brown, not red

But now how can I show you my brand new bag
So you’d know that I still consider your opinions
And what am I going to do with a bag I have
filled with nothing but you?



----

[µstory] Excerpt from "King of sand and sun"

Amr watched in awe as Sadiq tore off. He climbed the heap like a long-legged spider: back up, all four limbs skimming the surface. As he scuttled up, sand dribbled down from the quick movement of his feet and palms. Towards the end where the pile rose to a steep wall he slowed slightly but carried on, a walking monkey, butt in the air, slightly off balance. In a few seconds was at the top of the heap. He turned around to proudly survey his kingdom: looking down at the pit below and the vast expanse of sand and parked cars around him. Over by his apartment, he could see the plain-clad, barefoot construction workers chipping away at stone, balancing precariously on the unfinished scaffolded sides of the new building. Satisfied, he finally flopped down on his sand throne, calling Amr to come up.

--

Excerpt from "King of sand and sun", a short story

too late

for the record
I hate myself
for being tardy
and dilatory
for making you wait
for making you late

for ruining occasions
and plans
even getting
your pay docked

I've tried
ad nauseum
to kill this
Achilles heel
that overshadows any of my
feeble goodness

makes me deeply inconsiderate
makes me out to be a person
who isn't concerned

how it isn't true
but actions speak louder
I feel like scum yet
I must still be selfish

and I care deeply
(but it looks like I don't)
and I ache inside
(though it seems nonchalance)
and breathless come finally and say
"I'm sorry"
again
again
again

and rupture inside
when the day comes
and I hear it


"no

you're not."


---

Wide Web

so I'm a browser now and I've drifted again
back to your words on a luminescent page

this is unfair that your writing again snags me
I hate how you can fill a page with your brilliance
electric eel. how your clauses glide;

professional
and yet get away with conversational
I frown at your swearing, but slide into your wit

skimming on trying to find ways to dismiss this
but there is actual insight in your arguments
sharp current info. well-researched analyses
worse even - all I would be interested in
I'd have bookmarked regardless of sentiment

there's a lot I could be doing right now.
chores. work. sleep (you nocturnal usurper)
this is flash blindness by blog

even so I stop my erratic wings
float myself down in your net of words



--

[pathopoetry] the stream diverges

where am I going, the stream diverges
deep intuition appearing always
counterintuitive at the surface:
and choosing to live for something greater
it seems that I'll always be jumping 'gainst the current;
shake your head, but I'm not doing it to die

you think I'm a product of unfortunate conditioning
impulsed by instincts to drown every logic
you think I'm rebelling, but I'm just trying to do
the truest thing, which you can't see justly
because you expect it to flow with your current
life and the logic made to support it

so what's the line you have to draw against belief
to be relieved of a struggle that's draining
justify going downstream from truth
we'll never agree
it's a matter of faith


--

3d Viral Replication cycle...

So today's the 3d-year anniversary of Stylus Virus. Currently, my life has had a blip of Crisis (hence the morose last three poems), but while I try to sort that out, I've had a chance to reflect a little. Not much has changed in my literary endeavours - I still want to get published, and am trying hard to ignore the doubts that it will ever happen. I have been away from serious Science for 2 years, and am suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms, and sudden flashes of panic that I've forgotten so much, and will forget nearly everything soon. So, I really hope to get back into the thick of scientific things soon. If you are a wealthy blog-crawler and you're reading this, please buy me a subscription to the Faculty of 1000 (if you are my sister, DON'T! I know you <3 me but save me the money instead) :)

So, in accordance with tradition, Stylus Virus is opening up comments for the only time this year. Please do comment because I really look forward to reading them. Remember that while Stylus Virus has seemed sombre lately, that this isn't the blog's premise at all. So, do you have anything to say about anything you've read here?

For the occassion, I will list some my favourite poems and posts of the site. Thank you for reading,

- 'shajara', the pathopoet.

Some of my favourite poems

Two Names

Song of the Platonic Sweetheart

The Paper

Grocery Vanities

I miss my sis

Some of my favourite articles

Though this won't help you, Gaza

Cry out for Qana

Some of my favourite stories and story excerpts

What to be(I still haven't written this story, but really want to. I have been turning over the idea again. The names have changed, but I hope to put something new up soon!)

How Cahn You See?

Some of my favourite writing snippets

A bout of writing at 11.05

[pathopoetry] fallen cup

I pick up the pieces
put down a dustpan
sweep up the shards

keep an eye out for the tiny remnants
sharp little crumbs lie a mile away
don't put a foot down without a slipper in it
I have been cut by invisible slivers
before

it's a fallen cup but there's so much that's broken
only spilt milk but I'm crying all the same


---

[pathopoetry] After being crushed

After being crushed
I dissect my own reverie
slouched forward at the keyboard
drinking green tea with honey
there is much wry philosophy
from such self-disintegration
painfully surrounded by
ironic mediocrity

[pathopoetry] a gloom made agreeable

I have the urge to re-hash old poems
that speak of such quiet moroseness
as has returned to me

with due reason
in all seriousness
and absurdity

this calm thoughtful melancholy
tempered by sense; my covered gloom.

wise to the uselessness of indulgence
of such a humour, I dampen the response

I would have wallowed
if logic didn't sneer

there's something comforting though
in the allowance of some benevolent commiseration
towards myself
for such serene despondence

to search for a hyperbolic verse
that will amuse
and console.


--

[pathopoetry] When a good friend stays over

when good friends stay over
I don't mind them seeing
the clothes in the bedroom
the dishes in the sink
but I try to be neater
and make sure
the bathroom is cleaner

and I throw on a well-loved worn-out T
but I'll make a real meal
and a good cup of tea
and remember the coasters
while we sprawl on the sofas

and when the alarm rings in the morning
I get up right then and am quicker in the shower
we'll make breakfast and have enough time to eat it
if I make sandwiches I'm generous with the Nutella

because when I have a good friend stay over
I can just be myself
and maybe even better


---

[pathopoetry] growing ourselves

you and I
we will be superfluous together
we will link hands, gaze solemnly at our wilting
nod heads, hold tight, lower our eyes

and where we feel empty
we will overfill each other
where the hollowness lies we will pile the russet earth
we will make warm mounds
over recesses we've carved
from our self-effacing blame

dry roots gently pulled

plant me
I'll plant you
with something to lean to
we'll grow



--

Whoa, jumping characin - Copella is revisited!

Those who've followed this blog since it's conception might remember my philosophical-phylogenetic musings on Copella arnoldi, the jumping spawners (complete with hand-drawn illustrations!) If you've missed that article, you might want to read it - frankly because I marvel at how much time I must have spent on it! ;)

In any case, finally you can see the actual footage that inspired me to write that treatise! So I guess interested readers of the original post can now just skip the explanation part altogether and move on to the musings.

The snippet is from a documentary entitled Equator: Rivers of The Sun. Do watch, it's amazing.

[µstory] The ants, I admire from afar

"....I get a rash on my hand that feels like fire. I blame the henna and am angry, but then get rashes all over my body and am in too much pain and burning itchy discomfort to be properly angry. I tell my then-med-student (now doctor) sister, who says, "Hives." What are those? I become acquainted with them well. I then remember being bitten by Something on that very same hand recently when picking up a cousin from a tropical farm house. I file this away mentally, sleuthing through the facts to pinpoint what on earth could have made me so miserable."

View/Download "The ants, I admire from afar"