Poem: Rising Son

This week’s poem was a collaborative effort between myself and a friend who wishes to remain anonymous; let’s call him Muhammad. The quote is from Eugene Debs, an influential American socialist.

Rising Son

Born from your love,

second to none.

A house untouched by hate, by anger,

a world none could disrupt.

But you didn’t  want me.

When the other parents asked “Is that your kid?”

you always confirmed.

Whether you liked it or not,

I was yours.

When I was shit at sports, and other parents cringed,

you too cringed and awkwardly smiled.

When the other kids yelled at me, and shouted “You suck!”

you just told me to look away, and we left.

When I tried to draw, and couldn’t do more than stick figures,

you seemed annoyed.

But you showed nothing, nothing but that look

of old disappointment on your graying face.

I could see it in your damned eyes; you didn’t want me.

So you gave up on me, didn’t believe in me,

couldn’t even see me.

So I promised to myself, swore on every inch of humanity I had

that I would prove you wrong.

I worked my hands to the bone,

my mind to dust.

All just so I could know

that you were wrong.

I made each grade seem easier

than the last.

Every test, every assignment, each piece of homework

was just paper to me.

And no matter how much you didn’t want me,

no matter how much you wanted not to care,

I was still your son.

Poem: Freezing Rain

This is the second poem for this week. For the first and info on this week’s quote, make sure to check out my poem, The Village.

Freezing Rain

We met at 12,

both in age and in time.

Seventh grade, science class,

period 6, just after lunch.

We were friends right away,

never a fight between us.

We enjoyed every day,

except riding that shitty bus.

You told me you had AIDS,

born with it, you said.

Took your mother’s life,

and your father, he just left.

I assured you it was fine,

that I’d never hate who you were.

You shook my hand, you said,

“It’s great to have a friend.”

Two years passed us,

flying right on by.

Each good day getting better,

each great day refusing to die.

But you got sicker,

“Just a small thing, no biggie,” you said.

The doctors disagreed,

but I trusted you over the eggheads.

But you got even worse,

stayed in that hospital for days.

I asked if you’d be okay to see the fireworks,

and you promised, “I’ll be out in a few days.”

But that longest day came,

and you got no better.

They called me to the hospital,

and told me, “Be ready.”

So I ran, through freezing rain and darkness,

to your little hospital room.

Barely alive, you grabbed my hand,

told me to listen closely.

And just before your last few moments,

reminded me who I was.

And you were gone.

Poem: The Village

I will be posting two poems tonight, this being the first one. It concerns the Syrian Civil War, and I hope you enjoy. This week’s quote comes from Noam Chomsky, a prolific American linguist and philosopher.

The Village

In a country called Syria,

            A country I called home,

We lived a quiet and peaceful life,

            On the east side of Aleppo.

My family, rooted here,

            Countless generations from past to present.

A world untouched by evil,

            An existence untouched by strife.

            And yet our world changed.

They started chanting, demanding in the street,

            “For freedom!” they shouted, and a man they intended to defeat.

Assad, the man in power, his family in control for years,

            Apparently the devil, one whom deserves no right to rule.

They say we must rebel, we must fight,

            Or we will never know a better life.

But could these men and these women

            Truly promise me a world with even less strife?

They told me I wasn't safe, that I've been hurt,

            But I've never been more secure.

They say there’s no democracy,

            But that’s not what they’re fighting for.

            And yet our world changed again.

The fighting erupted, the rockets and guns,

            No air safe to breath, no street safe to run.

The children, they cried, and the mothers, they screamed,

            Everything they've ever known being torn at the seams.

I never knew this kind of violence,

            And yet I thought I’d be okay.

But I awoke on a sweaty morning,

            Without my mother.

I decided to fight, to side with those who’d kept me safe,

            To fight for the “evil” regime, the ones who never wished to steal a life.

They were not like me, not in the slightest,

            They declared these rebels terrorist fools.

I never wanted to agree with them,

            I never intended to hurt a soul.

            And yet my world changed.

Official Transition: The Experiment

Greetings all!

My month-long hiatus now comes to a close this Labour Day. And now, in what may come as a shock to loyal readers, I will present a format change for my site for the future. From here on out, as part of an attempt to expand my own horizons and skills as a writer, I will be experimenting with publishing my poetry here. I've been writing poems for a fairly long time now, despite having only once or twice shown them to others.

I realize this means I won’t be churning out political essays and such with as much frequency as I normally do. I expect this to be a consequence of my choice, and as such, I will still be taking offers from friends or those ready and willing to contribute guest work if they so choose. Hopefully, this will help to fill the gap. I will also continue to write my own essays, but likely significantly less often, perhaps once a month or so.

To clarify exactly how this will work out, assume that I will write on average two poems a week for this site, if not more. I’m certain a fair portion will be political in nature, so as not to completely disappoint those who have always read my work for its messages. The following poem is the first of what I hope will be many works to come. This week’s quote comes from Mohammad Mosaddegh, an Iranian prime minister who deserves greater recognition nowadays than he gets.

Maybe

Maybe I could have been there,

            for each time I missed it I hurt.

Maybe I could have heard your voice,

            and been soothed into a bittersweet surrender.

Maybe I could have known you better,

            and known a world through your eyes.

Maybe I could have reached over to you,

            and brushed my hand against what was not there, not for me.

            But I never did.

Maybe I could have seen what I was missing,

            but I was blinded by what came before.

Maybe I could have realized it sooner,

            but we were too far apart for me to hear you cry.

Maybe I could have been better for you,

            but the taste of failure drove me away.

Maybe I could have had you,

            but you could not have me.

            And I always loved you.