my house is built on two pillars painted in grey and dented on the sides for frames to capture the good lost eaves the other two are hidden behind walls of affection and blood. My house has many windows, open to the sun wide and breezy at night. Flanked by trees, secure it tight abundant… Continue reading Ode to my home
Author: aicha bint yusif
Writing is my key to free spaces. I write to let things out and to chronicle some, and you're more than welcome to read them.
Write!
Ode to Fairuz
The morning star and the evening moon You, whose voice soothes the heart and born anew Wise words light the way and accompany the uncertain steps. We rarely see you, but to hear you is all we need. You, Fairuz, We thank you.
day vii: hope
who would have known that we’ll be here? sun has risen but we’re not warm stars shine but we’re blind and the tress rustle with the wind. I waited for you on a November evening clad in hope and love I fired the hearth and lit up a candle paved the parlor with roses… Continue reading day vii: hope
day vi: Anna Akhmatova
today I am in disguise. I don’t claim these words as mine, but rather im in aw reading them so m gonna share them “I’ve written down the words That I’ve not dared to speak. My body’s strangely dumb. Dully my head beats. The horn cries have died. The heart’s still confused. On the croquet… Continue reading day vi: Anna Akhmatova
Day v: On the Renovation of Occupation
Nearing Kalandia’s checkpoint, the wall accompanies our bus ride. Sitting next to the window seat, and neck craned upwards, aiming for a clear October sky, but failing to see the clouds for the wall is high. The famous checkpoint, known as the site for many confrontations, deaths, traffic jams, anger frenzies, and births too (not… Continue reading Day v: On the Renovation of Occupation
day iv: what can it be?
Today I took the bus home instead of walking. The bus ride didn’t last that long, so much so, that I did not press the stop button on time, and I missed my station. Instead, I had to climb up the street to get home. Now on my ascend up the steep asphalt, I ruminated… Continue reading day iv: what can it be?
day iii: philosophy of laziness
I should have wrote something yesterday but i was tired. I failed.
day ii: the semantics of hesitation
the words have rebelled and took matters into their hands. They write themselves, arrange each word: each has the sacred role divined by God. The syzygy of moon and sun: of friend and friend, of coffee and tea, weed and cigarette, of writing and entertaining a conversation. But it is okay; I will do both:… Continue reading day ii: the semantics of hesitation
chronicle of writing: day i
Beauty the fingers curl around chin, the left hand leans softly, and the gaze persists. The furrows in his face are old, but his eyes are young. the pupils, shaded from light, grow dark. Hair, white as blank sheets, recede towards the end. His tie screams: “WRITE! everyday! write everyday; it does not matter about… Continue reading chronicle of writing: day i
AICHA BINT YUSIF 