Poetry ♥

رثاء لكل فقيد في حياتي بشكل عام، ولقطتي الحبيبة بشكل خاص. بطاطا وتيتة، لعل الربيع يحل يوماً وأصحبكما..
رثاء ليها .. لبطاطا .. لفقدها .. لحبيبتي
رثاء ليهم .. لكل احساس وحش من غيرهم .. لحبايبي
...........................................................
Emel Mathlouthi- Fi kolli yowmen
from " The Tunis Diaries " 


الكلمات:
في كل يوم يهجر الربيع قلبا
و يموت طير في ربا السما
في كل يوم تخطف الحياة منا أملا جديدا 
و نبكي الفرح 
و نبكي الفرح
في كل يوم،في كل يوم
في كل يوم يدفن العباد فكرة
و تغيب روح في كهف الحياة
في كهف الحياة
في كل يوم، في كل يوم
هذا واقع العيش
هذا واقع العيش
فلماذا نسير
فلماذا نسير
أليس المر محتوما
أليس المر محتوما علينا
في كل يوم تكشف الحياة سرا
و تهدينا نورا يخرق الغيوم 
يخرق الغيوم
في كل يوم، في كل يوم
تشرق شمس
شمسٌ

آمال مثلوثي | في كل يوم

ينابيع الطفولة -اوبريت ثورة ولا انقلاب - البرنامج

ظهرت موجة النسوية الاشتراكية خلال الستينيات والسعبينيات، وعلى غرار كل الحركات السياسية والاجتماعية، واجهت فترات فتور وحظيت بفترات أخرى من الانتشار والقوة. نناقش اليوم النسوية الاشتراكية ضمن سياقها في منطقتنا، وجهود النساء، خصوصًا بعد ثورات الربيع العربي، لإدماج النظرية الاقتصادية والسياسية ضمن الصراع النسوي للتحرر من اضطهاد الرأسمالية والذكورية معًا.

في بودكاست «مساحة»، نحاور مجموعة من نساء البلدان العربية والمنطقة، لنناقش من منظور نسوي، التحديات والاستراتيجيات والحلول للمشاكل الاقتصادية والاجتماعية والسياسية، التي نواجهها اليوم.

ضيفات الحلقة هن شمس رضواني عابدي من تونس، وسارة قدّورة من لبنان، وهديل بدارنة من الولايات المتحدة الأميركية. هذه الحلقة من إعداد وكتابة رواند عيسى، مونتاج محمود أبو ندى ويزن قواس، تحرير عمر فارس. 

أغنية البودكاست: مساحة، غناء تريز سليمان، كلمات علاء أبو دياب، ألحان وتوزيع فرج سليمان، مشروع "شغل فرج وعلاء".

أُنتج هذا البودكاست من قِبل صوت بالشراكة مع مؤسسة فريدريش إيبرت، كجزء من مشروع «النسوية السياسيّة» الإقليمي. الآراء المطروحة في هذا البودكاست لا تعبّر بالضرورة عن آراء المؤسسة.

النسوية الاشتراكية

كنت حزين وحزني قلب بعظمة.

عاشق سارح فى الملكوت - ( COVER )

“If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.” 
― Sarah Kay

Sarah Kay- If I Should Have A Daughter

السؤال المشحون [الحلقة الخامسة]

الكتابة في مواجهة الآخر

مقال مينا ناجي

قراءة صوتية: أحمد جلال

لقراءة النص على موقعنا:

https://boringbooks.net/2019/02/writing-vs-other.html

الكتابة في مواجهة الأخر

I knew exactly what love looked like – in seventh grade

Even though I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom, I would’ve recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace. 
I would’ve recognized her at first glance, love wore a tight french braid. 
Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatles songs.
Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me. 
And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms, just must be checking the wrong hallways, she was there, I was sure of it. 
If only I could find him.

But when love finally showed up, she had a bow cut. 
He wore the same clothes every day for a week.
Love hated the bus. 
Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles. 
Instead, every time I try to kiss love, our teeth got in the way.
Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to- Ben’s house. 
Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song. 
Love waited by the phone because she knew if her father picked up it would be: “Hello? Hello? I guess they hung up.”

And love grew, stretched like a trampoline. 
Love changed. Love disappeared, 
Slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed. 
Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could see the trapdoor but me. 
Like a flat tire, there were other places I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter. 
Love stayed away for years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him. 
Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back, love came with freckles I didn’t recognize. 
New birthmarks, a softer voice. 
Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books. 
Love had songs that reminded him of someone else, songs love didn’t like to listen to. So did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly
We found jokes that make us laugh. 
And now, love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. 
But love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack. 
Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer. 
Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator. 
Love knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than she planned. 
Love is messier now, not as simple. 
Love uses the words “boobs” in front of my parents. 
Love chews too loud. 
Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste. 
Love uses smiley faces in her text messages. 
And turns out, love shits!

But love also cries. 
And love will tell you you are beautiful and mean it, over and over again. “You are beautiful.”
When you first wake up, “you are beautiful.” 
When you’ve just been crying, “you are beautiful.” 
When you don’t want to hear it, “you are beautiful.” 
When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.” 
When nobody else will tell you, “you are beautiful.” 
Love still thinks you are beautiful. 
But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you need to hear it most, you are beautiful, do not forget this.

Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict. 
Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep;
You are in California, Australia, wide awake. 
Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone.
Maybe love is not ready for you. 
Maybe you are not ready for love. 
Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type. 
Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered. 
Maybe love is only there for a month. 
Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit. 
Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t. 
Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to, 
And love leaves exactly when love must. 
When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”
If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her. 
Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper, 
“Thank you for stopping by.”


Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye -When Love Arrives (Poetry)

Repetition || Phil Kaye

Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye - An Origin Story

Hello-Adele (VIOLIN COVER) by Jeffrey Ding He

دفتر أسامى الهاموش -- ليل وعين باند

Sarah Kay is a 23-year-old spoken word poet who has become a role model and teacher to teenagers around the world. Kay Performs "Hiroshima" on Nantucket.

"Hiroshima" by Sarah Kay

Lucia Micarelli - Aurora Kashmir

Elias el rahbani - Beloved -

Lakas trip,

vibrating the air waves

with captured recorded moments. 


i did act with Tom Hanks and Johnny Depp , i am an Oscar winner and a musician too. in a parallel universe ...but sadly i am an engineer 

Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye -When Love Arrives (Poetry)

Rima

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