Green?

Water coolers algae green absent green ugly blue hair dye green resting bite mark green the green they never sing about beautifully fifteen year old couches green the green of veins on ruined hands the sedated plants type of green the death type of green the stench type of green the empty eyes type of green the green air sleep green shock green dusty throat green turned in lips green repelled green slammed door soaked walls floating paint peels green

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The Heartland Review Spring 2018

Hi Hey Hello I get tired of formalities. Can I just start a sentence with can I and not include the correct punctuation. There it is, no question mark. And no one to interrupt my typing to give me an answer or tell me that I’ve just begun a sentence with ‘and’.

So, new publication!! As I’ve previously I mentioned I had entered my poem, Hob Wa Harb into the 2018 Joy Bale Boone Poetry Prize, resulting in me being a finalist. I was unable to travel to Kentucky in order to perform a reading of my poem and so it was read by one of the organizers of the event.

The Heartland Review’s spring 2018 issue in which my poem appears has been finalised and is available for purchase as of yesterday.

 

Capturee

https://www.theheartlandreview.com/titles

Lane Cove Literary Awards 2017 An Anthology

Lane Cove Literary Awards 2017 An Anthology has been published and made available to the public as of the 19th of April. Unfortunately I was unable to travel to Lane Cove, NSW in order to attend the book launch but I did receive a surprise in the mail! On Wednesday I received the Anthology in which my memoir, Syria, No Not That Syria, was published. I have previously posted the prize winning memoir on my blog, read here.

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I’m so grateful to be a part of such an incredible Literary Award and to have been involved with the wonderful Lane Cove Community.

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The Heartland Review Press

It’s another day, a consecutive day, and I’m writing a blog post.

Three months and sixteen days ago I came across the Heartland Review – 2018 Joy Bale Boone Poetry Prize, and naturally I submitted a piece. The prizes offered were $350 for First Place, $100 for Second Place and $75 for Third Place. All finalists were to be published in THR’s spring 2018 issue and invited to a special reading at Elizabethtown Community & Technical College (Kentucky) in honor of poetry month. To enter the contest, participants were to mail a $3 donation by check or money order (PayPal was an option) to The Heartland Review. The donations were to go to funding the contest, creation of the journal, and scholarships for creative writing students.

At this point I have no expectations when it comes to writing competition results or Continue reading “The Heartland Review Press”

Did you hear that?

Some poems spit ashy flames on screens we still pretend are paper –  and tame them within one line and sometimes the words that seem to tame are the ones with blistered tongues. It’s all words but in poems they’re thrown off our shoulders in relief only for us to stare at them in fear. Escaping truth is writing anything else, non-fiction is also anything else – it dulls out truths into details and descriptions for everyone to understand  and dissociate with. It allows the writer to tuck away truths.

I came here wanting to write because something hurts and when I get close to pinpointing what that something is, everything starts to hurt. My infidelity is ongoing, from diary to next and I can’t seem to commit to an incessant outpour of words. I assume blog posting won’t see devotion from me either but for now 1 am will have me tapping away at keys almost lullingly. The air conditioner hums and humidity from my open window challenges the artificial air. They both settle on my skin uncomfortably.

I think of marriage. Well I used to think of marriage and now I am married and don’t think about it at all. It is much like being young and thinking about becoming an adult and once you do become an adult you forget that you are or you just don’t feel like an adult at all. I know I think of who I’m married to, that would be an ongoing thought, an incessant inpour of thoughts to what I do commit to. Far far far away. I talk about 7500 miles like it’s just that a distance, one number associated with one thing. 7500 miles, over my quarter of a decade that I have mostly been alive, has meant many things to me. Right now it means who I’m married to. I’m married to the distance, to static lines, to codes that run through networks and decode themselves onto our indulgent screens.

I’m also married to a man, a beautiful man. A 7500 mile away man. The last time a cracked screen rattled and brought to life a beautiful face, our hearts they hurt and our eyes they blurred and my phone buried itself into ocean blue sheets. The 7500 miles they drowned us a little.

Large soy flat white with an extra shot I’ve talked about before. More commitment from me but I had been away, 7500 miles away. When I returned and the distance mattered once more so did my coffee. I shared my being married and my sweetened my tongue with the beautiful man before sipping bitter. But I felt the bitter before I tasted it. Import.  The words that came before or after fell away and I felt defensive. I am defensive but import? My beautiful man?

Mashqooq

Where the dusty grey overwhelms its presence enough to respect the horizon to birth mountains amongst flesh the taste of spice and floss that finds its way inside us and refuses to quench the ground so I find my ground inside you and you find my lips to share the ocean inside me.