Dear me! What things I write. I found this poem while going through (and destroying) my old diary from 2001. I was in therapy for my Child Sexual Abuse experiences at that time, but in the middle of all the angst and raging and desperate scrawls about flashbacks, I guess I kept going, and managed to write something as ridiculous as this! I love it.
I think there may be poetry in
everything I sense.
Poetry that's more than words,
in each experience.
Could there be a poem, right here
on my plate?
Did I swallow a sonnet with
the last mouthful I ate?
"Bright geen pearls of boil-ed pea,
scattered in my rice,
Sunset hues of curl-ed prawn
that look and taste so nice"
No, this meal is a poem I do not see,
the poetry lies in its taste.
And the only part that's visible
is on my unpoetic waist.
- written on 16/8/01 at 2:10 pm
P.S. The meal in question was a Thursday lunch at my favourite Lebanese restaurant in Bahrain, Tarbouche.