A hushed night. Soft and still.
I see threads. Threads. There are threads. Laced like webs.
Twined around my fingers, my toes, the vessels within my heart.
Stretching out piercing through particles and atoms.
Crisscrossing through time. Interlocking and tangling.
Knotting with other threads. Weaving and weaving.
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Watch these four awesome young women demolish female stereotypes, particularly those associated with Halloween.
This video is from round four of the Brave New Voices Grand Slam Finals 2013 in Washington, D.C. The four incredibly talented poets, from left to right, are: Hannah Halpern (@hanhalp), Amina Iro (@FlipsHijab), Reina Privado (@PoetryAndCurls), and Asha Gardner (@AshaGPoet) and they are a part of the DC Youth Slam Team. You can go and “like” DC Youth Slam Team on Facebook here if ya fancy it, too. Go and tell them how awesome they are on Twitter!
Read poet, med student and Love InshAllah contributor Suzanne Syeda Shah’s poem on love, estrangement and new beginnings
Letter to My Mother
to the house
at the corner I grew up in
weeds too high to mow
down next to the papaya tree waits
abbu’s gray toyota pickup
he’s dead for eight
years i wanted to step
through the front door
right foot first always you taught me
the way of the Prophet.
Read the rest of the poem at the International Museum of Women’s exhibit Muslima.
This is for the kids who die,
Black and white,
For kids will die certainly.
The old and rich will live on awhile,
Eating blood and gold,
Letting kids die.
Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi
Kids will die in the streets of Chicago
Kids will die in the orange groves of California
Telling others to get together
Whites and Filipinos,
Negroes and Mexicans,
All kinds of kids will die
Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment
And a lousy peace.
Of course, the wise and the learned
Who pen editorials in the papers,
And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names
White and black,
Who make surveys and write books
Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,
And the sleazy courts,
And the bribe-reaching police,
And the blood-loving generals,
And the money-loving preachers
Will all raise their hands against the kids who die,
Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets
To frighten the people—
For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—
And the old and rich don’t want the people
To taste the iron of the kids who die,
Don’t want the people to get wise to their own power,
To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together
Listen, kids who die—
Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you
Except in our hearts
Maybe your bodies’ll be lost in a swamp
Or a prison grave, or the potter’s field,
Or the rivers where you’re drowned like Leibknecht
But the day will come—
You are sure yourselves that it is coming—
When the marching feet of the masses
Will raise for you a living monument of love,
And joy, and laughter,
And black hands and white hands clasped as one,
And a song that reaches the sky—
The song of the life triumphant
Through the kids who die.
In Memoriam Trayvon Martin, RIP
burn this letter
history tells us
what is written
one flick of your lighter
two, science, and
three: the flame
it’s not so cruel
love, see how the ink
is cradled in the paper
its body lengthening
in rhythm disappearing
in time, logic stands
to prove art
has nothing to lose
the words themselves
will live god knows
like metal flowers
against the last horizon
Abeer Hoque is a Nigerian-born, Bangladeshi-American writer and photographer. She has held two solo photography exhibitions and is currently working on a novel and a new collection of travel-themed erotic stories. “The Long Way Home” is her book of travel photographs and poems. You can read the introduction, here. See more at her site, olivewitch.com, and email her at email@example.com for information on how to order the book.