THE CROW

 

The way The Crow lays his dark wing
On my sun-burned weary shoulder
Reminds me of me,
Once younger
And stronger;
Boastful in summer
Arrogant in spring
Playing the heart’s selfish string.

And the way he caresses my hair
With his black-painted thick plumes
Seems to act like some devilish brooms
With a swish,
Emerging from nowhere,
Cleaning my way up to the invisible Dome of Air.

His yellowish bill generates a sound
Spinning my head around,
Making me lose contact with the ground.

Rochdi bouillé
Summer, 1995

THE CHEW

I am a herbivore chewing day and night

I chew in the morning, when the leaves’ got dew

I chew in the evening, to  rumour,  gossip and backbite.

What’s in a chew?

A new chew makes my night bright.

Gives me might when nothing good is in sight

I love how it eats my teeth

To cripple then kill

Colourises them: black, brown, green- a rainbow never seen

Murders  them one by one...till there’s none.

The chew’s a brew

 Breeds false hopes

Dreams real as a hairpiece.

The chew’s a silent suicide

A death coming in bits and shreds

Makes child of the adult- who

Cries in its absentia

Makes child of the adult-who

Sighs by seeing it.

     © ABDULGHANI SHEIKH HASSAN

THE MILK

        

 

My food tastes a wild leaf,

Water like its muddy,

Every time I remember

The milk in the Girra.

The milk in the Girra,

Sweeter

than honey

that can’t be given for money!

Its top layer a butter

You’ll love to lick

Even when in your ear

A spear!

The  Girra, in it’s Saab

Now a picture in my heart.

Mummy’s wood beneath it.

She  rolled and rolled it,

While singing her beautiful melody:

Hiyey hoobo hooboy hiyey hoobo

Aan waaleyno wiiloy aan waaleyno

Wiilba raace Xayley wilba raace

Xalaaley Xayley xalaaley

Waan jeclade caanaha waan jeclaade

The milk in the girra

Eventually in two layers

the top for my ear

and the other my stomach

© ABDULGHANI SHEIKH HASSAN

December, 2011

Songs of a teacher

                                                              

I  talk and chalk,

Chalk, what I explain;

Explain from what you know

To that you don’t know.

The trend is the same:

Making notes, marking books.

Like managers, I studied

And have never failed my papers.

But I work...

Work a labourer

By making notes, marking books.

Like a soldier I rise early

Winding up the syllabus or as a master on duty,

Before facing the trend

Of making notes, marking books

Doctors, nurses at the hospital

Ambassadors, ministers at the capital

Meteorologists-who tell us when to expect rainfall

I taught them all.

My wage still so small

Yet the load is the same still:

Making notes, marking books.

‘Love what you do’

Many say.

‘Do what you love’

I pray.

I mark books and make notes- I love.

But the pay!

© ABDULGHANI SHEIKH HASSAN

THE FLOOD

-Only the pious ones remember

That Allah is thanked in difficulty or simplicity-

The clouds gather, the sun is under cover

The lightening blinks to blind

Thunder  coughs to caution.

And the drought cries away.

‘Rain! Rain’   sing the children

Unaware of their mothers’ joy.

‘Rain Rain’ they dance

As if it has become their  toy.

R

           A

                  I

                        N

The innocent ceremony is short-lived.

There are rivers without banks

 The tide is wavy –curly.

‘Water! Water’    they cry

Their mothers try; the lucky ones die.

F 

       L 

                    O

                                     O

                  D

The fathers fly in and out of the houses,

Packing items to save;

Yet packing to eventually give.

Fear falls on all

Floods frying and prying.

Nostalgia settles on the entire land;

Oh sweet drrrrrought!

© ABDULGHANI SHEIKH HASSAN