We will sing and dance in the dark times
with sore throats and disinfected hands.
Held my books too tight, I squeezed the words out.
And as I stare at blank pages, I remember all the images of you;
sometimes I burn my fingertips just to trace your silhouette in ashes,
other times I let you go.
We will shake and quiver in the dark times
we will hold hands, and cut arms
hold, hands and cut arms
hold hands and cut arms, till one of us is running out of luck,
or running out of love,
or running out of faith.
we will be free in the dark times
we will be captives of our own fate
and captains of our own ships
carry light and concise.
Cherry pick which parts of yourself you’re leaving behind
bootstrap what’s left of your thoughts and shove them into a jar inside a backpack.
Stack the books in parallel to each other, like Tetris for broken feelings.
Stack what’s left of your poetry in what’s left of your back pockets
when lighting strikes midnight, you won’t have time to choose.
Because we’re leaving behind in the dark times.
We’re moving forward through the dark times
We’re molding with the dark times
It will be upon us and within us,
fractals coming at you from everywhere;
because it will come at you from everywhere,
the dark times.
The dark times have already passed
Been passed down in the veins upon generations
In the fractions of fate wrote history
We will always hear stories of the dark times.
We won’t be heading danger in the dark times
We won’t be needing stability in the dark times
We will run in circles in the dark times.
In the backyards of our minds and the front yards of our neighborhoods
in the nooks and crannies and alleyways we created to escape
Father’s belt lost its way
Mother’s lament lost its home.
We ran away just before sunset, only to hold hands just before dawn.
If we die our spirits will keep on running circles around our bodies,
like our thoughts ran circles around our mind.
We will climb walls and get buried beneath busses
in the dark times
we will learn how to run and play dead;
we will learn how to laugh for the first time
and we will halt in shock afterwards.
We will touch the cracks on the sides of our mouths, and inspect our teeth
count every last one, before we raise our eyebrows to test, they’re still working.
Nothing is damaged,
No one died
Nothing is broken, yet.
I always obsess about the price of genuine laughter.
We carry our fears in these dark times
we learnt the demons of the night by name
the prison guards and goons
the captains of the dark times;
we are the captains and the pioneers of the dark times.
The queens and kings and peasants and mistresses
doors shut and shunned thoughts out
we are nothing but the nothingness of our soul, and the numbness of our mind,
and the hollowness of our heart, leaking dreams.
Shattered into a thousand pieces of glass tarnished personalities characterized by rise of productivity,
We make money.
We pay rent.
Our food is hot and it’s at the middle of our tables.
We are not hungry, but we are famished.
We are famished but we are not afraid
of the dark times.
And all I write will account to nothing, and all I am never did.
And all I think will never be able to be set on paper,
and all I feel can never be justified to a god of any sort
I will abort the missions and the missionaries calling for my return to the sun,
I will burn the sun with fuel that was never found under the pillows of our sheikhs,
I will burn in a thousand atomic bombs that was never found under the bunkers of the hungry,
under the thobes of the afraid,
under the scarfs of the mourning mothers and widows.
Open your window and smell the fresh air of self-doubt,
let the soaking sun reek of self-deprecation,
let the world revolve around the thought of hatred and fear,
let the sun rise and moon follow
with an axe and a pitchfork, saying yellow is a fucked up color and so you should die.
And the dark times shall come
And we shall greet the dark times.
And we shall meet in the dark times
Only to stray in the dark times.
Only to leave the dark times,
And we shall leave these dark times; we will
leave these dark times.
Majd Shidiac is a spoken word poet and writer based in Beirut. As a performer and active member in the poetry scene since 2013, he founded The Poetry Pot in 2017. What was just a monthly poetry performance turned into the biggest spoken word poetry collective in Beirut, with monthly performances, workshops and writing sessions across Lebanon, and a sister open mic night "The Writer's Bloc". Shidiac is known for his emotionally-charged performances with pieces revolving around concepts of interconnectivity, consequence, and decision-capturing moments in daily interactions and magnifying them to reflect on collective themes like love, loss, fear, and attachment, to name a few. Shidiac is currently the manager of and resident performer at The Poetry Pot, while also curating and delivering performance poetry and writing workshops in various communities aside from his involvement in the music scene as a guest writer for Project Revolver and Host of Sofarsounds Beirut.
Welcome to Carpe Diem, Annahar's new literary section featuring poetry- old and new, published or hidden within the nooks of unveiled pages of Lebanese writers. We welcome all contributions with the caveat that the section hopes to see rawness and authenticity in thought and emotion. Please send inquiries to Carpe Diem editor [email protected]
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