Hewdge

GUEST POETRY

The following poem is based on a true story. Rima Rantisi is a teacher in Beirut. She writes sometimes, at least weekly on her blog: www.crosseyedrevolutions.com

I made an Exception – I would marry him.

His hand delivered note was what hurt most:
“I really loved you. But I couldn’t except you
the way you are.”
E-X-C-E-P-T.
Though an unintended usage, reflective of his indecisive character.

Accept: 1. (trans verb) Consent to receive; take that which is offered;
a. Say yes to a proposal, as in, “No, I cannot accept to marry you because I do not trust you – because I do not trust myself.”
b. To receive as adequate, valid, or suitable, as in, “I will not accept a woman who etc., etc., etc.” or “I will not accept to feel less than a ‘man’.”
c. To regard favorably or with approval, to welcome, as in, “I am unwilling to accept you, your past, your moodiness, your flaws, even if I feel that I ‘REALLY’ love you.”

2. (trans verb) Believe or come to recognize as valid or correct; tolerant;
as in, “I do not approve of your manners or your liberal ways, therefore I do not accept you as a respectable person.”

You meant all of this, but you wrote E-X-C-E-P-T, which would have been acceptable.

Except: 1. (prep): Not including; other than, EXCLUDE, as in,
“I could not except you from my life.”

2. (conj): Used before a statement that forms an exception to one just made, as in,
“I couldn’t accept you, except it’s killing me to live without you.”

3. (verb): Specify as not included in a category or group; exclude, as in
“I couldn’t accept you, but you are an exception.”

Further, the phrase, “I couldn’t except you the way you are,” was an internal translation from Arabic, as in,

Ma kan fiyi ibaleek mitil ma inti.

It wasn’t as absolute, for example, as,

Ma kan fiyi ibaleek.

The implication is that he tried. And that I am unacceptable to him,
(and therefore, to those who think like him ?),
in this home away from home.
And that there is room for acceptance, upon change?

He tried to be a man, he tried to be strong, he tried to be open, but in the end,
he focused on “you,” as in “You are the problem.”

He tried to believe that I fit his imagination of the woman he had “always waited for.”
But the reverie was just that and he awoke,

“No, I cannot except you! No, I cannot make any exceptions!”

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iGod, is by Lebanese poet, blogger and advertising wizz, Tarek Chamaly. Tarek’s blogsite can be found at: www.beirutntsc.blogspot.com

iGod
By Tarek Joseph Chemaly

Never mind the kneeling woman,
Her prayers won’t be answered anyway,
And all the saints have gone to hell,
For downloading on the incompatible iGod,
In the graveyard of deleted emails,
There lie sugarcoated testimonies of love and toneless expressions of hate,
And Nigerian lawyers asking for harmless money transfers,
Oh, where does the taste of all the kisses sent through the emoticons go?
And all the smiley-embodied emotions, where have they all gone?
And these virtual hugs that never came real,
And those initials engraved in the supposed book of friendship,
That never withstood the lapse of time or the geographical separation,
No shared image of the last vacation in Croatia can make up for a meet-up over a pint of beer,
Somewhere in the ether, there are remembrances of internet handles and gone-by chats,
Floating as fragments of Silicon in the collective memory of the hard drives,
Like unconfessed sins lingering in a Catholic’s conscience,
Like altar boys masturbating in the woods,
As we run in different yet concentric circles of loneliness and alienation,
Bound never to intersect or touch,
Living in the misery of contretemps, oh blessed are they…
Blessed are the internet illiterates, for theirs is the kingdom of coffee shops,
Blessed are they who LOL, for they shall be conformed,
Blessed are the geeks, for they shall inherit cyberspace,
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst, for they shall be fast-fed in value meals,
Blessed are the pixel junkies, for they shall be pixilated,
Blessed are the broadband users, for they shall see faster webcams,
Blessed are the hackers, for they will be called children of bitches,
Blessed are they, who are persecuted for the sake of downloading, for theirs is the kingdom of mp3s,
As we both sit monogamous in our celibacy,
As we both turn from side to side in our respective beds,
Waiting for the simultaneous signing in,
I see no problem at all,
Because heaven is empty, and all the saints have gone to hell,
For downloading on the incompatible iGod,
They should have bought the 4 megabytes iGod nano in the first place,
And heaven will be, literally, in their pocket,
Oh, just never mind that kneeling woman,
She’s not praying anyway, she’s just singing along.

Bush’s Brain

This poem was written as a response to the ugly and groundless rumour that George W Bush was relying on some kind of  receiver/transmitter device under his jacket to help win the 2004 debate with John Kerry.

This of course is a ridiculous fabrication! Everyone knows his ‘brain’ is in control.

I am George Bush’s Brain

And in his head I LIE

See, I’M the one who’s clever

while he’s the SIMPLE guy

I am George Bush’s brain

On a super-ego trip

It’s brilliant how I’ve managed

To let his ratings slip

For such a tiny organ

I’ve acquired a lot of powers

I feel I made a good move

with the 9-11 Towers

I help make George look stupid

In his speeches on TV

The jokey sneer, the cowboy quips

the ‘Bushisms’……that’s ME!!!

I love to make George stutter

This is my holy quest

(Cerebrally….a challenge

but just what I do best)

I’m leader of the free world

I run the goddamn show

My cortex is in charge now

(and George Bush doesn’t know!!)

I am George Bush’s Brain

And you know I love to boast

But my frontal lobe is melting

I might need another host

I’m thinking of Dick Cheney

He’d make a better choice

Dick’s got the perfect head size

The scary looks…..the voice

But I cannot quit the Dubya

In this case I’M the fool

For if I transferred my neurons

There’d be nothing left at all!

helga hewston

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Dick Goes Hunting

This poem was inspired by Vice President Dick Cheney’s hunting accident in Feb 2006, when his long-time friend

and campaign contributor, 78-year-old Harry Whittington, was shot by him in the face and chest.

According to a spokesperson, no alcohol was involved

When Dick takes you hunting

You’d better beware

Increase your insurance

And say a quick prayer

You might be his buddy,

His pal, his best mate

But when Cheney’s been drinking

You’re nothing but BAIT

You don’t look like a duck

But when Cheney’s around

Do your best not to ‘quack’

Or make a ‘duck’ sound

Try not to confront him

When he’s armed with a gun

It helps to stay low

Til the ‘hunting’s’ all done

BANG!!!!*****

As you lay full of shots

In a hospital bed

Do you say to yourself,

“Was it something I said????!!!!”

The press finds it amusing

But you’re feeling sick

Bet YOU’LL never go hunting

Again……….with a DICK!

helga hewston

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Oh, I Wished I’d Held on to my Cash

A tribute to Pam Ayers

Oh I wished I’d held on to my cash

And under the bed built a stash

All the money that I’ve spent

And the Dollars I’ve lent

Oh, I wish I’d held on to my cash

I wish I’d been that much more willing

To hang on to my very last shilling

It’s been a huge ego blow

To curtail my cash flow

While the bankers are making a killing

Oh, when I think of the clothing I’ve lost

And the barely worn garments I’ve tossed

Now I wear my own brand

It’s called: Second Hand

The riches to rags’ line’s been crossed

My once thriving business’s gone bust

I’m left scrounging for my daily crust

My old piggy-bank’s cracked

My accounts have been hacked

And my cheque book sits gathering dust

My ex-husband is bankrupt it seems

And no longer a rich man of means

He’s the chief man at Ford

And presides on the board

So there go my financial dreams!

In light of this new Wall Street Crash

I might have to do something rash

My new career goals

Involve dancing round poles

Oh, I wish I’d held on to my cash….

helga hewston