From February, 2024

Seeking answers in this body

but when everything

everything is so

not right not right meet

true to life

then how

do we gauge calibrate

find center

find equilibrium

what is balance when

all ways of measure

are skewed,

when the whole contraption

is set at an odd,

uncomfortable angle

that threatens us with sliding

so that we continuously struggle

to keep a grip, find traction

where is the zero point

the tare weight

compass heading that is not

wildly fluctuating due to

magnetic instability

false reading

on this tilted and slippery deck

where can we say

this is my ground,

my place of rest

and yes I started with body

because it carries all

the mis information

contradictions

contra - indications to health

and balance

no wonder I feel dizzy

my head and gut

roil in confusion

the paths

that are acceptable to them

have all been planted

not with herbs but land mines

delayed release of buried trash

chemical dysregulation sown like promise

this body would speak with stars

and stones

grasping air as with

skilled fingers

working a warp

knowing that

air is where we meet

black silhouette of tree

dense roll of plump cloud

we are in this air together

we are in this air

just keeps becoming more so

what all your actions tell me is that

there is no sanctity of life

that no number of bodies is too many

to sacrifice to visions of power & supremacy

that even the word human

means nothing and therefore

we are no longer speaking the same

language your tongue is forked

and cultivates only deceit because

the effort required to thoroughly

deceive oneself, day after day

is never ending

can never be satisfied

but must keep eating

eating up truth, chewing it into

an unrecognizable mass

poisoned with the saliva of greed

that makes it digestible

so that you can continue to live

in this world where

no one matters

except when they serve your purpose

every person, word, and concept

distorted to fit the

monomaniac pattern the

wallpaper of your life

21 October, 2024

How I understand it now, Nov. 1 2024

How simple it would be, to tip

over the edge, to suddenly exit the

rational, like Thaima pouring boiling water

onto herself, an act I understood but now more so,

I see the beyond-rational need to break

that barrier, to feel a physical pain

that meets the psychic horror

turning up one dial to meet the other

equalizing at least this —

the intensity of feeling

although it all stays incomprehensible

only nonsensical acts make sense

when all sense has been forsaken

the betrayal of reason

already under way,

surrounding – so that the self-inflicted

pain becomes one comprehensible

point of contact — one place

she can stand and say I feel this

for a reason

the pain is undeniable

I want to tell you, Thaima,

that I understand

that your act makes more sense

than anything else

in that blasted landscape

of your country

I wish that we

could wander through

a mind-scape together,

making sense

crafting meaning from found bits

of our hearts, lying

alongside the road like scraps

these treasures of knowing

like spools of string

that could tie up a harvest of

flowers and herbs,

secure a small bundle of

something essential

as we keep walking away from

the fires of collapsed empire

toward an unperceived realm

that our senses can trust

November 1, 2024

(Thaima is an Iraqi friend from Doha, who told me about the day she stood in front of the stove and poured boiling water onto her stomach. Her name is changed to protect privacy.)

On hearing Les Arrivants, August 11, 2024

Souq Waqif, Doha, Qatar, July 2011 © Tracy Hudson

I sit apart, I close my eyes

the oud evokes the world where it has grown:

desert, olive grove, and mountain

firelight and tent and tea

the family extending out across the map

unreachable faces

that burn with love

that bend in prayer, or mischief

that focus on kneading of dough

or knotting rugs

guiding a donkey a taxi

a long trip alone on a subway

the scent of olive oil

the promise of shared food

remote dreams

that are not complicated

just a teapot, passed around

a circle of faces, warm

even if they all reflect pain

it is a circle that holds in warmth

the tune encircles this vision

ignites the fire that feeds

that bakes bread

sears meat of goat

— not the inhuman fires that

engulf children… schools…

families in shelter —

the hearth fire, creative,

perpetual gift

the music sings this

the drumming gives this

fire promise

There, there it is — the rivulet

of sorrow that speaks peace

– you hold home like a flame in the hand,

cupped around the pick,

speaking dreams into the hollow of rounded wood

rolling out the endless weaving, the ever-changing story

I close my eyes. I listen.

Doha, Qatar, December 2008 © Tracy Hudson

Three Musicians in Montréal: Abdul-Wahab Kayyali - Oud, Hamin Honari - Percussion, Amichai Ben Shalev - Bandaneon

Listen: Les Arrivants: Burkaan