Friday, June 17, 2005


My massive Oxford was once a temporary home for the fading petals of small flowers and leaves to be pressed into bookmarks. Words left unlinked, unchained, loose: marched straight out of the dictionary and demanded to be memorized! Like the sun which burns me, even through this thick shade. She, too, demands something from me: my pale skin. I see pages left unturned upon my writing desk. Leaves bookmarks no longer needed.


brotherhood said...

i like leaves as bookmarks :wacko: jummah mubarak :D

Modest Hijabi said...


Good post. :)

Squeeky said...

Assalaamu Alaikum Asmaa!!

I just wanted to let you know that I added you to my blog hehe Hope you dont mind! :D Don't worry ... a new entry soon haha

cricketgal said...

kool the template lol...*cuff*...
yeh kool post too

elysium said...

Does that mean you are finally using it again?

Boy do I feel dumb.

Sara (your cousin, if ur wondering) said...

hey that was deep
lol really...what a nice poem
i always knew u would be destined to go on to great things...

Asmaa said...


Poetry is up for interpretation. If the author tells you what he or she meant and felt while writing the poem, it would decrease from the overall effect of the piece. It means what you think it means.


Thanks for visiting the blog :) when are you guys coming to visit us?

Hajera said...

Very beautiful imagery you've employed there, Asmaa. Good job!

But if I recall correctly, do you not have another poem named 'Lines'??? :P

Asmaa said...


Yes, I have another poem, "Lines."

(The complete title of this poem is rather long..."Lines composed under a tree I had no hand in growing").

Actually, I began to name all my poems "Lines composed _______" (fill in the blank). I take after Wordsworth: