Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Curlew, The Ink Pantry, A New Ulster, Down in the Dirt, the PLJ, and Mad Swirl.
Not All Is Dark
You remark on the dark that permeates my verse. I say: not all is dark my sober friend, not the fun we had over the worm in your gin which you had to drink to prove to the world your super strength beside the intellectual acumen that you retained despite consumed spirits. Not all is dark my Irish nymph, not the turtle soup that you had to sip, indulging every other foreign inmate whose vivacity kept me awake for numerous nights no end, incubating an insomniac who was averse to sleeping pills. No all is dark my considerate imp, not The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde to brave a cold in bed, not the cough syrup you brought to my hermitage, a tiny room with a window overlooking no trees, only a row of curtained holes sheltering the future elite, conducting research overseas. Not all is dark! Not the Scrabble you bought as a birthday gift. We were too affectionate to compare intelligence, but London claimed your marketing skills plus a supportive supervisor and a famous-to-be-novelist, my only succor in dire straits. Not all is dark! Not the surprise candle-lit cake, two Geminis born on the thirty-first of May inhabiting the same Glaswegian sphere, an Irish wit and a cynic from the Middle East.
Hunting High and Low
[Inspired by Ah-a’s song] Here I am and within the words I begin to breathe her every utterance begins to seep into the rhythms that never cease. For I'll be hunting high and low for the Autumn wind to which she cleaves, for the leaves that dance around her feet, for the songs she left without a beat. Here I am and within the mist of my dream her hazy light begins to gleam a déjà vu type of scene. For I'll be hunting high and low for the rosy theme that scarcely sleeps, for the rhyme that takes after a breeze, for the rose of fragrant memories.
The light touch of your palm is what I call exquisite. No gentler handshake has ever marked my history book of greetings. I meet the eyes that beam with smiles. The earth beneath me is quaking: what exquisite light has blessed my sight, what a heart-warming meeting! You sit before me in your easy way so exquisitely endearing, I long to touch that bit of chest that your azure shirt's revealing. The air is now exhaling ease. Your tone of voice is sedating. Enveloped in exquisite warmth I'm all wrapped up in your breathing.