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.

Exquisite

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.