Syria: A Poem From The Past

Written for my daughter's wedding in 2010.

The Story of the Calligraph Invite



Received a response today;

they will attend the wedding,

and the reception,

and the party thereafter.

It says they and their family accept

she said.



Their family?

Who? A son, a daughter?

Immediate or extended family?

he asked.



They shook their heads

and stood looking at the coloured

inks of the calligraph invite;

the envelope ripped open, and it

a sad courier dangling from a hand,

it prayed: O, please do not kill

this poor messenger, O parents good!

Parents of the bride! Maybe God grant

her joyful increase!

Place me with my brothers

and sisters in the place of honor!



Perhaps that is how it's done

in Syria, she said. We shall make do.

But how, he said, but how to afford...

gently she touched his lips with

her finger tip, the key of silence

that locks the door of wrath.

It is all for the best.

We are between the hands of Allah,

who blesses man and woman,

and wants this blessing

to be shared by more.



Syrians, he thought.

No Saudi prince am I.

He paused a while.

But I am mubarak...blessed...

by this event much more than I

can bless...or sate with food and drink.

Let them come! he said,

smiling, and took the calligraph invite

and placed it with RSVPs

next to his wife's computer.

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