Bashir Goth Poems

Out of the ashes of a phoenix
A new African phoenix is born
As black and as famished as ever
Carrying the same loads of thorn
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Why? A question with no answer
As no answer fills the void
No answer rises to decipher
Why Norway, why in this way?
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Yet again it is death, dammit
Slithering under the cloak of darkness
And steadily, steadily, steadily
Stealing force for the final storm
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War in my country
No rain to wash the blood
weeping in winterlood
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Dear Somalis
In the diaspora
Dear sisters
Dear brothers
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The following poem is my way of recapturing the gravity of that ominous day, which has not only derailed the trajectory of human history but has also caused unprecedented rift between world civilizations, thus bringing closer Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations by a day or two. It is my way of making sense of the senseless and somehow reaching out for the victims of the attack.

Kamikaze thunderbolts
monumental flames,
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The following haiku is a tribute to Café Arabia, the first coffee house in the UAE to host book clubs and literary discussions; a literary salon of sorts.


Stop - think and reflect
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Tiny fingers, nimble minds
Tender flowers of the nation
Kids, kids, kids
Kids learning
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The following excerpt which I use as an introduction to the poem is from an article I wrote in 2007 about the status of the Gabooye community among the Somali people.

"The real tragedy, however, is that these people, the Sab or Midgaan, do not only look like us but are most of the time more handsome than the rest of us, while their struggle for survival over the centuries has made them more intelligent and more resilient. They are our traditional hunters, doctors, blacksmiths, craftsmen, singers, tailors and fashion designers, barbers and hairstylists, hygiene attendants and butchers. We defend ourselves with the weapons they make, cultivate our farms with the plows they fashion, wear the clothes they tailor, eat with the pots and bowls they make, drink from the earthen jars they mould, submit our heads to them to cut our hair, call them to circumcise our sons and daughters, trust them with our necks to cut our tonsillitis, enjoy their music but still we despise them. They speak the same language we speak and pray towards Makkah five times a day like the rest of us. But dare you tell any Somali to pray behind the most learned Imam of the Migdaan and he would rather go to hell. Without them we will be defenceless and perish in the harsh environment of our land but instead of glorifying them we look down on them.
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Let Imraul Qais, Antra and yesteryear poets
Weep on their Atlal
On their blackened hearthstones
And sing an ode for the Emirates
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