Contributor: Susie Gharib

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On the top corner of my hempen sheet,
I limn a marigold,
dripping yellow in flames.

On the opposite end,
a moonstone stands,
thinly veiled by a languid cloud.

The floor of imperial jade
is speckled with carnelians and coral red,
with pillars of emerald,
with ripples of aquamarine, heliodor, and jacinth

Supine on grass,
a pair of azurites
meditates on the captured light
that has strayed from my eyes.


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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.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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In times to come,
the sun will cease to burn
at half-past one,
the moon to look outworn,
jaded and wan
without the sun.

In times to come
the wind will learn to pray
with stranded sails,
with leaves that Autumn has slain,
with the pinions of cranes
in migratory flocks.

In times to come
the earth will cease to breed
an exodus of refugees,
a racial disease,
and craters brimming with uncongealing blood.

In times to come
the sea will cease to expunge
footprints on sand and rock,
a quahog's blog
at anchored-seashells dot com.


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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.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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They had robbed me of my history,
chiseled my name off the ancestral rock,
snipped my natal cord with a pair of pincers,
rewrote my stars with a single ink-drop.

They shipped me to some distant land
to be nurtured in a foreign pot,
no basin for my tender feet,
no anointment of temples, no armorial cot.

I search for the indelible image of my mother
in every blooming flower-cup.
Out of my reach my father's remains
are in a monitored jar and under lock.

Don't ask me about my language or creed,
they had been blotted out.
Though my genes can spell out my seeds
I remain the woman of the eon mask.


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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.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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I trudged my way with an overload of borrowed books,
my rented room, uphill, in a four-floor block,
where a frosted bed lay lusting for my blood.

St. Mungo’s Church, my first stop home,
I had to go in to anoint my dome,
my eyes, too weary,
my tongue, snow-stung.
I lit a candle and knelt to tell
the Blessed Mary how lonely I felt,
a legion of tears preparing to rebel.

My second stop was the Unwinking Shop.
What should I have for a grumbling stomach?
What series of flashlights hijacked my thoughts?
He emerged from his car like a conjured ghost.
My name rang out, a bell of frost.
I hastened to greet the homebound Ross.

We sat in the sepulcher of a breath-warmed car,
watching the skies trim out their hair,
wreathing our love with unspoken words.
When the time had come to bid goodnight,
I took my leave very loath to part,
a blizzard preceding me into the apartment.

The way to the kitchen lay through her hearth.
I had to ferry my hair, my lungs
across the Styx of cigarettes' smog.
A pint of milk with frosted flakes
was a meal not weaved with smoke-spun snakes,
so confronting bed I said my graces.
I dreamt that I had a house in a lake,
a boat was moored to a daffodil-gate,
and a troop of swans patrolled the estate.


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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.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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If I were a water lily,
I would leave my oars ashore
but beat the ripples of your pupils
with a pair of translucent rods,
made of buds.

If I were a water lily,
I would slumber among your thoughts
which float unruffled by turgid currents
that the subconscious stirs in myriad forms,
maintaining poise.


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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 A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, and Mad Swirl.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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In Memory of George Michael

In Mill Cottage was a room with a view
with only one viewer though meant for two,
but then London lured not his tunes,
he had to ingratiate his muse
with the sap of his own wounded soul.

The tinsel of his song, so translucent in the Christmas lore,
why did he have to die on the same day his music was born?
Why did he succumb to the White Light he had previously scorned?
Are apparently not to be known.

A man adored by millions had only a bed to console.
He died without a single smile to see him Through,
though to millions he had smiled like Jesus to the born
and the unborn.

In a Precious Box, he kept his rosaries and cross,
and though he argued with God
he was the kindest man ever born,
‘For he prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.’


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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 A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, and Mad Swirl.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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He bows at every smile
he wordlessly illumines
upon her reticent mouth.

He puffs no arrogance into the air,
never hums or whistles down the stairs,
has never endowed her skirts with smirks,
or wryly grimaced at outlandish ways.

He only eats when hunger stirs
and sips his drinks without any slurps,
never darts his tongue, never slurs his words,
or blurs their meanings so as to impress.

He'll woo the woman whose wit never wanes,
whose aesthetic essence never dims with age,
whose unflinching strength is an intrinsic trait,
whose love and passion are not on parade.


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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 A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, and Mad Swirl.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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{For a child}

A fairy glided into my loom,
The loom with which I spin my moon,
Weaving her light into my wick,
Infusing flames with lunar silk.

Each lock which floated from her head
Was velvet petals in flaming red
Where daisies anchored their gleeful charms
And dew-drops clambered up the stars.

I shook her hand, a bunch of buds
Greeted each cheek with the kiss of doves
Sang praises for a nymph in guise
Harvested sparks of a water sprite.


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Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various magazines.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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He haunts the confessional every day of the week,
Inaudibly murmuring long series of outrageous deeds,
Evading retribution by distilling poison into his pastor's ears.

He censors his dreams, tattooing his scalp with Scriptural creeds,
Relieving his conscience of rummaging amongst matutinal debaucheries,
Barricading all exits through his subconscious' gates.

By Jove! He does not swear or take the Lord's name in vain.
An evasive word can pass for a pledge, or should we say a bait!
His word of honor, a threadbare knot, chafed and frayed by erosive trade.

His mouth runs dry with blowing bubbles at his rosary beads.
He hums the Psalms since words crucify themselves at his hallowed seat,
With addiction to the blood of Christ, savoring his insobriety with belief.

He performs his ablutions with what John baptized the meek.
It is imported on his behalf in stained glass, bottled and chic,
With rituals wreathed by incense that crests his house like a mountain in heat.


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Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various magazines.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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He looked askance at my supervisor's door.
I told him she’d be back in an hour or so,
As I walked past him down the narrow corridor.

He stood transfixed as if mesmerized
By my chestnut hair, my candid eyes,
Viewing me with the cutest mouth
On which presided a half-formed smile.

I do not recall how he invaded my life.
He belonged to a different academic tribe
But veered allegiance to my sacrosanct site!

We went for walks down the river Clyde.
With modest French he paused to describe
What Mallarme wrote of refracted lights.

His addiction to see me grew out of control.
He pinned a word-effigy on my study's door,
Every time he came but found me not.

I grew uneasy at his errant darts.
He captivated my mind, but not my heart.
The patter of rift echoed in my mind.

One evening he spotted a date amongst
A pile of letters I was sorting out,
February the thirteenth ruffled his brows.

He said it must have been a Valentine's,
I said: 'Indeed, a Mr. Wilde's,
The father of my illegitimate child.'

He stared at me in dire disbelief
But knew me incapable of deceit.
My tale crackled with new-spun deeds.

His visits eventually petered out.
My tarnished image had drenched his sparks.
I thought it better than breaking his heart.
Or perhaps it cracked.


- - -
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Since 1996, she has been lecturing in Syria. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various magazines.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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In her magic sacred rites
she observes animal rights
so no ass's genitals will be boiled
so as to enhance a lover's performance
no lizard's tail will be cut
with which to touch a partner's butt
and make her thus forget him not.

Her cauldron is a butter-cup
which bubbles with dew
and a few tear-drops
all seasoned with a ripple's froth
to simmer in the sun
until dusk.

Her wand is a bough
from a Hibernian oak
deftly severed
by a thunder's stroke
one dip in the potion
and it starts to crawl
scribbling instructions
on a circle of logs
her Log-henge
if I may have recourse
to metaphors.

Her incantations are the murmurs of shells
the susurration of winds
in their ecstatic dance
the patter of rain
in its Spring elegance
to entrance
to transport a pining dame or lass,
ensconced within her father's glance,
from the turret of her kitchen
into your one-room flat
on the wings of a single chant.


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Susie is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde (Glasgow) with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence.

Contributor: Susie Gharib

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A boy named Sin
was born with a fin,
his family was at a loss
what to do with him,
he was taken to church
to learn many hymns
but the odd thing was
he could not swim.

Other kids went to school
he had to stay in
viewing the world
with a sardonic grin
for various epithets
had stuck to him
like the 'Impotent Fin'
and 'Good for Nothin'.

Sin's patience was wearing
so very thin,
his chances of integration
had grown so slim
he packed a little bag
left a 'goodbye' pinned
to the kitchen door
that mocked his whim.

To the wheel of fortune
he gave a spin
headed north, south, west
with a battle to win
enduring prospects
which looked quite grim.

Frequenting lanes
so littered with tins
Sin searched for crumbs
in empty bins
knew why cats and rats
were quite missin'
from the lean refuse
of poverty inns.

He stole into Tinsel Hills
where lights were dim
then luckily slipped
over a banana skin
breaking his neck
smashing his fin.

He lay in a pool of blood
a heap of limbs
was carried on a stretcher
to a nearby gym
where a surgeon carefully
operated on him
in an attempt to salvage
the banana-victim.

Sin lost the fin
but grew two limbs
so quickly learnt
to dive and swim
was appointed a rescuer
of the drowning
earning a new name
the 'Magic Fin'


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Susie is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde (Glasgow) with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence.