Ten Year Anniversary / by Nora M. Barghati


I keep you tucked
safe and sound
in between
the folds
of words
that I write
I hide you there
secret and secure
like the old photograph
of her ex
my mother kept hidden
in her underwear drawer.

Yet I fear
that someday
your name will escape
the guard of my fingertips
like it escaped my lips
and spell its self out
in bold letters
across my art.

my art
I do call it that now
do you mind?

And yes
I breathed your name
last night in bed
did you hear it?
did it make its way
across the ether
and resound in your head?
when you kiss her?
do you think of me instead?

How long
has it been
since our last farewell
can you tell?
how’s life?
How’s work?
I heard you finally got a dog

I’m fine
He has been kind
to me
you know
I hope she treats you well.


Ten years have passed
and I still taste you
on my tongue.

© 2018 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)
Art by Irina Klimenko



A Hymn for the Faithless / By Nora M. Barghati


From the summit
Of the town’s oldest
Your name was called
A hymn for the desolate and lost
A hymn for the broken and tossed
A hymn for the faithful
A hymn for the hopeful
A hymn for the one that did not fall
Your name was called
At the darkest hour of night
And all was bathed in light
All was bathed in light.


Like the dried branches
Of a dead tree
Spread through the walls of our home
A work of art
so disturbing and alive
They get bigger
Get wider
With every passing day
With every passing rocket
With every passing low-flying jet.


War doesn’t come knocking
On your door
Not really
It huffs
And it puffs
’til it brings your home down.


“I lost my father too”
She sobs
“Only seven months ago”
With a sigh she adds
“He was old
But we were not ready
To let him go”
And in the aftermath of her words
Palms cupping each other
Fighting the urge to make a fist
I sit still
And I will
a smile upon my face
One that shows I understand
But I’m sure
You know
I had no clue.


My lover tells me I have changed
That the old me
Is caged
Somewhere deep within
This darkness
That has consumed me
“You’ve become hard and cold”
He says
Yes; I think
But dare not say
Hard and cold
Like the bullet
That made a hole
In my father’s throat
Hard and cold
Like the floor
That broke my mothers fall
The day she was told
Her world has broke
Hard and cold
Like the sharp scalpel
They used
Fourteen days later
to tear my womb apart
And rip my child out
While still adjusting
to the darkness of the grave.


Eats one from the inside out
Swallows him head first
Kicking and screaming
Does no good
Begging and scheming
Does no good
And The soul
is usually
the last to go.

Sliding her glasses down her nose
She spoke in the voice
of one who’s seen it all
The voice of one who knows
“War child spares no one
War has no friends
It also
Has no foes’
Have you ever noticed
How the faces of those
who made it out of war
Are different to yours.

I pray to no God
for all Gods have forsaken me.


© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)
Art by Andrea Kiss

Sit with Me (Gone Unanswered)/by Nora M. Barghati

What of the stars
And their eternal light
What of the heart
And its formidable plight
What of faith
And its binding hope
What of God
And his tightrope
What of love
And its trojan horse
What of war
And its one-way course
What of change
And its constant flow
What of time
And its way of letting go
What of pain
And Its fight to remain
What of rain
And its haunting reffrain
What of life
And its tight grip
What of death
And its sudden snip
What of dark and light
day and night
what of evil and good
what of creed
being the firewood
for greed
what of man
and the hemline
of a woman’s skirt
what of brotherhood
and your clan
killing mine
What of my bloodline
being better than yours
what of an eye for eye
and a tooth for a tooth
what of the truth
being a lie
what of you and I
what of you and I
What of a hush like
and a muffled
like dried leaves
crackling under foot.
What of a father’s eyes
as they fall
upon his daughter face
covered in lace
at her wedding day
what of the way
they spoke
of how his heart broke
giving her away
and how at the same time
it came back whole.
What of bleeding words
on cold bathroom floors
instead of blood
what of breathing
every scream
ever released
instead of air
what of living a dream
where he is mine
and I am his
what of poetry
always being there
when no one else is.
© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)
Photo © 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)

Silent Noise /By Nora M. Barghati​



When the panic
and the thud
of this
-storm beaten
little bird –
heart of mine
my ears
to all that is around
hear no sound.
in the mute stillness
of hushed moans
and silent cries
I hear
what can only be heard
in the quietness
of sealed lips
and closed eyes.

I hear the flowers
at the break of dawn
as the baby upstairs
I hear the sprinklers
the thirsty lawn
as into the earth
water seeps.

I hear gray clouds
and dew drops pop
under the sun’s gaze
I hear my brain
kick start
as a teaspoon of sugar
in my coffee’s brownish haze.

I hear the neighbors across the street
and their
lazy one eyed cat
its paws
I hear that one voice
I have been missing
and I find myself wishing
what once had been
never was.


In the silent noise
I hold my poise
in a manic still.

© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)
Art taken from Pinterest




Two Sleepy Heads / by Nora M. Barghati


The moon
round and bright
shines it’s light
through an open window
upon the two sleepy heads inside.

A little boy’s hand
tender and small
cups the curve
of his mothers shoulder.

Her lips
soft and warm
break his fall
into the world of dreams
with a kiss.


© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)
Image Courtesy of Google



الــوطــن / لنورا البرغثي

تبا لوطن اسكنه
ولا يسكنني منه
سوا ذكرى ايام مضت
لم يبقى منها
سوى اطلال واشباح
وطن يكون فيه منتهى الراحه والهناء
ساعة اضافيه من الكهرباء
تتأمل فيها
تحت اضواء مصابيح النيون
التي يغطيها روث الذباب
وتغشاها اتربه ايام غبراء
خطوط وجهك الكئيب
الذي سكنه البؤس
واضناه الشقاء
تبا لوطن يمتص منك الحياة
لوطن ملوث النفوس
والهواء والماء
وطن تتجرع منه الذل
و ينهرك هو بعلياء
الم اطعمك التراب و الموت”
يأبن الكلب
“يأبن الجبناء؟
ثم يبصق في وجهك
و يدهس مابقي من انسانيتك
تحت الحذاء
“فتجد نفسك عاريا في “بلاد الكفر
تستجدي وطنا
   .يأويك برد الشتاء
© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)
Image courtesy of Google

Deliverance / by Nora M. Barghati


While scrolling my facebook homepage yesterday morning, I came across this painting, and for a moment I felt my heart stop. It is by Syrian/Kurd Artiest and newly made friend Zuhair Hassib.
In a comment I made on his post; I asked about the painting’s name, and in a unexpected, humbling, and albeit slightly unnerving gesture of kindness he asked me to give it a name.  Almost two days passed, and still I find myself at loss for a name that is able to convey the emotions it conjured within me.

Two weeks after my father was assassinated, I gave birth to my second son, and one day during those two weeks I wrote: 
“Standing balancing myself over a thin line, the divide slicing through life, cutting it in half, death and birth. One foot in the world of darkness, the other in the world of light.”

Darkness was all around me, it was pushing my children and my husband away. It grew and swelled up like the puffy belly of a roadkill left to rot on the side of a highway, it reeked of anger and desperation, and it demanded time.
Losing my father the way I did, separated from my family who were caught in throws of war, and ISIS making home right next door, left the first two years of my second son’s life in a blur.  I don’t know how they went by, but I do know why.

They went by because the world of light and life to which my two boys belong; shone upon my darkness, and I was able to see once more. It was with them, through them, for them, that I began to live again. 
Children do not ask to be born into the cruelty of this world, their tenderness and innocence strikes a sharp contrast to the reality of how ugly and unjust it can be, yet they bare it, and weather its storms better then the toughest of us. And if we are open enough to learn, to understand, to be enlightened, we would see that it is to their vulnerability that mountains kneel, and to their pure souls that the gates to the heavens open wide.

We think that it is us who protect and guard our children, but in reality I think it’s the other way around, and that it’s them who are our saviors. My children were mine, they were my deliverance.
Therefore and in honer of all the little angles out there delivering us from the pits of darkness I name the painting “Deliverance”. In the hope that Mr. Zuhair Hassib accepts it.


© 2017 Nora M. Barghati (All Rights Reserved)

Art by Zuhair Hassib