the poetry that matters

Evangelene Alaraj

Evangelene Alaraj...Born in Vancouver...Grew up in Roberts Creek...Found her second home in Palestine...Has a BA from Simon Fraser University with a major of English Lit...works in the hospitality industry...






The Eye lifts its veil,

Dilates in a delirium of development,

Absorbs the light-facts and fragments,

All kaleidoscopic patterns of planet prisms.

Makes worlds inside worlds from old-world words

That still reflect other ways of knowing,    

Still shine distinct in dark matter,

As stars in black permanence,

As directions for purposes lit within eyes.


The Eye at all horizons.

Its metal hull drifting through water

Its sharp wings against the sky.

Metaphysics and bestial body

Like tortured Greek mythos

Dressed to distract.

As Odysseus,

Heroic deviations towards the unseen

Find endless dispersion and optical obfuscation.

Material spectrums metamorphose into abstract mythology.


The Eye stares out to the horizon

In search of its own truth.

The art of visual apprehension

Extends empires into stratospheres,

Engenders political cosmology and immaculate ministries,

Televises totality for public awe.


No immaculate science in this horizontal, half-human bio-graphy can say,

“Purely THIS, and no strange otherness.”

What can they say?

Stare at the ruins…

The Wall,

Half-human entity,

Stares blankly back,

Ruin already in its teeth,

Whilst they speak of the sincerity of science,

And new worlds,

And you find it hard to have none of it. 


Strange overlaying—

The Eye in all Eyes

Engineering  codes

And determined thought process.

A network of fast submission

Into simulated structures.

Humans in unison

Follow progressions of coded visions

And submit to comfortable voyages

Through space and time.

To ideas shot through an eye-cannon.


(Silent harmonies—





          You submit your eyes to systemic optics)



The Eye is wired-open to distant fields

Where death can take place

And not be remembered.

Tele-mediated murder,

We have made war an allegory.

The Irrationalities take last breaths so distantly beyond

We can still sleep beautifully

And find morning slow to pick up


Deliberately preserved in newsprint.

Slow to draw conclusions over pleasantness.

Shadow-Eye dawns avoidance

Over its brow.

It will have no more memories

Until tomorrow.

Slowly dying flames within soft synapses.



The Eye is full of ancient growth,


And we are weary creatures

Slumbering in the ruins of innovated structures.

This metamorphic repose

Brings nothing new

Just enchantments of beauteous form

Emergent from historic architecture.

The petals fall

Piece by piece

In silent truth of decay.

Beautiful to the last

Our false image still captivates


To the last

We fall

Into beauty

And forget.


Open-eyed and worrisome

A Culture sits at its borders

And stares into the decline—

The silent coliseums,

The stairs that led to vanished floors,

Stone monuments,

And ancient scripts—

Every inspiration came from out of the dead,

Yet it served no warning.

Dead men’s eyes lit the way

Through tombs of glory

And cities burned

For words

And utopian summaries.

Slow ruin still touches you

As if buried alive

In this soil called Freedom.


Think of Time,

And how it grows over the earth

And draws to a close

In its seasons.

The earth holds darkness ready

And envelops the moments,

And makes the visible disappear.

Totemic pillars of visualizations vanish.

The true always one step from the false

In this seasonal geography.

The falsely fortunate meet the falling of their over-drawn concepts

And they scatter like leaves

And they amass into collective superficiality.


Seasonal geography—

The evil of an over-bloomed thought

Generates its own ruin.


Ideas grow and age

The decline liberating eyes

From hard structures

And solidified thought.


We do not live under the burden of one thought

For an eternity.

          Mental geographies rupture

          Allowing what was left unseen

          To take hold of the mind

          As a new growth

                   And inch itself over the relics

                   To form a veil.



So we speak only of eyes.



The coverings for nakedness

Until the sun no longer rises,

That is the extent of it until such time.

A world of veils

The shrouds of human truth have us tightly bound

In false preservation.


We speak only of eyes,

And the wise king who said

‘All things are full of weariness beyond uttering’

When he read the sky and applied absence,

And it became clear

That vanity is the other side of meaning

Through which we all pass.


Of metaphors and materials the Eye has much to say

And it goes on and on with the names of things

Into space

Into space

Wave after wave

Wind after wind

Slope after slope

Until what limit?


Allahu a’laam



                                                                                                             January 12, 2014