The Poetry Marathon

To my most adored, 

You are missed in the morning quiet,

and the evening break.

You are well, and you are glorious,

so we will not burden you with letters of nostalgia.

From memory l praise your soap soft skin,

and the honey butter sound of your voice.

When we meet again, I want to hear your tales –

the stories we will lock into your legacy.

From your babes to theirs, and those after them.

We dream because of you.

The preacher preaches faith,

Without a step-by-step approach.

I ask a question, the response is a fumble.

There is no conviction in those eyes,

The vision, is like a veil of gauze.

Does nobody see the broken mirror?

A village is only as good as its preacher.

I step away.

Answers are too buried in their politics;

so where do we go from here?

The expectation is greatness, with no design in mind.

Without a coach, I am my own leader;

begrudged, I dredge the earth on which I stand.

I am hollowed out,

Questions must serve as substance.

A village is only as good as its preacher.

Seedling ideas drop into the crux.

Of nothing, answers grow

for me, of me.

The preacher’s voice stumbles in the debris

of the cracked mirror.

I break it. I see the pieces fall.

A village is only as good as its preacher.

1. Excitement (enough to be the life of the party)
2. Two handfuls of good wishes
3. A sprig of time
4. A spoonful of delicate care
5. An eyeful of spiced fun

First, warm excitement under sunlight

until nice and soft.

Then add all your good wishes, and incorporate well.

You’re looking for agreeable suppleness.

Next, rub time between your palms. Feel it’s crisp fragility.

Release its essential oils before adding to your mix.

Separately beat delicate care with spiced fun;

let it emulsify before adding to the other fixings.

Tricky as this recipe may be,

give it your best intention

for a moment well spent.

Dead night quiet,

The surrender never reaches daylight.

She carries in her meditation

Radiant reflections –

Measured breaths,

And no break in the steady.

When she speaks,

Thin lips promise her own secrecy.

Do not expect anything, but a cold whip.

Hello there!

My name is Ibtihal, but for my writing I go by I.B.Y

I am so excited to be participating in the full 24 hours marathon this year! Last year, I did the half-marathon and it was truly such a pleasure. I enjoyed reading the work of others and I had lots of fun pushing myself. This year, because things are already pretty nuts, I figured I would go to my own extreme and participate in the full marathon. Wish me luck!

I’m an Educator and Communication Specialist who studied English Literature at a University in Canada. My passion for writing is what landed me in the careers I’m currently in. I think of Literature as a field that requires constant growth, learning and self discovery. At the base of it, I think I am at my happiest when I am learning – whether I be learning from others or more about myself, every experience feels like a victory.

That being said, I cannot deny that 2020, despite its difficulties, has been an easier year than the past 8 years combined. Many things have happened, and many unexpected changes in the past years have left me feeling disoriented. Poetry, however, (and writing in general) have been a constant. Through writing I am both grounded and elevated; I get to enjoy exploration and the wonder that lives in the simplest moments.

I would love to connect with you all, and learn what draws you to writing poetry!

Cheers,

I.B.Y