Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Hanna Mulla

I relish poets who are constantly pushing boundaries within their work... just like the elegant pieces below penned by Hanna Mulla.


My mother tells me I have my fathers eyes. And his
nose. But most of all his face shape. She says the last
statement with furrowed brow, a sentiment not
unnoticed by me.
I gaze in the mirror and see a face round like the full
moon, wholesome, a canvas of stoicism. Memory of
my mothers slight frown makes me caress my skin,
trace my own features and wonder if I wouldn't be
prettier with a longer face.
In the Persian culture the moon ranks as the highest,
if not the ultimate epitome of beauty.
'Mahrokh', literally moon face, is a term of adoration,
afforded with affection, a compliment of
commendation.
I berate myself. Knowing such, how could I possibly
not fall in love with splendour of this degree.
I will never apologise to anyone for the softness of my
cheeks nor the framework of lines flowing from
hairline to earlobe or the dimples in my chin.
If anything I will love myself fiercely, splendidly, ten
times over,
to the moon and beyond.

Each of us has familial or cultural traits that are quietly expressed by the lines on one's face and texture of skin that at times we might come to detest. For example – I've always grown up abhorring my nose – in high school my nickname was Gonzo because of its slight hook. There are characteristics that we all exhibit in which we wish at some point or another were different. But for better or worse this is who we are from the beginning of our life right to our last breath. We can't make ourselves feel better over what it is we detest, we can only accept and decide to love and adore ourselves completely and wholly regardless of what our outside figure exposes our inner core to. I like that this specific piece above makes no apologies for the characters outside appearances only that self acceptance at one point or another through the course of our lives is inevitable.  I found the level of emotion put into this piece to be quite thoughtful and tenderly layered. 

We are nothing short of
miracles when we bleed seven
days straight,
red elixir marking our inner
thighs.
Since the beginning of time, the
ability to harbour and nurture
entire galaxies between our hips
has been something of a
phenomenon.
Shedding it is no less easy.


I love the boldness of this piece above, it reminds me of artists who use period blood as paint to draw with. Such depth and miraculous favour in what women have to endure each month, as much as a blessing that it is – it's also tremendous pain and anguish once per month for decades until it dries out to a state of nothingness. It's true though, as Hanna so elegantly says above.

Since the beginning of time, the
ability to harbour and nurture
entire galaxies between our hips
has been something of a
phenomenon.”

Can you imagine such a premise – since the beginning of time – a time that not many can conceptualize through their mind but there at one point or another millions of years ago there was a beginning of time that had been created. And, from the dawn of that time on,  humanity woman have had to deal with the discomfort of using at first thick pads that have transitioned to tampons and thin pads – evolution is constantly occurring for feminine high gene products. Women are the givers of birth and the nurtures as well. I supposed in some way we do carry “entire galaxies between our hips...” that's such a cool way of looking at it... Just think of how large a galaxy is and the potential it has to grow from micro to a macro piece worthy of earthly collaboration to protect the women of our world.


The poets have gone to town and painted the
walls red.
They've burned down the skies and pulled out
faith from every pothole.
We've clawed at wings and written epics about
the screaming and the sudden emptiness.
We turned our backs on God, cloaked ourselves
in darkness and demanded attention anyway.
When the ash finally settled like a noose of
shame we held our breaths to hear Gods
footsteps treading lightly, carefully amongst our
desecration.
With tears in our eyes, we asked if he would have
us back.
And through closed lids,
I felt him smile


Poets write and express themselves through their pieces, frankly because that is our wheelhouse the one place we can rest in solace and create. Through vast imaginations one can strive to a world that is accountable to everyone. One where darkness has no business being cloaked or brooding in the corner but does so because it has no other choice. Similar to the consequence of turning our faces against those who desecrate our hearts in their wake. We are free spirits who strive to live their life to the fullest amount of mirth left from an ice cream sundae or our demise at the end of a bottle. Either way it will be the self preservation and light of forgiveness that will keep our haunted writings as hallowed pieces of delectable delights on earth.