Category Archives: Glass

Glass by Salman AlKhaledi

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By Salman Al Khaledi

They grew lonely, they needed solace.

They grew tired of being divine and fearless.

All came together for once, never before through out those millenniums.

Came together, putting parts of themselves in a vessel, sent through the heavens, through out that well known tunnel.

Rejoice for I will name her Gabriella and she is to be the sweet ambrosia of us Gods.

“Her heart it beats…

  For all of you… All of you…”

Their hearts grew fonder as they heard her voice.

Their eyes celebrated when she approached, rested as they were laid upon her.

“Gabriella, dearest to us immortals,” they said.

“Gabriella, is that all there is?” She dreads.

Poignant is her life even if it is just to amuse the Divine & the Holy…

She thought of a way out and if it all fails? At least she would go down with all the glory.

Turned every angel against their lords, seduced all twelve of them to deal down the gates of heaven.

She fled to the dirt and soil of this earth.

Forcing the Ruler of the underground to hide deep, deep down this mortal earth.

For there is no greater worry than the nearness of she, who defined the divine and the unbound.

You have upset the Gods, Gabriella. And for that you shall be cursed with a heart of glass.

But fear nothing my weak but oh, so determined here she said.

“this too shall pass.”

Resides in me that one and only, Gabriella.

I will, with all my mortal might protect that heart of glass!

Resides in me that one and only Gabriella, never again weary.

That glass illuminated heart.

Glass by Lucy Moore

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By Lucy Moore

A little cafe small and neat,

I duck inside to find a seat.

A corner stacked high with books,

about princesses and pirate crooks.

Here’s the perfect place I thought,

as I sipped on the tea I bought.

I’ll gaze out of this huge window,

and watch the world play out its show.

Oh the excitement of what I might see,

letting my imagination run free.

how sane is the woman with bright pink hair,

and does the vampire goth have a lair.

As I sit behind my glass shield,

my eye is caught far afield.

Approaching my secluded spot,

Non other than a puppy in polka dot.

His owner casually wearing stripes,

this town really gets all sorts of types.

Next up a girl in a suit,

not unusual but really, with leather boots?

I see a kid in a wizard’s hat,

a sausage dog, short and fat.

I stare through the clear glass pane,

perhaps my curiosity in vain.

For I could spend hours,

wondering about the people in the street,

only to realise they are just like the one here,

sitting here in my seat.

Glass by Ahmed AlRasheed

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By Ahmad Al Rasheed

How do I get out of here? The great outdoors is right there in front of me. I go from one end to the next, but it appears that I can’t leave this atrocious place.  People are trying to get me in any way possible, as if I am an undesirable. The force field in front of me is limiting my escape from this room. My brain can’t process this technology; it forbids me from leaving, yet I can walk on air. All of a sudden, everything blacks out, THUD! I squint my eyes one last time, and in a blur I see a person opening this “force field”, scoops me up and throws me out. As I fall to my doom, I realize that all this time, it was just a glass window, separating a fly from the outside world, to freedom.

Glass by Yas Bin Shaibah

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By Yas Bin Shaibah

Our legs intertwined in the beautifully
tangled mess of flesh that was us;
laying on wrinkled, white sheets.

As you kept me warm, and your eyes
closed, I traced the outline of kisses
on your side.

Not mine, but ones Sun was reaching
through the glass to give.

A sigh lead to a smile, and I thought
to myself “What more could I want?”

Than you.

Than to be here.

Your eyes came to life into mine, and
I had my answer.

To be here for the next thousand
years.

Glass by Noragotcharisma

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By Noragotcharisma

Loud clings of the expensive glasses held by the hands ofbourgeoisie. Life is a never-ending parade of lavish events and designerthreads. Materialistic laughter follows the celebratory “cheers!” of their mere existence. Like an empty vase whose dust iswiped off everyday, but remains hollow and houses no flowers.

But it doesn’t bother them that they are of no use. Thismere fact engraves extraordinary pride in their characters, a way ofoutsmarting the system—lots of money with no work. Like a boulder of gold foundat the end of a rainbow.

What they don’t realize is this boulder fell into theirlaps. Perhaps one might see this as a sign of the divine luck, but imaginehaving a heavy boulder of gold fall into your lap—what an amputating burden.

No greater burden lies than the shadowing cloud upon theirmorals. They expand their wealth, only to grow so conceited to believe wealthis of their own manifestation, rather than a divine blessing.

But perhaps when one looks at the bourgeoisie, compares hisassets to theirs, it is evident indeed who is the wealthiest of them all. Thebeauty in the intangible is that it is no slave to economics. Poor oldbourgeoisie, they will forever remain servants to their own materialism.

Glass by Dee

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By Dee.

Every morning I get down on my knees to worship at your altar

I raise my hands, trace my fingers against you in supplication

I lean close to whisper to you, my breath fogging up your face

Please, I beg you, please lie to me today

Spin me pretty deceits, just for a moment

Tell me I’m not as ugly as I feel

But as always you are deaf to my pleas

Cold and indifferent, no matter how warm my hands against you

After all you were born in a much hotter fire

All your softness burnt away

Any weakness you might have had

You show me nothing but unforgiving truth

Flinging it back at me without a thought

My face, my body, my grimace at the sight

Hard and ruthless, you thrust at me the harsh reality of myself

I curse you and turn away in disgust

I promise myself that tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll find another

One who will hide my reflection away

And let me pretend to be someone other than who I am

If only I can figure out how to make a mirror lie

If only I could walk away from the looking glass.

Glass by Kamanha

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By Kamanha

I’m the alternate devil in the wrong time at the wrong place

The word “inappropriate” in the dictionary should have a picture of me with a thumbs up and a smiley face

Don’t judge me from first impressions, but hey… I like it when you call me names

He’s a mischievous, aimless, meaningless, heinous, insanous and vulgarity runs in his veins

I know I’m empty so have mercy and don’t tempt me or faze me

I guess I’m kinda short, that should tell you that no one ever raised me

It’s amazing, how you got this wet while outside is not that rainy

So spare me the small talks and ball walks I’ll never let you play me

I have a million words but my own favorite is “shit”

Yeah I said shit… What’s wrong? At least I’m honest with it

When I finish pooping I move my ass off the damn pit

So if you have nothing nice to say… Join me and I’ll give you something to regret

I may beget you a bastard son, so where did the damn cum come from?

A little platinum with ammonia and have us a self-crafted suicidal bomb

You see the chemistry here? Oh you don’t? I’m not surprised you are that dumb

Is this literature? No? I’m thanksgivin it’s just an ass-whoopin. Now pass this shit, son

I’m vibing and getting the feeling I’m offending every living soul

An armageddon gotta get em, yes I am sinning but I’m standing tall

Every second of every minute I live it dancing with the devil but gravity won’t let me fall

I cast about your plastic glass in acid as in breaking the ice then… cold.

Glass by Seyed Mohammad Abaft

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By Seyed Mohammad Abaft

Looking through this transparent glass

I can see the disgusting side to this world

I can see The Pain

The Suffering

The Disease

The Torture

The Death

That this world has to offer

Looking upon this reflective glass

I can see The Animal

The Monster

The Demon

That I have become!

Through the decisions that I have made

The decisions which has caused pain and suffering to my loved ones

All I can do now, is break this glass, and look at the world and myself

The way I want to.

Through my eyes, and not through some transparent, translucent, reflective Glass.

Glass by Hawra’a Khalfan

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By Hawra’a Khalfan

 

 

“You are beautiful

Your bronze skin

That dark hair

and those full eyebrows.

Body shaped like an hourglass.

Every inch of you is beautiful.

Worldwide they speak of the beauty of Arab women

You are what they would call ‘exotic’ looking”

He asked me to cover my body but was kind enough to let my hands and face breathe.

He asked me to cover my body because it might otherwise catch the eye,

Wear dull colors, and oversized clothes to shield your form.

Yes, daddy.

Speak softly and never reveal your voice!

Certainly, dad.

Keep your gaze low and not to lock eyes with a man

Of course, father.

You may not go to Medical school, it doesn’t matter that your grades are high. How will you be able to be a mother and a wife if your youth is stolen by this ambition?

But, father? What if I wasn’t born to be a wife?

Are you being disobedient to me?

No, Master. As you please, Master.

Even at the end, when I managed to do all of the above

One day my filthy husband decided one prized possession was not enough.

Seven children I brought to the world yet our life together was not satisfying anymore.

She walked in thinking she was a princess.

The poor girl does not know what’s coming.

Days go by and the cycle repeats itself.

I went to visit the first captain of my soul,

Utterly filled with resentment and pain

“I will never forgive you, father,”

I yelled as I cast off all the layers I was wearing.

“My youth, gone! I showed promise, but that’s shattered like glass. My goals? Diminished into an uncountable amount of pieces? Why? Answer me father!”

He looked up at me with a smile,

“What you don’t understand, dear daughter is that you broke enough rules thinking your dreams mattered. You are a mother of seven and a doctor’s wife, why are you ungrateful? What more could you want of life?”

Glass by Berlin

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By Berlin

I have to be honest.

I had second thoughts about seeing her today.

We didn’t exactly have the ideal goodbye.

Things were thrown.

Harsh words were exchanged.

Promises were broken

And feelings were hurt.

It was an ugly, unrefined, long overdue end to the relationship that has transformed itself into a heavy energy-sapping responsibility.

 

Am I ready to see her? I asked myself.

Will I be able to control my feelings once she is near enough to feel?

Will we finally have a better ending to the promising start we once had?

The hope to get the answer to the last question made me decide to come.

 We owe each other a better goodbye.

We were in love…

And if I’m being painfully honest, I sometimes foolishly believe I still am.

She was vibrant.

She was one of those lucky few whose aura made people gravitate towards her.

She had a certain light.

There was something about her bright welcoming smile and infectious laugh.

Meeting her was one of those moments when you just know you’re life will never be the same again.

And my life certainly was changed forever.

 

I got out of the car and straightened my tie.

Knowing that she was a few feet away made me nervous.

Knees shaking. 

Palms sweating.

Throat dried.

Heart… exploding in anticipation.

It was just exactly how she described her panic attacks.

You see, she was a perfectionist and she became vulnerable when that perfection was disturbed.

She didn’t have the most conventional method of dealing with her panic either.

One day I watched her snort a pill she crushed with her perfume bottle.

It was for a medical condition she assured me as I curiously watched her.

She has been prescribed of it she said.

She just needed something to calm her nerves.

She was a bright up-and-comer.

She was in demand in the field she was in and though it might be a cause of celebration for others… it was a cause of concern for me.

Her drug use grew with her paychecks.

More pressure. More “edge” to be taken off.

A couple of pills, a roll of pot, a line of coke… all to take the edge off.

Although I was concerned, I trusted her too much and believed she knew what she was doing.

My love for her blinded me.

And that blindness restrained my ability to see that although she needed my love…

Help was what she needed more.

I wish we realized then how strong we both were…

And how stronger we were together…

Maybe then goodbye would never have been an option.

Her little whimpers for help finally became a loud cry one morning.

I was tired and hung-over from the night before.

I put my arms around her waist and tried to wake her up but she didn’t budge.

Her skin was clammy and cold.

I sat up and checked her face, her lips were bluish and she was barely breathing. I shook her and screamed but got no response.

I immediately brought her to the hospital where the doctors told me there was a large amount of oxycodone found in her blood and that she fell into a coma.

The realization that I could lose her brought me to a state of shock.

The memory made me even more nervous but I knew I could not delay the meeting any further.

I came here to see her and I will never forgive myself if I let my anxiety take over.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It felt like the first time I visited her in rehab.

She woke up from her coma four days later and got checked into rehab days after.

I was excited to see her but scared of what I might find.

Luckily it was not at all what I imagined… it was more of a retreat house than the chaotic loony bin my naïve mind created.

I could actually live here I thought

I was almost relieved until I walked into her room.

It was a scenario straight out of the movies… only darker, more silent, more real.

The first few days were the roughest.

She kept crying…  complaining about everything.

She started creating stories of maltreatment and tried everything to convince me to bring her home. She hated me when I refused.

She wouldn’t see me when I came to visit her and when she did, she would not speak.

It got better weeks after.

I started seeing glimpses of the old her.

She was optimistic and smiling more.

And that gave me more hope.

I educated myself about the drugs she took and the ways to help her get rid of her dependence on them.

I was consumed by my need for her to get better.

I started coming late to work, cancelling meetings and pushing deadlines.

But nothing else mattered… I needed to make her world better before she stepped back into it.

I finally got a glimpse of where she was and as I made my way towards her, each step got harder and harder to take.

As I got nearer, our final memories together came in full view.

My body felt like it weighed a ton… my heart, two.

It wasn’t a week out of rehab when she relapsed.

She found numerous complaints from clients in her mail, most of them saying they will never hire her again.

It was just too much for her sober self to take.

All hell broke lose as she tried to convince me to give her the pills… she turned into this person I have never met… this loud, illogical, rude, selfish… addict.

She went on a rant… one mindless thought after the other… one hurtful word after another.

I can only watch her and wonder how she went from the love of my life to this junkie in my living room.

She finally calmed down hours after and apologized for her actions but just as I was convinced she knew better, I woke up beside a note simply saying “sorry”.

But “sorry” was not what I needed.

I needed her to get better.

I needed her to be with me.

So, I chased after her and convinced her that we needed to be together.

We gave it another shot but our relationship was never the same.

I couldn’t trust her but I couldn’t let her go.

We went on and off for a couple of years before we finally decided it just wouldn’t work.

My bosses didn’t think I was dependable.

My progress at work went to a halt.

I stopped meeting my friends.

Started ignoring calls from my family.

She was front and center of everything.

I couldn’t get her out of my sight.

I was terrified that she would do something stupid and hurt herself if I turn my back.

I watched her every move.

I was obsessed.

I was paranoid.

She hated it.

I hated her.

We both became different people and the love that we used to share became a burden between strangers who did not know what to do with it.

And though we had good times… even the best couldn’t keep us together.

I was finally close enough to see her face.

For the first time in a long time, she seemed liked the young, innocent, carefree girl she used to be.

I could tell she was happier.

Certainly happier than when I saw her last.

“I miss you” she said when I opened the door.

It was an unexpected visit in the middle of the night a few months after our break up.

She was a mess. Looked and smelled like it.

“Let’s try again” She begged.

I shook my head in disbelief of how much worse she had become.

“I can get better” she assured me.

I had to keep the tears from falling.

The girl I fell in love with was no longer there.

I couldn’t even recognize the one standing in front of me.

Hair, greasy and disheveled. Eyes, red with dark circles under them.

She kept shaking and scratching her arms as she cried and pleaded.

I wanted to embrace her in my arms and make her feel I was there and that she was safe.

But I could only look at her in shock.

My silence triggered her into another furious rant.

I closed my eyes.

I’m sorry I cannot save you.

 

Not a year had passed since then.

And there she was in front of me looking a lot better.

Healthier.

Peaceful.

My eyes started to water as I stared at her.

I wanted to be the man she needed.

But I was not strong enough then.

And though a lot stronger now, I know I’m no longer needed.

The idea broke my heart.

 

I looked at her and couldn’t help but wonder how different now would have been if I didn’t give up.

 

I wanted to say I’m sorry

That I want to take her back.

No. I want her to take ME back.

That I am no longer weak.

That I can change into the person we both knew she needed.

That I will not leave her side no matter how crazy it gets.

That I never stopped loving her.

That I will try to be her hero.

I wanted to tell her so many things but I don’t think the glass would let her hear.

 

I wanted to caress her face with my finger.

I wanted to hug her and feel her heart beat next to mine.

I wanted to kiss her… I wanted to feel her breath before the kiss.

I wanted her hand on mine… fingers interlaced with mine.

I wanted to hold her and never let her go but I don’t think the glass between us would make her feel.

 

I wanted to beg on my knees.

To scream.

I wanted to break the glass between us.

But I knew.

I knew that even without the glass she would just lay there.

Lifeless.

Unmoving.

Unmoved.

Glass by Shayma’a Ahmed

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By Shayma’a Abdullah

You think you’re tough, huh?

I can see right through you

You pretend not to care

Not to hurt

But in essence,

You’re fragile.

You sport this facade of indifference

I can see it’s all pretense

Show emotion for once!

Cold

Hard

Deflecting any human warmth

Any passion

Someday

One day

Someone will come along

And shatter your fortress of glass

To let life in

Let love in

I can be that someone

And I promise to stay

Glass by Merriam AlFuhaid

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By Merriam Al Fuhaid

I sat myself beneath the window, on the window seat. I’m going to pray, I told myself. My throat automatically clenched in resistance. I’ve got to, I said to it.

I had no right to ask God for anything, and I wouldn’t have usually, but by now I was willing to try anything. And I suspected that everything else I’d tried in the past month was an excuse to avoid trying this.

“Dear God,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

I paused so long I must have looked like I was expecting a reply. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for what I did. I wish I hadn’t lied to everyone so that I could see him, and I very definitely wish I hadn’t seen him. If I could take back that night, believe me God, I would.

“I’m asking you to forgive me and even though I wonder how I dare, I’m also asking you to help me. I know I deserve to suffer. But I want the dreams to stop—I want to go through the day without guilt weighing heavy on my stomach. I want to go out with my friends without asking myself if they would associate with me if they knew. I want to look my mother in the eye. She doesn’t know and she won’t find out—being sorry I lied doesn’t mean I’m sorry I’m a good liar—but every time she tells me she’s proud of me I feel like I won the game but cheated to get there. She loves me but I don’t deserve it, and I can’t let myself cry in front of her, it would be so selfish, but the tears fall on the inside like drops of acid. I almost wish she would find out, but she deserves to think she has a good daughter even if it isn’t true, doesn’t she? Just as I deserve to be suffering.”

Tears had welled up in my eyes at this point and were edging their way from the corners. The words were tumbling out now but I didn’t feel better; instead, I felt like I was reciting a list of all my shortcomings and confirming their existence. “I think I’ve suffered enough, though!” I added defiantly. “I’ve hurt myself more than anyone. Please let me stop hating myself. I haven’t seen him in a month, and I’m never going to again. I promise.”

I felt no change. Why should I? If God was how they said, He was angry with me right now. I unclasped my hands and looked up through the window at the full moon shining brightly in the sky—pure, whole, beautiful. If only those words could have been used to describe me.  Perhaps they never could have been used to paint an accurate picture of the girl I was and had been, but suspicion and assumption deal much softer blows than hard knowledge. I had never been what they wanted me to be or what everything around me told me I ought to be, but I had never acted on it before. Last month a line had been crossed, and now I was ostracized from the ranks of the righteous even though they did not know what I had done, rather because I knew where I did not belong and had ostracized myself.

I walked away from the window and took a small paper bag off of my dresser, reaching inside and pulling out a dreamcatcher. It had a round straw frame with string wrapped around it like a cobweb, and feathers and large glass beads dangled from the bottom. The woman I had bought it from today had informed me it would keep nightmares from reaching my sleeping head. This proposition had a decidedly pagan flavor to it but I figured since I was already outside acceptable moral territory I might as well get as much as I could out of it. And maybe it would make the dreams stop. Now as I looked at it, I wondered why I should have so much trouble believing in God or a divine plan when I was gullible enough to throw away cash on a straw net to scare off nightmares. I hated myself at that moment for buying something so silly. Then I hung it up in my window anyway and hated myself a little bit more. As I lay my head down on my pillow, waiting for sleep to engulf my mind, I reflected that this was at least a break in the monotony of hating myself for the usual stuff.

I awoke to the weekend sun warming my face, and I shielded my eyes as I opened them and began to stretch. At least the moon was a gentle reminder of my sullied virtue—the sun, bright and intense with its unblemished light, I literally could not look at. I threw my feet out of bed, but to my surprise, when I looked down I saw a dozen little rainbows dotting the floor and tattooing my skin. My eyes went to the dreamcatcher in the window, and I saw that the glass beads had acted as prisms and split the white light into all the colors of the visible spectrum. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet…Roy G. Biv. The colors of the rainbow as taught to me by my third grade science teacher, and all the wonder I had felt at the time, the wonder that all those vibrant colors could be disguised in the hue of nothingness, came flooding back to me. The sun blinded and shamed me, but the rainbows enthralled me, and yet they were really the same thing.

Nobody could look at the sun, could they? I thought. All the natural light and color in the world came from the sun, but nobody could look the origin in the eye. They washed it down, diluted it, and divided it because they just couldn’t take the real thing. Some people saw the moon and adored it for its gentle reflected light, but others got their sun running down the beach watching it dance on sea-green waves like folds of sequined satin, and still there were others who shut their eyes and were content to feel the sun on their skin, knowing they could never use their primitive human eyes to see it for what it was but that love did not require understanding. Then there were those who couldn’t take the light of the real world at all and glued their faces to mirrors and TV screens, or, in my case, to their reflection in a teardrop. But there was no reason for me to do that anymore, because in that moment I realized I’d ever seen anything so beautiful as a rainbow.

I didn’t fall to my knees and pray that morning. I wouldn’t for a long time. But a few of the stones dragging down my heart were gone, and over breakfast when my mother smiled at me, I liked it. And I smiled back.

Glass by Fatma AlSumaiti

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By Fatma Al Sumaiti

She walked to the end of the room and placed her palm on the window.   What happened last night scattered her already shattered pieces.  Lifting her hand off the glass, she curled her fingers and knocked slowly on the window.  So solid, she thought, so together.

If pieces of sand could come together when under pressure, why is it that humans fall apart?

She rested her forehead on the window and closed her eyes.  It was unbelievable how tremendous the void at her center was.  How her mind had suddenly lost touch with the rest of her being along with her surroundings.  It was absolutely numbing how her heart murmured so quietly.

She felt as if she’s floating into a realm of numb torment.  A state of overwhelming feeling and lack of it all together.

This cannot be the life she was meant to lead.  She dove into her thoughts wondering what it was that fractured her.  Was it an inevitable closure to years of emotional crusades?  Or was she supposed to break because people break all the time?

All this pain.  All this confusion.  This overwhelming feeling that she is alone twirled her into foreign and monstrous darkness.

She took nine excruciatingly slow steps away from the window.

She ran.

Crashed into the glass.  Felt every shred make its way into her skin.  Bleeding out all that pain.

All that confusion.

She flew into the darkness she chose, and away from the abyss that was pulling her deeper.

Glass by Alexis White

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By Alexis White

“Mommy! You’re back!” I yelled as I ran into her arms and squeezed her tightly. She had only been gone for two days but for a seven year old it felt like ages. An eternity without hugs, laughs, jokes, or trying to figure out which language she was speaking in.

“Damme beso.” she said, leaning down and kissing my forehead.

“Gimme a kiss in Spanish!” I screeched with excitement while returning her kisses.

“Come on Fatz, keep me company while I make breakfast. Do you want pancakes?”

“Yes! And bacon!”

I sat down at the table as she gathered ingredients and cooking utensils from around the kitchen. I watched her intensely as if she would disappear any moment and for the first time that morning really noticed her face. Her smooth sand colored skin was shattered with pink and red scratches all over it. It was as if she had mistakenly lain down onto a pillow full of sharpened glass.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked. “Is it my face? It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No Fatz, it doesn’t hurt. Not anymore.”

“My heart hurts whenever this happens“

“Don’t worry I’m not going back to him anymore.”

“I don’t believe you. You said that last time” I whispered as tears began to roll down my cheeks.

And she did go back. She went back to him for years. More scratches, more cuts, more bruises, and more heartaches.

“I just don’t get why you’re still with him. What happens if you can’t put yourself back together again? What happens to me and Lenny when he finally breaks you?” I questioned in such a tone that let her know empty words were not going to appease me for I was no longer a seven year old whispering the inevitable under my breath.

My mother looked at me and saw the tears that once filled my eyes were now replaced with anger bitterness.

“It doesn’t matter if I go back or not but I promise you this, and that is that no one can or will ever break me. Or you unless you let them. That you can believe”   

And she kept her promise and eventually she kept her sandy smooth skin. But more importantly she kept her spirit and resolved to never be broken.

Glass by Wil

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By Wil

I have an uncle who is a glass artist. When I was a kid, I never really had much appreciation for his work

but I used to love walking into his studio. This is not like any other studio I have seen. It had what I can only describe as a glass studio smell. Slightly acrid. But clean. The place always had a sense of calm. Three or four rooms. Bigger than any other studio I’ve been in, come to think of it. Electric and gas kilns. Within these – fire, intense heat.

A sense of danger narrowly avoided whenever I walked into the main kiln room and saw its large lid hanging heavily. Perhaps some melted colourful artworks laying inside, cooling after having been in the violent, furnace-like temperatures all night. Melted from jagged piles of glass shards and pellets into truly beautiful rainbow coloured plates, platters, fish, panels and the like. 3 phase electrical cabling snaking to fuse boxes, the sense of a complex, technical operation that my grandfather, an electrical engineer, needed to help set up.

After growing up, I remember being proud to have him as an uncle because he had some success as an artist, with commissioned works in a number of buildings in the city. I remember my first job out of university, doing disability support pension assessments. When I walked into the foyer of the big building where I was working there were three of his works on pedestals in the middle of the space, lit up. It felt special having a connection to these large artworks which the thousands of people who used the building every day must have seen.

None of this is about the actual activity of glass artwork, though. This is because, for most of my life, I never really knew what that was like. I only ever saw the products, like a large tall fountain in his garden with many long, elegant glass rails vertically arranged so the water came out the top and trickled down them. These sorts of objects were large, impressive – but not so much as to make me keen about being a glass artist. When actual glass art is being rendered, it is one of the most intense, impressive displays of skill you can imagine. I’ve only mentioned kilns so far, but glass blowing is another main way to make glass art. Imagine this. The artist gets a metre long metal tube. A gob of molten glass is attached to the end of it. They then insert this into a white hot furnace, rotating the rod to make the glass hot again. Then comes the awesome bit. The glass artist then takes it out of the furnace, puts the other end of the tube to their mouth, and blows a bubble into the glass! Yes, hot, molten glass gets blown from the end of a metal tube. Whoever initially thought of this must have been written off as a crazy. When trying to recruit their first students, they must have been accused of looking for victims.

To watch a glass blower is to watch someone playing on the edge of a cliff. Another thing is that you touch the molten glass. Almost. You put a wad of wet padding in your hand. And roll the rod to smooth the glass and shape the bubble you are blowing. All that is between the artist and a trip to hospital is a steady hand and good communication with your assistant. You go back and forth between this blazing furnace, paying close attention so as not to make it too hot and lose all your work in one quick sorry slop of molten liquid into its white hot, roaring depths. You might want to give the bubble a distended shape by making it really hot then swinging it. Yes, the artist stands there in his studio swinging molten glass around with just the right force so it doesn’t fly off the end of the tube and hit a bystander in the face but changes shape into the makings of a nice vase. Then one might wish to add layers to the shape, like some thin strands of coloured glass followed by more shaping with a wad protected hand. A keen sense of timing is required. The artist displays a impressive awareness of how quickly the glass cools, and what can be attempted sensibly during the brief window when the glass is at the right temperature. It is amazing to watch a piece take shape from such a dangerous medium. All of the tense, precise action of a glass sculptor makes their clay, stone and bronzework counterparts look like whimps, painters like timid, mute ghosts.

They get to break the glass. It gets cracked, gently, off the end of the rod. This is done with water. Rotating the rod, you chill a thin band of the glass at the end of the tube so a fracture appears. Then it easily breaks off.

You have an artwork, born from fire, sweat and danger.

Then you get to give it a name. Then you get to put it in an exhibition. If you used a new style, you get to name the style and that will be included in the description of the work in the gallery. People look at what you have done. Large gatherings come to the opening, speeches are made, conversations, ideas, laughter and wine flow. People buy your artwork and are proud to display it in their homes and offices. You get interviewed. My uncle was even interviewed for the national archives.

This makes me think about my own life and the reasons behind my chosen profession. Now, after 2.5 years of study and 2.5 years of experience I am finding none of this excitement and notoriety. I expect none in the future. I have written a poem even about how mine is a life of unerring conscientiousness. When I was deciding what to study, I had a fear that I must avoid being looked down on. That I must avoid being seen as stupid. Even if it meant I overlooked doing what I loved. What I respected others for doing. If I’d been without that fear I probably would have done an arts PhD and become a professor.

Then I remember something my cousin, his son, said when he chose to study economics and avoid the art world, despite the benefit his father’s talent and knowledge could offer in an embarking on an arts career.  They were always poor. I guess that would definitely be too hard for my fragile ego to handle. I wanted to be rich and respected. I felt that I was neither when deciding what to study at university.

Glass by Quamar Al-Mumin

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By Quamar Al Mumin

I remember holding my napkin just a little too tight. I leaned to the side and whispered in your ear, “Am I doing the right thing?” Giving me a sad smile, you replied with the question, “Do you?” and then you tapped your glass lightly on mine, held it up, held your glance on my eyes and sipped. I gulped, dry mouth, shaking fingers, a light pout.

You then turned away to face the guests, a sea of pastel fabrics and suits. The clicking of cutlery, sly murmurs and giggles filled the air. The temperature was heating up, beads of sweat made their way down my back. I tugged lightly at my pearl necklace, was it getting tighter? The room seemed to be shrinking as well.

Suddenly I was very aware of the ring on my left hand. As my eyes glazed over to it, it turned into a chain. I blinked rapidly, and with every blink the chain grew, gliding up my arm. I turned to you and tried to speak, but no words would come out. The chain wrapped itself around my neck, and slowly began to tighten. But when I grabbed desperately at it, a chain it was no longer. It felt like scales, cold, leathery scales. A hissing sound began in my right ear. I covered it with the palm of my hand, but the hissing grew louder.

I opened my mouth, eyes wide, darting back and forth, but I couldn’t get my vocal cords to cooperate. The people around me continued to converse, giggles turned into hysterical laugher. Thunder erupted when a fork fell to the floor. Helpless, my eyes shot straight to the glass in front of me and without thinking, I grabbed it, broke it on the table and swung it at my neck. I heard a lady scream and drew my eyebrows together in confusion. My head felt heavy, and as if not under my control it swung down on the table. All pain aside, it was surprisingly fascinating to watch the pattern of red bloom in contrast to the white table cloth.

Glass by Dina Al-Awadhi

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By Dina Al Awadhi

Trapped inside a glass bauble

I am numb

blurry images    muddled voices

a shadowed void of nothingness

suffocating          eternal

the fog descends and I am lost

I found The Crocodile in the great black pool

with tawny glinting eyes

a grin full of sharp black needles

How do I get out? I begged her

She leered at me, the needles growing sharper

the black gloam of the pool greater

a voice embodied the mist

 

Break the glass that binds you,

do not forget, or be forgot.

and a steel hammer appeared by my cold bare toes

I squinted at her and cried But this too heavy!

my fingers fumbling with the large instrument

The Crocodile’s glinting eyes narrowed

Do not stop until you break the glass.

She cautioned her scaly head

disappearing in the dark ripples

Tick tock. The Crocodile croaked

And her jewel eyes were

gone

I cried once more              then

taken with a sudden fear

stumbled through the mist heaving the great hammer along

my footsteps grew heavier

my heartbeat thudded slower

my eyelids drooped lower

 

Tick tock. The Crocodile croaked

And so I raced harder

dragging my legs through the mud

searching, searching for the walls

of my glass cage

when I suddenly slipped upon a sea of flowers

an ocean of lush greens blossoming

The Crocodile’s voice echoed in my mind

but the fragrance was

numbing

I slowed to a stop

I sank to my knees

I drank in the sweet nectar of poppies

Tick tock. The Crocodile croaked.

But her voice was now hazy

the nectar the stronger

her stark warning             forgotten

I spread out in my field of red poppies

glassy-eyed         the pale misted sky

I smiled dimly

And beside the steel hammer

that lay resting forgotten

by my side

were a hundred thousand million

hammers

all forgotten as well

Glass by Osman Naeem

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By Osman Naeem

What constitutes the word glass?
I’m not going back to secrets or scratches
I’m here to light your candles without a box of safety matches
Talking about Newton splitting light with prisms in the attic
bulletproof windshields, dreams and even a little magic
Bending them makes existence vivid
Take a look through a pair of eyeglasses

Take a look at the sands of time inside an hourglass
What’s now in your sight incites anxiousness in spite of the fact
That what was once solid ground is now a quicksand
As the shapeless ghost of pain
confined by glass in a memory encased by an old leather frame
Stares through the raindrops racing down the window pane
Wishing that the summer came, delving into restlessness

Take a look from the pupils of a soldier walking on debris
Shattered glass, flooding the ground
trapping the battle cries and screams beneath
We’ve got five senses but an infinite spectrum to see
There’s no world, just a few billion understandings of it
A glass is made of shades that we can’t perceive
Yet we claim to know all and judge blindly
Now that’s a shade of irony

Moving on, we too bend and reflect and refract
Because these words are a medium for minds to interact
Make eye contact with eyes shut and even for those with Cataract
Be it a piece of silicon dioxide or an ancient artifact
This is the truth through my vision as clear as glass in the fist of a Nihilist
Possessions inevitably cease to last
as they eventually disintegrate and fade away
Into the realm of blissful yesterdays
Life is meant for you to live, not just exist.

Glass by Shahd AlShammari

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By Shahd Al Shammari

They promised us that after death, the stage would be reset, and I would be reborn.

There would be no more suffering, no more of that that thing we had grown accustomed to: pain.

But first, they handed us a paper:

I, Patient Number 001, I, the undersigned, I, the Body. I hereby declare that I will not come at you, Doctors, with Knives. I will Not Protest. My ghost will not haunt you, under the circumstance of my possible death.

I gambled. I signed. I didn’t believe in Ghosts anyway.

They threw their heads back, laughed in triumph. The Experiment was on its way.

Darkness came, I lost all five senses. Except my sixth –the sense that you were still there.

And with each cry that escaped my lips, you cried louder: your gasps echoed the murder.

They said you shouldn’t be in the O.R. and shoved you behind glass doors.

And then slowly, precisely, they cut through my flesh, and you bled.

All I heard were muffled screams and you, outside, begging to be let in.

Glass by Batool Hasan

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By Batool Hasan

Streams of hazy sunshine flow into the room through the cracks in the shutters of the windows. My eyes flutter, causing me to swim in a state between consciousness and fuzzy dreams. I catch a glimpse of my room, the contents of my closet were thrown madly on the floor, and my clothes were sprawled all across, almost covering every inch of it. I open my eyes again; a little more steady this time. The outlines of my clothes merge with the furniture hiding under it, giving my room the feel of a creepy dump. A wave of nausea crashes over me, but it’s not from dizziness; it’s from the stench that’s leaking into my lungs.

I did it again.

I look down to see vomit coating me from hips to ankles, pooling a little on the patch of Persian rug beneath me. I inch a little further to the right, getting a clear view of myself in the dusty freestanding full-length mirror.  An image of myself appears as I shudder. A few drops of vomit stain my tank top, my legs masked with the rest of the foul substance. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to force the image out of my head.

Please make it go away.

Tell me that I didn’t do it again.

I ball my hands into fists, hoping to keep them from clawing at my thighs, and I find myself sinking into an old memory.

I was standing in front of the very same tall mirror, staring blankly when a girl manifested out of the mirror before me. Her eyes were a void drawing me in, as dark as stars that had burned out eons ago. She had the type of facial features that resembled a lion’s expression while hunting his prey. You could count the bones in her body just by looking at her. My thighs looked far too meaty next to her slender ones, my hips were too wide in comparison to her narrow waist. She asked about my jeans, the one I bought two months and a week ago. My eyes started darting across the room, hoping to avoid her gaze. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of confessing that I couldn’t squeeze my legs into them anymore.

She laughed and told me to stop being silly. She gestured for me to come closer, her eyes never leaving mine. She taught me her magical trick; it was really easy! All I had to do was stick my toothbrush down my throat and vomit until I bled.

Over the nights, I saw more and more of her.

“Do you really need to eat that? Are you really hungry?” she’d ask and I’d shove my plate away. So, I skipped a few meals to keep her happy, but a few meals turned to many skipped dinners and lunches, and purging became a routine.

She became cruel, softness and grace no longer lingered in the air around her. Her demands dug daggers into my stomach, traced the outlines of my bones and tore at the flesh. She refused to let me taste anything other than the emptiness she served. I wasn’t miserable, I was quite happy actually; joy rose to my ears at the thought of people whispering behind my back about how skinny I’ve gotten. The image Ana was desperate to achieve became my reality; my body was made of sticks covered with a rough layer of thin skin.

Ana was proud and so was I.

Calories were the enemy and Ana was my guardian, she would never let me fall victim to weakness again.

“You already look like a whale, do you really need to put on more layers of fat? Have some paper and water instead!”

Her devils ran loose in my veins, stealing what was left of my energy. Her demons held the gun, but don’t you see?

Ana didn’t pull the trigger because I was the killer.

I was a senior at her academy and even crawling started to hurt. Ana had me paralyzed in place while she finished off the part of me that wanted to fight back. I might have been sixteen years old but I had the weight of a ten year old.

Then came the day I got caught during one of our meetings. My family rushed me into the hospital while yelling prayers at the top of their lungs, but the damage was done. I woke up in a cold white room, an IV line hooked to the vein in my left arm, and a doctor with a sour expression stood at the foot of the hospital bed. He picked up my file and apologized for what he was about to say. “Your periods stopped, but you already know that don’t you?” he turned his face to the side, staring at an invisible spot on the wall as he continued.

“Do you understand the severity of your situation? You’ll never have kids. You are suffering from extreme malnutrition and if your weight keeps dropping, young lady, you’re going to die. Your heart can’t take any more beating.” The doctor sighed and left the room. For the first time in three years, I was completely alone.

The next few weeks were a blur caught between an emotional tornado and a vicious hurricane. My family members made sure to invest every waking hour in drowning my ears with the cries of their disappointment. They glared at me as the stale hospital food traveled down my throat to rest inside my stomach.

The memory crumbles and I return back to my room.

It’s been three and a half years since I’ve met Ana, fifteen days since my last visit to the doctor.

I am not made of fragile glass; I refuse to let you crack my surface.

I am not made of clay, you don’t have the right to invade my body and mold it to fit your desire.

I grab the scale hiding under the far end of my bed and thrust it at the mirror. It collides noisily with the smooth reflective surface, glass shards clatter and dance at my feet.

Life sucks and then you die, Ana.