The Egyptian

I wrote this for Read Write Poem Prompt # 78: Kiss Me, Amelia Earhart. I decided to approach this a little differently, as there are so many historical figures I would like to write about — so this is kind of a longer narrative of how one woman graces the lives of several. Also, I decided not to limit myself to the idea of love in the romantic sense — but it is here, as you can see in the poem. I hope you like it.

And BTW, I highly encourage you to click on the links for further understanding. They will open in another tab or as a pop-up window, depending on your browser. One can understand the poem without them, but after my first experiment with hyperlinked poetry, it seemed that this one begged for it.



green jaws
seize a brown body
clamp down
the crocodile is hungry
this young woman will do

white triangles
stained, dripping with red
color the Nile carmine
in this spot


the black night
blinks her white eye
in slow motion

and stares upon
the young woman with
perfect unbroken body
and tattered, black braids
walking the shores where
she had become lunch

even the Nile wonders

why is she here?


she spins metal
her three hundred and sixty degree
revolutionary blade
creates a silver sun that burns
blood lines into skin

her teacher, holy
tan, lanky, and bald
smooth all over from
giving his hair up to
the glory and service of

his voice
almost a whisper
blooms in this
lamp-lit night

your name
will be an ever-changing thing
mutating with time and age
you will never be the same
and as long as you play The Game
you must remember

in the end
there can only be one



behind a sarcophagus
endless origami
black tissue folding, moving, flying

clothed in white nothingness
with eyes of
ebony polished stones
jewels set in clean ivory ovals
their curves caressed by kohl
borders, black and perfect
she stares
into a smooth, wordless, carved face
of peach stone

I loved you
sun child

brown fingers trace
his stone face
she turns
then returns
to the shadows
a whisper of footsteps

then quiet


the living ghost
of dead myrrh
blooming below her nose
in her hands
cannot slow down her tears
this is the last thing that
she can ever give him

flanked by female pillars
she can barely build back
the strength into her own bones
enough to walk

she stops and stares at the tomb
a scrubbed white maw
now wide open
the choked up stone laying
aside, silent and unsurprised

a white veil hides her
Egyptian eyes and
obsidian waterfall hair

but he sees through
her womanly curtain
and softly calls her name



a turbaned dark man
eyes softened
their usual fire shed
and tumbling down into water
which makes rivers on his
brown cheeks
and then disappears into a
forest of black hair
growing upon his chin

Allah calls you,

she says

and the shadows call me
I am older than this time
and you cannot know me
will Paradise hold me?

I can never know

but you can never
love me

she turns
veils softly murmuring her name
Isha, Isha
as she disappears deep
into the garden


she wipes the sweat
from his brow
a clean white sari
winds its way around
her lithe body


she says

you cannot die now
we need you
for you have shown us
that truth is God
and tyrants will always fall
before the will of the divine
you are the closest thing to Ram
that we have, gently
breathing and walking upon
this here Earth
this is why
we call you Mahatma

he looks up at her
finds the strength to shine
a weak smile into her eyes
and laughs
and says

I am not that great, Amita
you give me too much credit, dear girl
truth is bigger than all of us
and you must always

will always change hate
into love


twin mocha moons
their faces locked together
by a pair of parted red lips and
pink tongues

black hair rivers
curled and unspoken
flow onto white Parisian sheets
and pile into pre-dawn pools
upon pillows


then a break

do not leave me,

one whispers
but the other
breathes a lament laid down in a
bittersweet morning croon

je t’adore
but I cannot love you
enough for you to know
my flesh
my secret carried in skin cells
I must leave you now
but never forget

to speak sparkles
sing diamonds
and transmit rainbows through your skin
and always remember

that you are
une grande diva magnifique
and that you are


you cannot tell anyone
that I am here

she tells the young man
of fiery black eyes
and curly red-brown hair
standing before her

for a man with
giants of monsters of metal
roams these parts
he thinks that this is
his land
but Kokopelli says otherwise
we danced to the tune of his
sacred celebration flute
once upon a time
once upon these grounds

he cocks his head to one side
thoughts growing loud and large
shifts his weight
looks at her
and asks:

then why are you here, Una,
old woman with the
young face?

she smiles

I have loved many
and have seen much
and still I want to see more
you see

I have a sword
but it lies silent and clean
inside its sheath
it has not seen blood, has not
cleaved apart the interconnection of
veins and bone
for almost three thousand years
because the way of peace
is what I seek

and my kind
can only find it
upon holy ground

Written 6/8/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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About ravenswingpoetry

I am a 38 year old writer from Columbus, OH and the creator of Raven's Wing Poetry. I am a poet, seeker, fellow traveler, and autistic.
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9 Responses to The Egyptian

  1. Paul Oakley says:

    I was always fond of the Highlander movies and series. This adaptation of the concept certainly sucked me into its vortex.

    a white veil hides her
    Egyptian eyes and
    obsidian waterfall hair

    but he sees through
    her womanly curtain
    and softly calls her name


  2. If there can be only one, this one is certainly it.

    well done! So very well done.

  3. angie says:

    Oh, that was a great read! I love this whole concept–although I am a bit partial to “Una…” and her man with the “fiery eyes!”
    Beautifully done, seamless.
    (and the links were fun, too.)

  4. Katie says:

    wow…I read it once and then read it again and once more, that whole thing is worth a 5th and 6th read. It is just so beautiful. I especially loved this:

    behind a sarcophagus
    endless origami
    black tissue folding, moving, flying

    Thank you so much for sharing!

  5. Laura says:

    I will read and re-read this often. So many parallels, so little that truly separates us.

  6. Deb says:

    Fascinating, you’ve got an epic covered!

  7. Pingback: The Visitors | Raven's Wing Poetry

  8. Pingback: Aanteekwa Dreams of Poets, An Android, and An Electric Sheep | Raven's Wing Poetry

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