just another collection of writings
my love is like a pomegranate, seeds ripped from inner skin
staining fingers ruby red, forbidden fruit of sin
my love is like an orange, most bright of citrus prizes
fragrant walls guard sweetest flesh, served in perfect slices
my love is a commodity, fruit found in any aisle
it rots if its left out too long, becomes something defiled.
Upon a visit to The Great Tapestry of Scotland in Galashiels, I was overcome by the immense beauty and presence of women in every single panel that caught my eye, even if they were doing the most mundane things. Embroidering, washing, waulking, healing, smiling, mourning. History isn’t history without all of that. Life givers, life sustainers, women are present through it all. When a baby is born, who nurses and holds the child to protect it? When the old and frail are close to death, who have so often been at the bedside nursing them into the beyond?
Women are so beautiful. Their passion, their hands, their work and their love.
In particular, I was struck by panel 39, titled “Waulking”, threaded in Gairloch by the Wester Ross Waulkers. Waulking, for those who don’t know, is the process of preparing cloth for use by cleaning and thickening it by way of repetitive beating- and urine. The ammonia in the urine helped to remove oil and impurities in the wool, which allowed for the next steps of thickening the cloth using friction and pressure. This sounds like a dirty task to anyone. Getting your hands all up in your neighbor’s piss? And it has traditionally been a women’s job throughout Scottish history, and a source of pride! Why?
Because of the music that came from this process! When the women of a village would sit around a table with their woolen cloth, a precise and steady pace needed to be maintained, and thus a rhythmic song was born. Waulking was not just a stinky, urine-soaked, arm-tiring chore. It was a musical event, community bonding, and the sacrifice of women coming together to make something possible. The smell of piss is nothing compared to the fun and rhythm felt among friends.
And that’s what I think is so beautiful about women in history. They have been gifted such an irreplaceable role by the Divine. Though cultures have devalued, decentralized, and demonized women throughout the centuries of life on this planet, their love and handiwork freaking persist.
God knitted in women the innate desire to love. To create. To nurture. For some women, that meant having children. For others, that meant healing soldiers on the battlefield. For others, that meant providing for a family, blood kin or not. But women have almost always been creators. The Creator shared a sliver of his Divine role when he formed woman from the rib of man. In her, he imbued the ability to create and sustain life, even outside the womb. The touch of a woman’s fingers as she brushes the hair off the forehead of her friend, or the gentle way she holds the hand of a child. All are indicative of God’s intention for Her. And that cannot be erased!
Women were made to love. And god, have they loved. Throughout every age and myth and legend, women have loved. Clytemnestra, Penelope, Nefertiti, Hua Mulan, Chang’e, the Trung sisters, Boudica, Saint Olga, Catherine of Aragon. All loved in different, but eternal ways. They worked, and their work was love.
And it persists in women outside of legend. The women whose names have been lost to history. The women we don’t know anything about, other than they existed. Wives, mothers, sisters, grandmothers. Every single woman and their work is a beautiful, irreplaceable stitch in the giant Tapestry that is Creation.
I think we undervalue that.
–
Anyway, I didn’t proofread any of this so forgive the word vomit. Just had to get it out there.
my love makes me a wild animal, teeth bared at nature’s whim. feral and snarling, ugly and desperate, it tears me limb from limb.
my love fills me like a fever, rotting fruit in heat of day. sickly sweet, the cloying scent masks the stench of decay.
my love rusts me like a long lost spoon, sunken to the depths of sea. it eats away at what is left till all remains debris.
my love makes me like a wounded dog, leg trapped in metal claws. i bite and rage, and yet still crave release in loving arms.
-leisan yusupov, september 13, 2025
Her face is poised and ever-sweet, full of grace and love.
Her mantle frames her lovely smile; her hands point far above.
Folded in such perfect prayer, a tear rolls down her cheek.
Her Son adored, her Son abhored,
and so much more beneath.
Ne’er a sin her soul to stain, was her grace divine?
A gift from God, so true and just,
A gift that’s never mine?
I do not want to be this way, I know it’s sin to covet.
But when I see her dainty wrists, my shame rises above it.
The perfect woman, mother, wife, with faith that’s never shaken.
The purest heart within her chest,
A Mother’s love awakened.
In thought, word, deed, I ever sin against the Holy Father.
My armor ripped from off my body,
What’s a knight without her honour?
I’ll always crave to be like her, and do His will like she.
But with this blacked stain of sin, will I ever be free?
-Leisan Yusupov, September 10 2025
Kind of a funny image- initially. The King of kings holding a trash bag while I empty cat litter into it?! What a weird idea.
But it’s not, really. When Christ says He is with us always- till the end of time, it also means in mundane (and stinky) moments like this.
We bring Him glory when we go and shout His name and good news from the rooftops of nations who don’t know Him- but we also bring Him glory by doing the duties He has set before us. Emptying litter boxes that are so noxious even Michael the Archangel would gag, collecting trash and rolling it to the curb, unloading dishes, and cleaning the homes and spaces He has given us.
All of this is work He has tasked us to do for his glory, and each one, no matter how gross, is a way to worship Him. Whether that’s doing a chore without grumbling when your mother asks, because He commands us to honor our Fathers and Mothers- or whether it’s just quietly praying that you don’t throw up while emptying litter. He sees all of it.
That’s what moved me to make this image. It came into my head while I was journaling, and I felt moved to put it to paper in the best way I knew how.
…And before I knew it… it was 12:30 am.
i’m still very new to this whole… writing thing. for a while there, i just refused to have anything to do with it, because i figured, why do something i know i’m not good at? but i’ve been challenging that, which is why i made this blog. and i’ve written a lot of poems in the past few weeks.
but there’s one thing i’ve noticed.
there seems to be something lacking in my poems that use first person pronouns (ie. i, me, my, etc.)
and i don’t know why that is? is it a self perceived flaw in my own writing? i don’t think so, because i still enjoy the poems i write that talk about me directly. but i think there’s an air of fantasy and dreaminess that is lost when a poem is so blatantly about a person’s own experience.
that’s not to say poems shouldn’t be about our experiences, nor is it to say poets who use first person language are bad at their job. both are incorrect! there is value in all forms of art.
but the reason i ponder this is because i am challenging myself. that’s what this whole season is about, no? first, i challenged myself by actually writing something. then, i shared it with someone in private. then, i made my writing public. all three seemed like impossibilities a few years ago,
but i’ve gotten over the initial mountains now. i’m at a good baseline. so why not challenge myself with something hard?
this past weekend, i set myself a goal to write a poem or two that expressed my personal experiences without using first person pronouns or language. a poem that is about me- but not about me.
it’s weird! i’ll tell you that! and the funny thing i’ve noticed is that since setting this challenge, i’ve had an influx of inspiration for poems that do use first person language. which i take as it comes, of course. inspiration is a gift, no matter what for.
but i wonder does anyone else feel the same way? does it ever feel like things have become shallow and vain as self obsession becomes more normalized? will humans ever take time to stoop at a riverside and see their warped reflection in the flowing water, ever changing, or will we forever condemn ourselves to the exact replica we see in selfie cameras?
same goes for poetry, or writing in general. what happened to metaphors?! what happened to symbolism!? the youth must bring back the archaic and mysterious language that had 8th grade english teachers frothing at the mouth with excitement!
more to follow, perhaps. we shall see.
Leisan Yusupov, 2025
You’ll find me in the holler,
maybe even past that.
In a field in my boots and dress,
hair bunched under my hat.
Goats and chickens at my feet,
geese and horses too.
Reeds brush ‘gainst my calves,
still wet with morning dew.
You’ll find me in the holler,
that’s where I’ll make my home.
Where there are endless fields and hills,
for my kids to roam.
My hands will scar and callous,
the work will make them rough.
But everything I touch,
will be filled with love.
You’ll find me in the holler,
underneath my willow.
Listening to my windchimes,
head on the grassy pillow.
A sanctuary I will build,
like I’ve always dreamed.
In forests that know me by name,
and valleys that live and breathe.
—
this one is about my daydreams to live in the middle of nowhere with only my husband, children, and livestock. somewhere beautiful where we will build a beautiful life!
Leisan Yusupov, 2025
there’s something ’bout your arms round me that feeds me like i’m hungry
you’ve loved me through my good and bad, my desperate and my ugly.
i guess i’ll have to ask the Lord on that final day
what i did to deserve my most perfect cliche.
these words have all been said before, you know that i love you
but i’ll never have a brother who knows me quite as true.
the world can stand against me, and i can still stand tall
because i know you’re with me, through big and through small.
—
another one abt my best friend! it’s crazy how inspiring love is. love has driven people to write and create for millenia, and it’s still doing so now. half the songs on the radio are about romantic love, and while i am a romantic, there is still something so soft about the gentle platonic love between two best friends.
anyway, go check out his blog at https://musingsofamoron5.wordpress.com/
it’s nice to be tethered
to someone i love dearly.
it’s good to feel safe
and be safe in return.
i love without condition
and i am loved sincerely.
i never have to fear the sting
of vicious words that burn.
this is a special thing, you know
once in a blue moon.
it all starts with a single word
and lasts until the tomb.
i’ll love you till i’m in the dirt
as i know will you.
together till we’re dead and gone
and maybe past that too.
—
Leisan Yusupov, March 16, 2025
Fun fact: this one is about my best friend!
We run from something every day,
It finds us even in the dark,
A whispered plea is what I pray,
My words in air create a spark,
I run beneath the scorching sun,
They watch me flee my monster, blue,
I cannot beat the cocking gun,
My feet they drag, my concrete shoes,
My hecklers scream for me to “GO!”
My knees buckle and meet the ground.
With too much water, plants can’t grow,
And so I drown in deaf’ning sound,
The pressure drums my aching head,
But if I fail, I’m better dead.
—
Leisan Yusupov, 2019
Fun fact- I wrote this for my 9th grade English class!
Sonnets follow this specific rhyme scheme: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG!
lei is me 