faleeha-hassan - Hello Poetry

To be a refugee Means you walk with a mute dignity And because the touch has a memory, you can no longer make another one, No sea can reveal to you the joy of its flowing and its every wave is shackled with corpses and identities of drowned people, no land will welcome your shy steps. To be a refugee You have to wear a stainless smile in front of their serrated gaze. You have to get rid of your ancient history, Your mother's prayer for your safety, which no longer works The wisdom of your ancestors, which they left to you before they disappeared into their graves. To be like me, You have to peel off your skin, pull out your tongue in order to get along with the crowds that are waiting for any slight movement from you to finish you off. Above you have to be very sane in the streets that know nothing but where madness erupts, And like swimming in a river of blood, you will remain stained until the end. Faleeha Hassan

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Mar 25, 2023

Mar 25, 2023 at 3:55 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

To be a refugee

To be a refugee Means you walk with a mute dignity And because the touch has a memory, you can no longer make another one, No sea can reveal to you the joy of its flowing and its every wave is shackled with corpses and identities of drowned people, no land will welcome your shy steps. To be a refugee You have to wear a stainless smile in front of their serrated gaze. You have to get rid of your ancient history, Your mother's prayer for your safety, which no longer works The wisdom of your ancestors, which they left to you before they disappeared into their graves. To be like me, You have to peel off your skin, pull out your tongue in order to get along with the crowds that are waiting for any slight movement from you to finish you off. Above you have to be very sane in the streets that know nothing but where madness erupts, And like swimming in a river of blood, you will remain stained until the end. Faleeha Hassan

14

Regardless of the fact that I will die like everything on this Earth And my body will become fertilizer for the trees Or Some of it will stick in the tires of cars Or Maybe hungry birds will crave pieces of meat and attack my body with their beaks I will become abandoned rubble Brooms will kick me from one garbage can to another I say: Despite all the bad thoughts that may grow in my head If I didn’t love you, would I survive?

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Nov 5, 2020

Nov 5, 2020 at 10:26 AM UTC

faleeha-hassan

If I didn’t love you, would I survive?

Regardless of the fact that I will die like everything on this Earth And my body will become fertilizer for the trees Or Some of it will stick in the tires of cars Or Maybe hungry birds will crave pieces of meat and attack my body with their beaks I will become abandoned rubble Brooms will kick me from one garbage can to another I say: Despite all the bad thoughts that may grow in my head If I didn’t love you, would I survive?

11

Two soldiers Let's celebrate Let us run to that hill Let us climb up the remains of that tank and sing Let us drink tea under this burned tree Smoke our last cigarettes It is not every day that the war can make dead bodies and we are not with them

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Sep 20, 2019

Sep 20, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

Two soldiers

Two soldiers Let's celebrate Let us run to that hill Let us climb up the remains of that tank and sing Let us drink tea under this burned tree Smoke our last cigarettes It is not every day that the war can make dead bodies and we are not with them

7

I'm crying Not because you squeezed my heart and threw it like a sponge into desert, Yes, I'm crying but not because you did not smile at me but your teeth look whiter than white when you saw a woman's shadow pass you, Yes, I'm crying but not because you are completely healed and no longer need my whisper to sleep, Not because you dedicated all the poems you wrote to me To another woman and she stupidly believed you, I'm crying but not because I threw my pillow and I will be Watchful all my life without you, Yes, I'm crying deeply because the Ice cream has melted before I got home and I didn't enjoy eating it.

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Sep 19, 2019

Sep 19, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

I'm crying

I'm crying Not because you squeezed my heart and threw it like a sponge into desert, Yes, I'm crying but not because you did not smile at me but your teeth look whiter than white when you saw a woman's shadow pass you, Yes, I'm crying but not because you are completely healed and no longer need my whisper to sleep, Not because you dedicated all the poems you wrote to me To another woman and she stupidly believed you, I'm crying but not because I threw my pillow and I will be Watchful all my life without you, Yes, I'm crying deeply because the Ice cream has melted before I got home and I didn't enjoy eating it.

10

When I drink tea in New Jersey Like a girl who writes poetry about a boy she has never seen My day sits with all this disappointment Counting her fleeting moments I remember my mother using the smell of onions To shed her tears in the kitchen For the absence of my father Who climbed his life war by war Whenever he wore his military belt He wished that war was just an old shoe He could take it off whenever he liked And he didn't need to think of fixing it at the cobbler's shop I remember my brother Who asked in his letters-- When will the war understand that we are not good at dealing with death? I remember us forty years ago We were kids, very much kids With colorful clothes and hearts It was enough for us to see a balloon To drown in big laughter I remember all this now When I drink my tea And I practice my loneliness.

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Sep 18, 2019

Sep 18, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

When I drink tea in New Jersey

When I drink tea in New Jersey Like a girl who writes poetry about a boy she has never seen My day sits with all this disappointment Counting her fleeting moments I remember my mother using the smell of onions To shed her tears in the kitchen For the absence of my father Who climbed his life war by war Whenever he wore his military belt He wished that war was just an old shoe He could take it off whenever he liked And he didn't need to think of fixing it at the cobbler's shop I remember my brother Who asked in his letters-- When will the war understand that we are not good at dealing with death? I remember us forty years ago We were kids, very much kids With colorful clothes and hearts It was enough for us to see a balloon To drown in big laughter I remember all this now When I drink my tea And I practice my loneliness.

20

Oh, Faleeha How brilliant is your future I whisper in my ear And pat my shoulder Every morning I open my day with a big lie I tell myself Faleeha leave the news to the promoters of rumors And the houses being bombed by skilled pilots They will be rebuilt immediately afterward Leave Iraqi women to be sold in the Sbaya Bazaar in Mosul Mothers will give birth to other daughters nine months later Don’t worry about the man who sells his life for a handful of coins under the sweltering sun One day he will be able to get a Chinese umbrella Don’t worry about your niece whose face now being eaten by skin cancer She will get through Photoshop a wonderful picture for her profile on Facebook Why do you look so long at picture of your friend who is missing from Kuwait war? He is lucky He survived the darkness of grave Oh, Faleeha Leave the children of Baghdad to wake up to violent explosions Music is no longer fit for their mornings Write down the martyrs names on a piece of a paper and place it in your old coat and leave it in the closet Or send it to the dry cleaners I’m tired of counting the names of the martyrs and the war never ends Faleeha Don’t plan for the future It is as a close as a sniper’s bullet Yes, I open my day with a big Big Big lie But no lie can cover the scary truth

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Sep 17, 2019

Sep 17, 2019 at 6:34 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

Credible lies

Oh, Faleeha How brilliant is your future I whisper in my ear And pat my shoulder Every morning I open my day with a big lie I tell myself Faleeha leave the news to the promoters of rumors And the houses being bombed by skilled pilots They will be rebuilt immediately afterward Leave Iraqi women to be sold in the Sbaya Bazaar in Mosul Mothers will give birth to other daughters nine months later Don’t worry about the man who sells his life for a handful of coins under the sweltering sun One day he will be able to get a Chinese umbrella Don’t worry about your niece whose face now being eaten by skin cancer She will get through Photoshop a wonderful picture for her profile on Facebook Why do you look so long at picture of your friend who is missing from Kuwait war? He is lucky He survived the darkness of grave Oh, Faleeha Leave the children of Baghdad to wake up to violent explosions Music is no longer fit for their mornings Write down the martyrs names on a piece of a paper and place it in your old coat and leave it in the closet Or send it to the dry cleaners I’m tired of counting the names of the martyrs and the war never ends Faleeha Don’t plan for the future It is as a close as a sniper’s bullet Yes, I open my day with a big Big Big lie But no lie can cover the scary truth

34

Oh, my god This poem! Whenever I try to make her stand on the reality line She flutters like Marilyn Monroe’s dress in the imaginations of men I tell her to keep herself on one meaning But she defies me While wearing the interpretation mask And when she tries to describe the battlefield She is looking for the effects of kisses On the collars of the soldiers who are tied down in their trenches With fear and hopelessness But if they were to be blown up And their bodies were every where Her words would be meaningless For she hiding behind symbolism She can’t sense the children’s horror from the bombs And their attempts to huddle against the remnants of destroyed walls Her cheeks do not hurt Like mothers’ cheeks dried of their hot tears poured while waiting for deferred letters from their absent sons She does not take the risk of thinking So, she can’t believe any truth She does not pay attention to my damaged life Which has been crushed by the harsh machine of days She is trying to make her words beautiful So, she sprinkles rose water on an erupting volcano She is too comfortable with death and even praises him She is summarizing all this loss, darkness, combustion, destruction, chemical weapons. black banners, coffins, skinning , deprivation, orphanages, curfews, warning, sirens, barbed wire, tanks, thrumming of planes, explosions. ****** blood shed on the side walk, death, ashes, displacement, emptiness, charred bodies, mass graves, coffins, body traps, yelling, sadness, anger, hunger, thirst, vigilance, slapping …. etc. She summarizes all of this in one ward War While I am, the poet stand in the middle Watching my body jump from death to death For nothing Just to let the poem come But after all this trouble She only comes imperfectly

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Sep 17, 2019

Sep 17, 2019 at 11:01 AM UTC

faleeha-hassan

unreachable

Oh, my god This poem! Whenever I try to make her stand on the reality line She flutters like Marilyn Monroe’s dress in the imaginations of men I tell her to keep herself on one meaning But she defies me While wearing the interpretation mask And when she tries to describe the battlefield She is looking for the effects of kisses On the collars of the soldiers who are tied down in their trenches With fear and hopelessness But if they were to be blown up And their bodies were every where Her words would be meaningless For she hiding behind symbolism She can’t sense the children’s horror from the bombs And their attempts to huddle against the remnants of destroyed walls Her cheeks do not hurt Like mothers’ cheeks dried of their hot tears poured while waiting for deferred letters from their absent sons She does not take the risk of thinking So, she can’t believe any truth She does not pay attention to my damaged life Which has been crushed by the harsh machine of days She is trying to make her words beautiful So, she sprinkles rose water on an erupting volcano She is too comfortable with death and even praises him She is summarizing all this loss, darkness, combustion, destruction, chemical weapons. black banners, coffins, skinning , deprivation, orphanages, curfews, warning, sirens, barbed wire, tanks, thrumming of planes, explosions. ****** blood shed on the side walk, death, ashes, displacement, emptiness, charred bodies, mass graves, coffins, body traps, yelling, sadness, anger, hunger, thirst, vigilance, slapping …. etc. She summarizes all of this in one ward War While I am, the poet stand in the middle Watching my body jump from death to death For nothing Just to let the poem come But after all this trouble She only comes imperfectly

35

After forty years of snow Do you remember the watch you gave to me wrapped in a poem? It is still bound to my soul's meaning The more time passes The more the letters jump into my heart artery My heart is now pumping flirtation How many times I have wished That if my city were not surrounded by graves Then like a little girl I would wait for you in a secret garden Come on! Take off this thick absence As thick as a New Jersey coat in the winter time Melt off the snow that has stacked on the lines of your messages Mow the grass that has grown on your tongue Don’t save a sea of tears for me I am not a mermaid Make yourself present with words Woo me Let me stop demanding my rights And thrive by the touch of your fingers as they play with my hair Let me fool myself again And see you as center of my universe

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Sep 11, 2019

Sep 11, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

After forty years of snow

After forty years of snow Do you remember the watch you gave to me wrapped in a poem? It is still bound to my soul's meaning The more time passes The more the letters jump into my heart artery My heart is now pumping flirtation How many times I have wished That if my city were not surrounded by graves Then like a little girl I would wait for you in a secret garden Come on! Take off this thick absence As thick as a New Jersey coat in the winter time Melt off the snow that has stacked on the lines of your messages Mow the grass that has grown on your tongue Don’t save a sea of tears for me I am not a mermaid Make yourself present with words Woo me Let me stop demanding my rights And thrive by the touch of your fingers as they play with my hair Let me fool myself again And see you as center of my universe

23

When I try to write I sense that millions of readers are Crowding the paper’s edge, Kneeling, genuflecting, and lifting their hands To pray for my poem’s safe arrival. The moment it looms on my imagination’s horizon, Gazing at the concept in a diaphanous gown of metaphor, Young people smack their lips—craving double entendres. Meanwhile, with piercing glances, the elderly scrutinize Its juxtapositions and puns. Then the concept smiles shyly, dazed at seeing them. On the paper’s lines both young and old meet for a discussion, But my words resist And ***** walls of critical theories. Then the paths of personal confession contract, Contract, Contract. My imagination calmly shuts down, And the conception retreats inside my head. At that hour, it afflicts my world with Bouts of destruction. Workers refuse their paychecks. Farmer let their fields go fallow. Women stop chatting. Pregnant mothers refuse to deliver their babies. Children collect their holiday presents but Toss them on the interstate. Our rulers detest their positions. Kings sell their crowns at yard sales. Geography teachers rend their world map And throw it in the waste basket. Grammar teachers hide vowel marks in the drop ceiling And break caesura by striking the blackboard. Flour sacks split themselves open, and the flour mixes with dirt. Birds smash their wings and stop flying. Mice swarm into the mouths of hungry cats. Currency sells itself at public auctions. The streets carry off their asphalt under their arms And flee to the nearest desert. Time forgets to strike the hour. The sea becomes furious at the wave And leaves the fish stuck headfirst in the mud. The shivering moon hides its body in the night’s cloak. Rainstorms congeal in the womb of the clouds. The July sun hides in holes in the ozone layer, Allowing ice to form on its beard and scalp. Skyscrapers beat their heads against the walls, Terrified by the calamity. Cities dwindle in size till they enter the needle’s eye. Mountains tumble against each other. My room squeezes in upon me, and The ceiling conspires against me with The walls, The chair, The table, The fan, The floor, Glass in the frame, The windows, Its curtains, My clothes, and My breaths. The world’s clarity is roiled. Atomic units change. I vanish into seclusion, Trailing behind me tattered moans and Allowing my pen to slay itself on the white paper.

0

Sep 10, 2019

Sep 10, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

Writer’s Block

When I try to write I sense that millions of readers are Crowding the paper’s edge, Kneeling, genuflecting, and lifting their hands To pray for my poem’s safe arrival. The moment it looms on my imagination’s horizon, Gazing at the concept in a diaphanous gown of metaphor, Young people smack their lips—craving double entendres. Meanwhile, with piercing glances, the elderly scrutinize Its juxtapositions and puns. Then the concept smiles shyly, dazed at seeing them. On the paper’s lines both young and old meet for a discussion, But my words resist And ***** walls of critical theories. Then the paths of personal confession contract, Contract, Contract. My imagination calmly shuts down, And the conception retreats inside my head. At that hour, it afflicts my world with Bouts of destruction. Workers refuse their paychecks. Farmer let their fields go fallow. Women stop chatting. Pregnant mothers refuse to deliver their babies. Children collect their holiday presents but Toss them on the interstate. Our rulers detest their positions. Kings sell their crowns at yard sales. Geography teachers rend their world map And throw it in the waste basket. Grammar teachers hide vowel marks in the drop ceiling And break caesura by striking the blackboard. Flour sacks split themselves open, and the flour mixes with dirt. Birds smash their wings and stop flying. Mice swarm into the mouths of hungry cats. Currency sells itself at public auctions. The streets carry off their asphalt under their arms And flee to the nearest desert. Time forgets to strike the hour. The sea becomes furious at the wave And leaves the fish stuck headfirst in the mud. The shivering moon hides its body in the night’s cloak. Rainstorms congeal in the womb of the clouds. The July sun hides in holes in the ozone layer, Allowing ice to form on its beard and scalp. Skyscrapers beat their heads against the walls, Terrified by the calamity. Cities dwindle in size till they enter the needle’s eye. Mountains tumble against each other. My room squeezes in upon me, and The ceiling conspires against me with The walls, The chair, The table, The fan, The floor, Glass in the frame, The windows, Its curtains, My clothes, and My breaths. The world’s clarity is roiled. Atomic units change. I vanish into seclusion, Trailing behind me tattered moans and Allowing my pen to slay itself on the white paper.

67

Tonight When I entered my apartment The stairs were lying like tired men after a hard day's work The door a yawning mouth My TV was listening intently to the sports newscast And Like a huge fat woman, the couch was sitting on the floor Hardly breathing the used air The curtain tickled the cheek of the window…… Swaying gracefully above My books slept like babies on the hands of the bookshelves The dining table was listening to the whispers of her chairs The lamps were winking at to each other The fan was busy flailing her arms indifferent In my apartment The life looks the same as I left it Everything is normal No, It is more than normal Strange……. No one missed me?

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Sep 9, 2019

Sep 9, 2019 at 12:52 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

Tonight

Tonight When I entered my apartment The stairs were lying like tired men after a hard day's work The door a yawning mouth My TV was listening intently to the sports newscast And Like a huge fat woman, the couch was sitting on the floor Hardly breathing the used air The curtain tickled the cheek of the window…… Swaying gracefully above My books slept like babies on the hands of the bookshelves The dining table was listening to the whispers of her chairs The lamps were winking at to each other The fan was busy flailing her arms indifferent In my apartment The life looks the same as I left it Everything is normal No, It is more than normal Strange……. No one missed me?

21