"faleeha" poems - Hello Poetry

I would have sneaked In from the pores of a net. I would have wrapped you in a prose Poem that lacks precision and laid you to sleep Under the covers of my bed. Quietly. So if love was to engulf me And a longing rises from my soul I would stretch the fingers of my hand towards you and dabble with the words of the poem, Letter by letter. If I was truly a poet I would have limped to the Lord by now And sat by the foot of his throne And held on to it With both hands And whispered: ‘you are the Greatest, most Beautiful, most Wonderful and Capable, Will you create a lover for me?’ I mean only for me. But I know That my prayer will not be answered Not because it is impossible. More than that really, Since I have never known A man Who has never betrayed his lover. ************************* Translated by Dikra Ridha © Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]

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Apr 15, 2016

Apr 15, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

If I were a poet

I would have sneaked In from the pores of a net. I would have wrapped you in a prose Poem that lacks precision and laid you to sleep Under the covers of my bed. Quietly. So if love was to engulf me And a longing rises from my soul I would stretch the fingers of my hand towards you and dabble with the words of the poem, Letter by letter. If I was truly a poet I would have limped to the Lord by now And sat by the foot of his throne And held on to it With both hands And whispered: ‘you are the Greatest, most Beautiful, most Wonderful and Capable, Will you create a lover for me?’ I mean only for me. But I know That my prayer will not be answered Not because it is impossible. More than that really, Since I have never known A man Who has never betrayed his lover. ************************* Translated by Dikra Ridha © Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]

30

My innocence nudges me As she points to the creases of my bedding on the ground. While the bed itself, with the imbecility of its sheets, Lies rejected in the corner of the room. My parents’ smiles widen with the stupidity of the covers. They alone, and the bed proved to me my innocence and the idiocy of a tidy bed. Even if I inherited the furniture, children And the creases under the eyes, Every time my bed rubs in the carpet’s weave, I am still baffled by the wideness of their smiles, As I lie between my children On a stupid, tidy bed. By Faleeha Hassan Translated by Dikra Ridha © Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]

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Apr 26, 2016

Apr 26, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC

faleeha-hassan

My Mother and Father

My innocence nudges me As she points to the creases of my bedding on the ground. While the bed itself, with the imbecility of its sheets, Lies rejected in the corner of the room. My parents’ smiles widen with the stupidity of the covers. They alone, and the bed proved to me my innocence and the idiocy of a tidy bed. Even if I inherited the furniture, children And the creases under the eyes, Every time my bed rubs in the carpet’s weave, I am still baffled by the wideness of their smiles, As I lie between my children On a stupid, tidy bed. By Faleeha Hassan Translated by Dikra Ridha © Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]

16

Spare Flower The African night is beautiful, In fact, it is divine’ Says the lady, visiting Iraq. So I announce I am the one leaving with your ignorance, With minimum skin and a fractured soul. The city is an adjective And I have only my words. This life eliminates the vocal paths from your being. There is only departure And my name was fitted to me. I became the trustee of verse, The spare flower; The one talented in what has not yet been written. No. It never was And never will be That I form poems for you, Grow them inside you, Or write them in coercion. So beat as you wish. I am done with living in denial I choose another life. Madam, my bed and the graveyard of my joy; I crave with my longing the scent of water but its stench pushes me away to the gloom of the snow of *Afyon, the coughing of its chimneys, the doubts of its elderly’s stumbling steps, and squeals of the bones of trees . Translated by Dikra Ridha *Afyon is a town in the mountains of Turkey; it is where the poet was exiled. ………………………… It is published in (ScreaminMams) magazine march 2016 © Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]

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Mar 25, 2016

Mar 25, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

Spare Flower

Spare Flower The African night is beautiful, In fact, it is divine’ Says the lady, visiting Iraq. So I announce I am the one leaving with your ignorance, With minimum skin and a fractured soul. The city is an adjective And I have only my words. This life eliminates the vocal paths from your being. There is only departure And my name was fitted to me. I became the trustee of verse, The spare flower; The one talented in what has not yet been written. No. It never was And never will be That I form poems for you, Grow them inside you, Or write them in coercion. So beat as you wish. I am done with living in denial I choose another life. Madam, my bed and the graveyard of my joy; I crave with my longing the scent of water but its stench pushes me away to the gloom of the snow of *Afyon, the coughing of its chimneys, the doubts of its elderly’s stumbling steps, and squeals of the bones of trees . Translated by Dikra Ridha *Afyon is a town in the mountains of Turkey; it is where the poet was exiled. ………………………… It is published in (ScreaminMams) magazine march 2016 © Copyright 2016, by Faleeha Hassan. All rights reserved under the Copyright laws of the United States of America and international copyright agreements. No portion of this book maybe reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Email: [email protected]

38

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

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

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