"ridha" 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]

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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

Between two wars you came. You mediated And lit the fire of a new love. And we began to spread ourselves between two suns One for me And the other for your eyes when the roads vanished And we only fell out over the A When it wanted to insert itself Between the W and R. We told each other I love you. The wars are made beautiful with songs. The songs wipe the blood from the wars’ lips. We’re never far from its grip. We can exchange with it our stay And I was as I always was Loving your letters and always want them. You, my soul mate, You, the voice of my voice, You, the dotting and un-dotting of my letters the teacher says: she would remove my sorrows and heal my tender soul? I said: I will make flowers of you; And I had forgotten the greenness of an evening, after the drought of my femininity. Return to me then So that we can hate this imposter This idiot The image is like a blonde Forgotten by the aged. Forgetting that our sky Is black despite his existence, And red despite his clinging to the tails of a dubious morning’s veil Come back So we can hate him This traitor Over the uniformed streets he looms like a policeman watching. My finger tips and your fingertips Come back again, So I can show you my essence I your notebook Come back to me then, So I can tell the apples in the basket Like they told me about you. translated by Dikra Ridha

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May 26, 2016

May 26, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC

faleeha-hassan

Let’s hate the moon together again

Between two wars you came. You mediated And lit the fire of a new love. And we began to spread ourselves between two suns One for me And the other for your eyes when the roads vanished And we only fell out over the A When it wanted to insert itself Between the W and R. We told each other I love you. The wars are made beautiful with songs. The songs wipe the blood from the wars’ lips. We’re never far from its grip. We can exchange with it our stay And I was as I always was Loving your letters and always want them. You, my soul mate, You, the voice of my voice, You, the dotting and un-dotting of my letters the teacher says: she would remove my sorrows and heal my tender soul? I said: I will make flowers of you; And I had forgotten the greenness of an evening, after the drought of my femininity. Return to me then So that we can hate this imposter This idiot The image is like a blonde Forgotten by the aged. Forgetting that our sky Is black despite his existence, And red despite his clinging to the tails of a dubious morning’s veil Come back So we can hate him This traitor Over the uniformed streets he looms like a policeman watching. My finger tips and your fingertips Come back again, So I can show you my essence I your notebook Come back to me then, So I can tell the apples in the basket Like they told me about you. translated by Dikra Ridha

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