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 erect 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.
.......................................................
by Faleeha Hassan
Translated by William M. Hutchins
She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq.
She received her master's degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is the Pulitzer Prize Nomination 2018, PushCart Prize Nomination 2019.
Member of International Writers and Artists Association.
Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021) One of the Women of Excellence selection committees 2023 Winner of women the arts award 2023 Member of Whos’ Who in America 2023 SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023 Cultural Ambassador - Iraq, USA
Email : d.fh88@yahoo.com
Musing
There goes my path
Of unflinching state
Devotees of choir sang
An unsung ballad
Trees whispering a
Mountain of trees
Cobalt blue of musing
Masterpiece
I jumped an untrodden museum
Kite runners held their guns
Glory’s unmet desires
Full of nonchalant melody
It is the season of
Unspoken understanding
Vanilla blue topaz in my hand
My path rained a thousand
Prophet song
Devotees of choir of
Newly built musing.
The Toast
The problem with being a failure is you don’t get to stop.
You’ve got to get up every day and have the toast laugh at you.
And worse you have to make that toast.
Carve your name in it with a hot poker.
That isn’t hot.
Carve your name in it with a lukewarm poker.
Then eat the name which tastes like rubbery chicken.
And go out with that chicken in your throat squawking.
You’ve got to live with that every day.
And get up and try to get the giant stone monolith to make you toast.
It won’t but you keep asking.
A Way to Go
Often I wake up
in the middle of the night
unable to go back to sleep
writing this
like so many others
We wait for the light
on the edge of dawn
trying to make sense
of ourselves and others
with a few words rambling
off into the blur of forgetfulness
It's sad and silly and maybe smart
to be wise in our own eyes
giving ourselves a sigh of completeness
as we fall
and we do fall
back into the loneliness
of ourselves not knowing what we're doing.
Notice the period on the above line
that shows a good place to stop
but I keep going
hoping
something comes out of all of this....
Maybe a prayer
that I'm still involved
and finding my way to go.
All of us...
finding
a way to go.
Is that why
we wake up
in the middle of the night?
With Whispers
So I'm back
with a line of light
on the horizon...
Do you see it?
At least imagine it...
Or are little Leprechauns
dancing around on the floor
pointing at your cold feet
old feet that almost never
get out and run in the dry soft sand
of freedom
and where is the freedom
we use to read about?
Sorry...
I didn't want to go back into this...
The Leprechauns are nervous now...
But think of it...
A sunny day at a beach
where the waves are gentle and warm
and make you believe
you're young again
with someone walking toward you
to love and cry with under the covers
of a bed
safe
and silent
with whispers
of love
lasting forever.
Upward We Bend
This is the end
of another rattle of lines
hoping you read between the skips
and look up to the sky
where clouds move slowly
showing the way
of how to sit beside
all those you love
and fly Baby Fly!
Father of The Nation Bangabandhu
In the heart of Bengal, a legend was born,
A beacon of hope, from dusk until morn.
Sheik Mujibur Rahman, a leader so true,
Guided his people, through skies clear and blue.
With words that stirred, like thunderous roar,
He fought for justice, forevermore.
A father of the nation, with vision so vast,
He led with courage, from the shadows he cast.
In the struggle for freedom, his voice rang clear,
Inspiring millions, dispelling fear.
From the streets of Dhaka to the halls of power,
He stood firm, in the darkest hour.
Bangabandhu, the friend of the masses,
In his presence, hope surpasses.
A champion of peace, in a world torn apart,
He carried the dreams of a nation in his heart.
Though taken too soon, his legacy lives on,
In the hearts of the people, from dusk until dawn.
Sheik Mujibur Rahman, a hero so grand,
Forever cherished, in Bangladesh's land.
Muntasir Mamun Kiron is a student of grade 10 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
the wild borne sea, the true salted places w/those sandbanks and even the broken bits of shells are okay, glistening somehow in the dawn, and in the afternoon light. cargo ships on the horizon, like ghosts vessels moving in an etheric ephemeral eternal astral. walking away along the shores there is a place w/bricks and stones where people had a fire, and the dirt roads that curve up to the right just so and long past verdant palm trees and the countenance of the lands, lands rugged and strange, mystical and beautiful, ancient and new that boast of beige sand more plus other indigenous flora and fauna, where the hills look like faces of spirits that don’t have a classification and have never been seen before, where the rains when they descend tell myriad stories and the sun after is a calm and right poem not too long or short, but perfectly accessible then.
that old path
that old path, new again, the one at the northern most place. how different than other paths, more vast and w/taller trees. there is a long and straight part that is perhaps my favourite. framed by verdant leaves in the summer’s sun and snowy branches along winter’s way whimsical. the path is always right and well. we must go to there again, more often. somehow we waited too long since that last time. oh that old path, where the evergreens grow and the birds wait beyond, where the north mingles with the south insomuch that you can begin to feel hints there of the truth of winds wild and vast lands, of unabridged nature in its season’s cycles wonderfully rugged rural rustic.
silence and wonder, far and far
on the summit of an otherwise wide field banked by a valley on one end and a forest on the other, it had began to snow. I remember that, and at that part there is sumac and apparently there are two kinds in the world and I’m not sure which one it is. it is a thing because it retains its colour like the evergreens, all through the changing seasons. and there was a lower field at the end w/an entrance to where chaga mushrooms sought by many, lived upon old birch trees. if you went in there you had to tread slowly as the path goes winding and up and down and you are then certainly all alone. you have to really respect the land there and it wouldn’t hurt to say a little prayer for safe passage. but it is worth it, full of silence and wonder and atmosphere,- the trees and leaves and earth and little streams are touched by the outside world. what a home for the woodland squirrel and any other thing. even the wind is blocked for the most part. the wind…the wind…the say new December wind that races through fields announcing its story for anyone that would listen.
sun cloud valley
the sun shone through the clouds and married then the floor of the valley where there are hidden but once found, distinct footpaths. who made the paths is not known, but even with the leaves they are still pronounced enough to travel. and the snow. it began snowing then and the clouds and the light and the small breeze cold made for a good scene and sight. what would the winter bring to those lands of birch and sumac, of mushroom and agate, of tall proud evergreen and old fallen leaves? the winter like the spring and summer and fall, is by no means one dimensional, but like a person or country, or like many things, has different aspects. but yes for then,- the sun and the clouds and the light snow and the wind all visited the valley. the valley housing different paths up and down and around,- paths like lines of some larger poem or story.
