Hussein Habasch/ KURDISTAN

Hussein Habasch/ KURDISTAN


He is a Kurdish poet from Kurdistan and lives in Bonn-Germany.
Born in 1970.

He writes in Kurdish and Arabic.

Some of his poems were translated to many languages such as; English, German, Spanish, French, Turkish, Persian, Uzbek, Russian and Romanian.

A selection of his poems have been published in more than an international poetic anthology

He wrote these books:
Drowning in Roses/ Azmina Publishing House, Amman, and Alwah Publishing House, Madrid 2002.
Fugitives across Ivros River/ Sanabel Publishing House, Cairo 2004.
Higher than Desire and more Delicious than the Gazelle’s Flank / Alwah Publishing House, Madrid 2007.
Delusions to Salim Barakat/ Alzaman Publishing House, Damascus 2009.
A flying Angel (Texts about Syrian children) Moment Publishing House, London 2013.
A flying Angel (Texts about Syrian children) in English, Bogdani Publishing House 2015.
No pasarán, in Spanish, the book published by the International Poetry Festival in Puerto Rico.

Participated Festivals:
He participated in many international festivals of poetry, for example in Colombia, Nicaragua, France, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Germany, Romania, Morocco…

Poems by Hussein Habasch (KURDISTAN)

I don’t Care How or Where I Die

I rest my head on the rock of the oblivion!
Like a chorus I echo the saddest song as follow:
I don’t care if die poor,
or poorer than the poorest persons of the world
my two children are eating apple,
and chewing on pomegranate seeds
This is the most important.

I don’t care if I die,
then I woke up walking alone in my funeral.
I do not care if I never wake up
My Two children are whispering in joy and happiness
as if they were two lovers
and this is the most Important!

Sargon Bolus had passed away in Berlin alone
as he always alone,
Totter in the brink of death as if he was a drunken Angel
he was sick!

As a forgotten Prince,
Kamal Seibty died in a sofa in his home in Holland,

Ageel Ali had passed away in a sidewalk,
as if he was formed to be the crown of all the homeless.

Mahmoud Albreekan was killed by a knife of a thief,
he was a lighthouse guiding the pirates to his penniless pocket

Then why should I care if I die in a bar, ballroom,
cabaret or in a whore’s arms in a brothel!
My two children are eating French fries with mayonnaise.
And this is the most important.

I don’t care if I will die drowned, incinerated, strangled, butchered
Or committed suicide by carbon monoxide like my sister Sylvia Plath!
I do not care if I will be put to death in my birthday
like my brother Delshad Meruwani the strange angel of Kurdistan!

I don’t care if I will die hungry, imprison or under the wheels of a reckless train Like my spiritual twin Attila József.
I don’t care if I would be murdered by the hands of a mobs like Lorca
Or hanged like Hassan Mutlak, Dabada of Baghdad.
More importantly, my two babies are okay!
And I write simple farewell love poems
Inspired by the flirtation of the waitresses
and the beautiful young girls, passing in front of the cafe

My two children are playing
My daughter combing her Barbie’s hair
And my son is riding his tiny motorbike
This is the most important.

I don’t care if I will be stabbed by a treacherous knife
or by a dose of venom like my uncle Socrates.
I don’t care if my death would occur in Athens, Berlin, Beirut, Damascus, London, Madrid or beautiful Washington!!
Cities are similar
Death is a wanderer dog, prowling along the skylines!
My children are rolling a ball -like planet, and seem fantastic
This is the most important.

I don’t care if I die homeless in exile, achy, sad or drunk
Or bitten by friends’ tusks like most of the poets
It is important that in this moment I’m listening to Maria Callas
Deep down my inner self is moisten by her melodious voice!

And my two children slept innocently amazing
This is the most important.

I don’t care if I stutter with drivelling,
or sailing the madness swirl
Like my companion Cioran
Roaming the night from the insomnia,
Putting my fate in hands of the coldness and the delirium

My two children smiling in theirs sleep,
dreaming, perhaps about birds or butterflies
this is the most important.

I don’t care if I live or die!
No different!

Death is the departure of the soul,
I lost my soul a long time ago
in the forests of the oblivion.
Why should I care now!
I don’t Care!

Translated by Solara Sabah

Tomorrow You Will Be an Old Man
(For me, in a quarter of a century, more or less)

Tomorrow you will be an old man
The cane always with you
You will walk alone
You will mutter to yourself like all old geezers do
You will become obstinate, hard of hearing, and slow
You will ask for help when you need it
and no one will respond
You will dream of the past
and the good old days
While your grandson will think of the future
and days to come
You will curse this vapid generation
Repeating like a broken record
How wonderful our generation was
You will be the butt of jokes in the family
They will laugh at you and your positions
which you think are right on
Your lips will let a sarcastic smile
whenever they mention words like stubbornness,
vigor, and faith in the future
You might even laugh
Your bones will soften
Sicknesses will roam freely in your body
without permission
All your desires will be extinguished
except the desire to die
There will be no friend or companion
Loneliness will be your support and comrade
You will always be ready to depart
The threshold of the grave will entice you and keep you company
All the angels will betray you and leave
Only Azrael will approach you as a last friend
Perhaps you will say just as you are about to go:
If I die, burry me here in the strangers’ cemetery
Perhaps these words
will be you your final wish.

Translated by Sinan Antoon


Beethoven and Kurds

I look at Beethoven’s figure
He appears sad
Crowds of Kurds
inspect the city center with their steps
Nothing dwells in them except longing
Beethoven cries

I look at the Rhine
cleaving the city into two
It appears sad
Is it sad for the Euphrates?
The Euphrates is sad.

Translated by Sinan Antoon

My Mother’s Chants

1. The Vision Chant

This morning, my mother was sitting alone at home
Mending my brother Mahmoud’s pants
Torn by yesterday’s mischief
The needle pierced her finger and warm blood flowed on the thread
The pants were stained and my mother’s thoughts were muddled
She swore to my father and the neighbors
that she saw me or my shadow
Or saw me without my shadow passing before her this morning
And when she saw me
she was so eager she was confused and was about to hug me
But the needle betrayed her and pierced her finger
Was I really there
or was it my mother’s heart?

2. The Longing Chant

Thirty years and I am still running with a barefoot heart
Whenever I see a woman wearing a long dress
Or a white scarf on her head
I call out to her: Mother, mother
Thirty years and six thousand miles
Exiled from roses, morning sunrise, and the face of angels,
mother’s face
Thirty years
Whenever I write about a woman
Whenever I draw a woman
I find myself writing about my mother
clothing the image with my mother’s colors
Thirty shrouds, thirty graves, thirty . . .
I treat with hope and peace of mind
Whenever I lay my head
on my mother’s chest.

3. The Passion Chant

The inscriptions on the walls of our mud house
The yellow paint on the door
The family picture carefully hung next to Imam Ali’s
The traces of a tattoo on the baking tin
The big quiet stone next to the door
Always ready to receive guests
Shelves crowded with old newspapers
The lamp philosophizing with a long luminous tongue
The hanging mat always ready for prayer
The sacred laugh that brought all this passion
and this weariness
is my mother’s laugh.

Translated by Sinan Antoon


The red snow

The snow comes down white
Covering all the mountains with whiteness
The snow comes down white on Kurdistan’s
mountains too
But it soon become red.

Translated by Muna Zinati

Just Know That I Died

If one day you came and did not find me
Just know I am there
If you came there and did not find me
Just know I am in a faraway place
If you came that far and do not find me
Do not be sad
Plant a red rose deep in the heart of the earth
And know that I died!

Translated by Muna Zinati

The Use of Love

All know the earth is round
No doubt it rotates
But they do not know
That the Lovers heart is what makes it round
And the strength of their love
What makes if rotate.

Translated by Muna Zinati

The Love of Two Trees

Two trees were madly in love
The vindictive woodchopper
Cut their trunks off
He took them home
By chance the two trees met in the fire place
They embraced happily
And burned together.

Translated by Muna Zinati

In Praise of my Father

My father, his trousers flowing
His shirt adorned with the scent of earth
His forehead wide as a field of wheat
Is still gazing with eyes of love and longing
at the green olive trees
Measuring, with the sugar of yearning,
the distance between Shaykh al-Hadid and Bonn
whose name he knows by heart

He is still surging
like the river Ifrin
Hard, stubborn, and rough
He only fears God
and separation
from another son

He is still repeating his supplications
in his broken Arabic
on the prayer beads
five times every day
Asking God a thousand times
between one bow and another
to protect his children from harm

He is still simple
Bowing to guests,
and the seedlings in his little orchard
But nothing else

He is still sitting
on his wooden chair
in the courtyard
Speaking to his guests with pride
Listening with pride
Silent with pride
Laughing with pride
Shaking hands with the distant,
very distant, horizon,
with pride

He is still comparing
Butterflies and humans
Trees and humans
Love and humans
The sun and humans
Earth and humans
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
But when he listens
to the news every day
on his old radio
which never leaves his side
wrinkles and decades of sorrow
invade his features
He mutters:
Still, humans are so beautiful!

Translated by Sinan Antoon

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