Best Iraqi Poems
The Iraqi desert was blowing wind
The bullet tore into my heart
My Commander, she had but one arm
She pulled me to the ground
Holding me tight she saw
I would not make the night
So she did what any lover would
She held me tight
Whispered, "soldier I am with you till the end"
My last thought
Was I died in her arm
As her tears drops mixed with mine
Before you read this poem, I would like to invite you in reading about the great American sniper hero. I am also dedicating this to the fallen sniper because he is a true Patriotic Hero. Thank you.
Chris Kyle was and still is loved by many, this to be true I say
I always believe him to be, a great sniper to this undying day.
Why must things happen to people, that are always so kind
Life would be better keeping some, alive alongside mankind.
Why don’t I tell you a story, about this very kind honest fellow
He was and is an U.S. Navy Seal, but along that chill and mellow.
The most lethal sniper known of, in American military history
With a very high percentage confirmed kills, quite the victory.
At the young age of eight, his father taught him how to shoot
A great father teaching a son, instead of giving him the boot.
A bronco rider for the rodeo, sadly gave it up for a serious injury
It was to his arm although he still lived, with very great dignity.
Being a great sniper had an effect, putting souls to their bed
Eventually somewhat famous, an increasing bounty upon his head.
Undoubtedly dubbed the “Devil of Ramadi”, by non-other than Iraqi
An increasing bounty shot twice, but his body and will still intact.
After a while serving his country, he retired heading home graciously
Taking back some long spent time, spending it with his family.
Chris Kyle a loved husband, a friend to many and a beloved son
His homeland now saddened, for America has lost a patriotic one.
A great warrior indeed, in my opinion our greatest honorable hero
He put his life on the line, instead of becoming the common zero.
The greatest treasure of all, came from within himself to prove
That all humans aren’t wrongful, but that we all can improve.
I glanced upon a picture today…
a missionary giving water to a young
African boy far away,
sharing a simple smile, hand reaching out –
and I thought to myself, how nice.
Then..the clouds parted just enough for sunlight
to shine down on me, touching my heart
and a miracle occurred – not the kind others see –
this miracle happened inside me.
I looked again at the picture and saw creation –
unity, humanity, love, kindness without thought
of race or creed.
I saw the face of God…
I caught a glimpse of a show today…
a young African American woman teaching
an Iraqi woman how to read,
sharing a simple smile, hand reaching out –
and I thought to myself, how nice.
Then…the dark sky brightened with enough starlight
to shine down on me, touching my heart
and a miracle occurred – not the kind others flock to see –
this miracle happened inside me.
I looked again and saw their souls –
unity, humanity, love, kindness without thought
of race or creed or gender…
I saw the face of God…
I took a peek at a webcast today…
a group of students from many nations
building a home for a poor, Latin family,
sharing simple smiles, hands reaching out –
and I thought to myself, again, how nice.
Then…the smiles turned to laughter joyous enough
to shine around me, touching my heart
and a miracle occurred – not the news making kind –
this miracle happened inside me.
I looked again and saw heaven –
unity, humanity, love, kindness, without thought
of race or creed or gender or wealth…
I saw the face of God…smiling,
and I knew change was possible.
One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.
Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,
For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq
A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.
My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated
In the Gunslingers' office.
My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!
I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.
Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.
Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.
Another night, I stood
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.
I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.
I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.
Christmas was what we made of it.
Manipulations, misrepresentations and government violations,
America has been terrorising for many generations.
Spying allegations, secret conversations,
US imperialism continues to destroy nations.
Cheers and celebrations for leader’s assassinations,
Activists disliked for anti-war demonstrations.
Iraqi invasions, Strategic implications,
Lies and propaganda from bias media stations.
Military occupations in various locations,
Native Americans forced back onto reservations.
Greedy multi-billion dollar corporations with no limitations,
The IMF plus World Bank equals evil creations.
Forced sterilisations, fake vaccinations,
Too many unnecessary health care complications.
Firearm fascination, covert operation,
Bombing without hesitation, countries left in devastation.
Celebrity fixation, racial discrimination,
A country facing global economic isolation.
Guantanamo detainees tortured for information,
A brutal CIA program called enhanced interrogation.
A history of government attacks and ruthless intimidation,
Kids in Fallujah continue to be poisoned from radiation.
Too many Palestinians are victims of dehumanisation,
The US and Israel are a deadly combination.
No admiration for globalisation,
Time to abolish every greedy organisation.
Coca-Cola, Starbucks and McDonalds in every location,
While Wall Street fantasies about world domination.
No exaggeration, it’s not my imagination,
Welcome to the age of Americanisation.
(Maverick Free Verse about a true life Maverick)
hey, Mr. Editor, you got it wrong
labeling Allen West as Congress’s “Most Vulnerable”
misnomer
insult to his character
ambush of American troops planned
Colonel West fired shots near an Iraqi prisoner’s head
information obtained, ambush prevented
no blood shed, not even the prisoner’s
thankless military bureaucracy
forced him to retire
Colonel West proclaimed,
“The battlefield’s no place for political correctness”
“Don’t blow sunshine up my butt,”
Maverick West warned, standing his ground
refused to march
to a “Machiavellian Kumbaya”
had he been a West Point grad
West would have been promoted
adorned with medals
accolades for soldiers saved
soldier’s mother spoke out; see it her way
“I hope my son’s commanders protect him as Allen did”
behind a shield of political ties
Allen never hides
in a Democratic district this Tea Partier rose
disenfranchised Americans cheered
do you think West deserves
beatings from the press
watch your “Most Vulnerable”
rise to prominence
if this hero hasn’t earned his seat in Congress
Mr. Editor, tell me who has
* Allen West represents the Tampa area of Florida in the U.S. Congress.
In 2003, when West was a battalion commander in Taji, Iraq, he fired his weapon
near the head of a prisoner to frighten the detainee into divulging information about
a planned ambush. The detainee started providing information and the ambush of
American soldiers was prevented. West was removed from command and the Army
considered a court martial. West argued he acted to save his troops, was fined
$5,000, but was allowed to retire with full honors and benefits.
The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
===========================
In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class,
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting,
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently,
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door”
Oh, grief!
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother..
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white,
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief,
Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..
O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
----------------------------------------
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect
The world after thousand dawns
(To an Isis fighter )
A poem by :Ali Riyadh (Iraqi Poet)
Translated by: Laith Seher
O who woke up after thousand dawn ago,
The dawns burned ,the ashes became a night .
Stand up ,close your eyes .
Seek the newborn baby at this new dawn
behind his eyelids, there lies light
Touch him , your fingers get anesthesia.
He warms your frozen blood .
Open your eyes , gaze at him ,
You will see how the world becomes colourful after thousand dawn ago without you .
A child with one leg ,
a child with one arm,
a child with one eye
and a child with one lever were gathering there ,
near their organs
Which became the fifth child underground .
________________________________
The poem by : Qasim Saoodi(An Iraqi Poet) , translated by :Laith Seher
This year, at the holidays
of course, I miss home,
surrounded by sand dunes,
and Iraqi mosque-domes.
But I willingly came
to guard against fear—
not let terrorist conquer
everything I hold dear.
I know my mom worries
about me over here
away from family,
and good Christmas cheer.
And while I do miss
the fun and the fare,
I know I am fighting
for reasons most share—
For Freedom, for Justice,
for our forefather’s plan,
for choices—God-given,
to every man.
And for all you protester
in the streets of your city,
looking upon me
with hatred and pity,
I’m fighting for you
to have that skewed right
to act like a fool—
burn our flag in plain sight,
For our children to prosper
without boot in their back,
and patriots guiding them,
to stay on the right track!
It’s not just our training,
but a true state of mind—
to be honest and faithful,
and love all mankind.
I’d gladly lay down
all I can give—
my life and my soul
so that others may live.
And to let every man pray
to the God he sees fit,
tho, I may not agree,
he’s entitled to it.
My sons and my daughters
may not know it yet,
but I fight for their future,
and have no regret.
So celebrate Christmas
in your own merry way,
and please send a prayer
we’ll come home one day—
When this war is over,
we’ve finally won,
we’ve conquered the terrorists—
sent ‘em all on the run.
Americas worth it—
all this sacrifice,
and, Mom, don’t you worry
‘cause I wouldn’t think twice.
I’d do it again—
even die in the sand
for Freedom and Liberty,
for we MUST take a stand.
“Merry Christmas—Blessed New Year,”
to all, I now say,
and, “Thank you, dear Jesus—
have a Happy Birthday!”
Tamara Hillman
©2010
There once was a leader called Blair
To the Iraqi war he declared
Like little lost sheep
None of his party did weep
Not one was found dead lying there
A Dove
We said :What are all those feathers ?
When we walked for the funeral of the kid .
His father raised his hand ,
picked up a feather
and cried :This is the word "a dove"
He learned to say since two days.
we forget to take it out of his mouth .
.........................................
The poem by :Maithem Radhi (Iraqi Poet )
Translated by : Laith Seher
It appeared on the doorpost as a Cyclops' smiley face
For some Cyclops WhatsApp icon, but red-themed application
Yes gruesome red, in contrast to the expectation
You would get from a smiley face, even for a Cyclops.
It quizzed my curiosity and I dug further on Google’s interface.
It appeared on the search page as the queen Isis,
Long told in Hieroglyphics, Cyrillic and Roman alphabet,
Patroness, mother, queen, blessings with love met,
But unlike these grim Arabic script in an ominous logo,
And tales of death, pain littered with deeper crises
It told of “nuun”, 14th letter of a blessed script
In which many beautiful and wise thoughts found life,
A letter which told of blessing and not of strife
Being in a position multiple of seven, a number blessed
By God Himself when he Earth and Heaven in 7 breaths whipped
It told of the Magen David, a shining star, which should be a good thing
Only that it brings memories of gaunt bodies piled in trucks
And human experimentation, and as history at our door knocks
And Isis or Isil opens to let in what we dread most
“Nuun” is stuck in my iris with pain and scary sting.
For I have seen the blank stare of heads painting in red drips the pickets
And Leonidas’ 300-style gore re-enacted in modern city streets
As heads are divorced from bodies and all around are scared heartbeats
For even bloodied child clothes cover head-less bodies,
As Christians are beheaded like one would roast crickets.
It brings back memories of my ancestors up in the Samba regions,
Fleeing the harsh choice given to them by the jihadists:
To adorn the village picket or join the cause of the Islamist,
Forced to create a third choice, which was to leave their homes,
Friends and family to pseudo-Islam or lurid lethal lesions.
Is it that time again for Iraqi Christians?
Shall the world once again watch the Red Indians’,Tutsis’, and Jews’
Story take gruesome form and hack through human sinews?
How many litres of innocent blood, and kilogrammes of hacked Christian flesh
Are needed to realise the vanity in the life of *****sapiens?
(c) Nyonglema
Today wasn’t a good morning at all for Hassan,
a victual merchant in Baghdad
Thirty four customers got killed by a suicide bomb
A jihadist Arab wearing an explosive vest,
proclaiming to be fighting against the west,
ended up only murdering his own people
The sun rising on the eastern horizon
cast a bloody pale
Screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Ambulance sirens blaring ... death is a hard item to sell
Innocent people shopping for meat, dairy, nuts and fruit,
in a tragic transaction bought the farm
The sign outside the market said half-off,
it didn’t mean exiting with half a leg or one arm
Somehow, Hassan in dust-covered anger survived
He was one of the fortunate few to make it out alive
with every body part intact, except his calm Iraqi mind;
it keeps expanding and contracting
in violent, kinetic convulsions a million times
from such a vile, humanitarian crime
Anxiety fruit flies hover over unsold crates of apricots,
seething vengeance
ferments the not bought bottles of apple vinegar
Mass killing is always bad for business —
a lot of potential repeat customers will only
come to the open air stalls one time
Nobody wants to buy ripe pomegranates, fresh goat milk
and vintage premature dying
Terrorism is bad for consumerism,
fanatical death wish ain’t good for the merchant gift registry
Not when buying a bouquet of flowers becomes a morgue delivery
Suicidal shrapnel kisses don’t welcome tourism,
foreigners eschew dying on vacation ... death ain’t an easy item to sell
Prayer vigil purchases of screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Hassan says business has been bad
ever since that fatal, holiday dawn mourn
Only rueful disaffection comes
with the bagging of the cabbage and corn
The dead
The dead are refugees
To an immortal caves,
Hidden in the pockets of the earth,
They are escaping from sins
Exhausting by the pain .
We are the dead
But we are walking.
A poem by : Saad Mohammed Al-Husseen (Iraqi Poet)
Translated by :Laith Seher