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Best Poems Written by Yasemin Balandi

Below are the all-time best Yasemin Balandi poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Children of War

Off the stuccoed walls, the shells peel 
The wounded babes bleed
There is a story of harrowing kind
To every war
This one is no different to others
The babes die in Aleppo
The world maintain the stony silence
Mothers' hearts shattered to pieces
Meanwhile
 by both the forces of Assad and Isis.

The lucky few hit the jungle
In Calais
braving the oceans 
And the deadly shells
Seeking shelter from us.
Yet a hysteria breaks
In heartless media
Demanding the samples of DNAs
They are not one of us
We must kick them back to the jungle
And have them deported to their lands
Bombed.
We won't offer no succor 
Let them be tortured
Let their bones get fractured
Let their mothers’ hearts shattered
They are not one of us.
These kids need a right old kicking
The heartless whores of tabloid shout.

We listen 
And hold our heads in shame
Powerless:
On the face of demonization of the victims 
Of the war
Where is our tolerance?
Where is our compassion gone?

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Purple

I smell no Jasmines, Daisies or Geraniums this Summer

Nor my soul desires an ancient amphora

Crimson riddles my skin

My mind is an Amethyst.

An Amaranth a fixed star; an amulet

To which my neurons  ebb and flow.

Purple radiates in shades

Violet Veins. My palpitations are magenta.

My heart is a deeper shade of purple. This summer.

Like a wound under a microscope.

 I long to plot the anelemma of my thoughts

Protons in blue and electrons in amber.

Yet purple dominates my neurons like a clumsily drawn  tube map.

In my mind, a soft ray of violet makes a lemniscate

Other colours, smells and senses, an oblivion await.

 

* This is an exercise in one colour :)


Certificate U
Poem

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Children of War

Off the stuccoed walls, the shells peel 
The wounded babes bleed
There is a story of harrowing kind
To every war
This one is no different to others
The babes die in Syria
The world maintain the stony silence
Mothers' hearts shattered to pieces
Meanwhile
 by both the forces of Assad and Isis.

The lucky few hit the countries of peace

braving the oceans 
And the deadly shells
Seeking shelter from us.
Yet a hysteria breaks
In heartless media
Demanding the samples of DNAs
They are not one of us
We must kick them back to the jungle
And have them deported to their lands
Bombed.
We won't offer no succor 
Let them be tortured
Let their bones get fractured
Let their mothers’ hearts shattered
They are not one of us.
These kids need a right old kicking
The heartless Trump shouts

We listen 
And hold our heads in shame
Powerless:
On the face of demonization of the victims 
Of the war
Where is our tolerance?
Where is our compassion gone?

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Xenoglossy

Xenoglossy

I learnt the language of silence
She declares
Miming is painful for the little girl
So that her eyes moves to the rhythm of xenoglossy- Silence
“Peace!” She declares as her eyes gloss over the leaves of the fall.
Pastel shades  and spilling beans.
Of course she has no words for spilling beans and pastel shades.
Miracles do happen- the rhythm of xenoglossy
The language acquired without teaching
Visits the deaf girl
So that she feels the silent words in her bones and often in her skin
Not on her tongue.
 
Writing is too painful for her little hands
Reading impossible. Her green gaze is held
Permanently on the fluttering of the wings
Then a smile on her pursed lips.
Xenoglossy- bona fide kind

Beneath the xenoglossy of her own.

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Our Reproductive System

Long bearded men
Each needs to read a chapter from handmaidstales
One in  two of us are women
Our reproductive devices are own
Men of church leave our  vaginas
Out of your remit
To your dogma
We won't submit
 
We alone will choose to be a mamma
And mammas among us
Are blessed with our babas
We are in control of our own vaginas
 
Not the church or the holy order

* trump withdrawing necessary funds from reproductive rights of women. abortion will go underground and millions of women may die as a result of this!!!:(

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Our Reproductive System

Long bearded men
Each needs to read a chapter from handmaidstales
One in  two of us are women
Our reproductive devices are own
Men of church leave our  vaginas 
Out of your remit
To your dogma
We won't submit

We alone will choose to be a mamma
And mammas among us
Are blessed with our babas
We are in control of our own vaginas
Not the church or the holy order

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

The Elusive Art

Funky Funkus For Fortunate Few
Real artists won't do alliteration
Modernist are we the folks
Seeking adoration
Post structuralism 
Is the old order
Annihilated are the Sonnets
And poetic formations.
Conversing  takes another dimension
Philosophising,  Looping, interlinking 
Elastic boundaries. Self-analysing.  
Sociolinguistic inventions 
Obeying but rejecting universal conventions.

Paradoxes reign in the world of poetic art
The art. The art. Why art thou so elusive?

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Street Party

The colour of her Kohl uncertain,
She flips the pages of the magazines.
No hints, no clues, no advice.
Disgused as the voice of reason:
Common sense.
She paints her eyes to burnt orange 
To match her dark complexion,
She wears a flowery gown still in fashion 
 
She arrives at the party
Surveying the naked eyes staring 
At the starry night.
 
She wrecks her brains 
About an ill-advice
Of staring at the stars with
Naked eyes.
Her mind is blank.
 
Why is no one wearing Kohl anymore?
All the females are in strippy gowns.
The invitation said flowery gowns.
Is this a postmodern take
To flowery fashion?
 
She takes off her glasses 
And wipes them clean
The stripes are still hurting her vision
 
Where is she?
Why are all the familiar faces
In stripes and not flowers?
 
The loud music plays 
Familiar tunes
Bob Marley, the Doors
She floats to the music
Ripples of her hem.
Though this enigma;
Still unresolved;
Is niggling her.
 
She strikes up  a conversation 
With a handsome 
Blond youth.
He admires her Kohl
Burnt orange and all.
Pays a complement about 
Her rose tinted complexion 
She blushes even more.
Though the conundrum
Is still there
Unresolved.
 
She puts on her brave face 
And asks
"The flowers are hidden 
Behind the stripes."
He answers casually
No touch of irony.
How she demands to know?
"Simple," he answers,
"Dresses are multi layered"
She feels like a fool.
She reproaches to the question 
Of lack Kohl.
"No one cares to hide 
Their eyes no more."
The youth 
Says
"I like a woman in Kohl."
  
Yasemin Balandi

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

Her Name Is Grace

HER NAME IS GRACE

Her? name is Grace
She is tall and handsome 
She draws a card and it's an ace!
"Unpack your bags, don't be a disgrace 
Our little Grace!"
Born out of a wedlock, a little crazed 
Not fond of embroidery or lace
No wedding bells will ever chime
For our little Grace
She wears her old coat 
Over her greying dress
A charcoal bonnet
She is good for the boat!
"Unpack your bags, don't be a disgrace 
Our little Grace!"
She won't unpack her bags, our Grace!
Shuts the door tight.
" A left and a left and another and another..." 
She makes 
She is a master navigator 
Of the mazes
And mistress of no traces
amazing Grace!
And leaps on the boat tomorrow 
Swift as an arrow
"Our mother Grace
She was no disgrace 
When she left her motherland
She earned her living
In makeshift hotels
Scrubbing and cleaning
And later
She made her fortune
Being the hostess
Of delightful 
Charm and grace
To the lonesome sailors 
Our mother Grace"
Sing children of Grace
Years later
In the Newfoundland, in New Amsterdam
 
 
Yasemin Balandi

Details | Yasemin Balandi Poem

The Islanders

The Islanders


We live in an Island
Surrounded by water
Both murky and crystalline
In water we put our trust
To protect us 
From the outsiders
Our lives are internalised
We become the outsiders.
We are the Islanders!
Our imagination is pixied
Our dreams not fluid
or solid but shattered.
Our faces closed. 
This paradox is not what we desired.
We live in Diaspora in Dystopia!

Therefore the water lets us down
Again and again!
A bridge over it, we build
to reach out to the others
Embrace otherness
To embrace compassion
Afterall the word is the very epitome of the womb
From which we are born!
The healing begins in our core!

 No longer are we Islanders.
But we are the tamers of the water
The builders of the bridges!
The healers and the healed.