Migrant Tales insight: A couple of days ago with got a message from Yaseen Ghaleb, who wants to share his poetry with us. He published a novel, which will be in the Cairo book fair in January and called +15, which highlights how migrants and Finns can find common ground. The book will be present at the Cairo Book Fair. “In the collection of my poems,” he stated, “I mention the homelessness, [two] homelands, being an outsider, my fears and worries in Finland since I came here in 2015. The poems help me to confront and challenge the many issues I have suffered and still do.”
Ghaleb is a member of Finnish Pen, an organization that promotes freedom of expression in Finland and globally.
Execution celebration
An hour ago garden´s locusts
chirped blood to the grass.
It was a playground for little kids.
Later three men,
were there to arrange
their slounched shoulders in line,
Such as breast of slumped dog,
their names alphabetically
in disorder.
It was a coincidence,
that death had no options.
How weak he was ?
despite of his strength.
The hand of life was better
if it protected from bullets.
But in the garden was an event
with grasshoppers.
They played the party of blood,
their skinny legs as violin and bow.
It was no coincidence
that with men
came lumps of flesh
that had died even before
swallowing all the bullets…
at once, without respect of
the doctor/God.
Teloitusjuhla
Runo Yassen Ghaleb
Suom. Lauri Vanhala
Tunti sitten puutarhan heinäsirkat
sirittivät verta nurmikolle.
Se oli pienten lasten leikkipaikka.
Myöhemmin kolme miestä
oli siellä järjestelemässä
retkottavia olkapäitään linjaan
romahtaneen koiran rinnalle, nimensä aakkostamattomina epäjärjestyksessä.
Oli sattuma, ettei kuolemalla
ollut vaihtoehtoja.
Kuinka heikko hän olikaan
huolimatta vahvuudestaan.
Elämän käsi oli parempi
jos se suojasi luoteilta.
Mutta puutarhassa oli tapahtuma
heinäsirkkojen kanssa.
Ne soittivat veren juhlan,
laihat jalkansa viuluna ja jousena.
Ei ollut sattuma,
että miesten mukana
tuli lihan riekaleita,
jotka olivat kuolleet jo aiemmin,
nielaisten kaikki luodit…
kerralla, kunnioittamatta
Jumalten lääkäriä.
I told them once:
I sweared by my honor,
I didn´t betrayed my homeland.
I sweared by the dough of dust
and sweat on my military uniform,
with I waived bloody and folded.
Over my smoke and armor-oil
tainted khaki-shirt,
which formed a drawn map
and lost it´s prestige in defeats,
I assured.
I sweared by the Lord of wars,
the president, the Prophet,
the Messenger, the guardian,
through deity and Mars.
And through the one,
who used to perform
with his mustaches with Berry…
loaded with heavy medals
like thugs I sweared that;
but bullets were gone.
Sanoin heille kerran:
Vannoin kunniani kautta,
etten pettänyt kotimaatani.
Vannoin savipölytahtaan kautta,
ja hikisen sotilasuniformuni kautta,
jonka luovutin verisenä ja viikattuna.
Yli savun ja panssariöljyn
tahraaman khaki-paitani,
joka muodosti piirretyn kartan
ja menetti arvonsa tappioissa,
minä vakuutin.
Vannoin sotien Herran nimeen,
presidentin, profeetan,
lähettilään, suojelijan,
kautta jumaluuden ja Marsin.
Ja sen yhden kautta,
jolla oli tapana esiintyä
viiksiensä kera Berryn kanssa…
varustautuneena raskailla mitaleilla kuten roistot, minä vannoin sen;
mutta luodit olivat poissa.
———-——————————————
Poets love only themselves
2019 Poem by Yassen Ghaleb
Finnsh. Lauri Vanhala
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Do you compose poems?
At least you read them… and if you do
you are a human being.
Trees try to do so in autumn as well
when dropping yellow leaves.
Or that certain summer did it before
in its green breath sea,
when saw the wavy blueblooded Stanza
whenever it was murdering
migrants children and dreams
God himself tried it already before
and still we read his poems in Holy places.
Even generals do poetry in battlefields,
or behind the screens and keyboards
by khaki and blood, using the rhymes of death
Businessmen write poems too.
Don´t you believe it?
They sell best,
they sell their poems well to us.
It was the evolution of man
that did his first poem,
Darwin just didn´t notice.
that the whole univers, butterflies,
waterfalls, ants, bees,
air, birds and even streets,
they all composed poems,
in which politicians always fails.
Runoilijat rakastavat vain itseään
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