Hassan

Yahya Hassan 2019

Yahya Hassan 2019

His publisher told the media that his death was

a disaster.

Yet now he is with the stars above and he has left
the battlefields behind him with all the scribblers
on the literature pages in newspaper in Denmark
and Sweden who played dice over his garments

and his undying written words;

It was a nasty pen war over the naked dead body of
a young warrior. They didn’t truly know him but yet
they fought over his body parts, claimed to know his
one truth and to understand him

better than all the others.

He would have laughed at that circus macabre and
then, so I believe, he would have cried, heartbroken;

as the lover he was.

He has left the catastrophes behind him and got a kind
of peace, far from all arena noises: a star he was in his
short lifetime. Safe, he is now a star in the sky

among his equals. Brightly shining!

His white words in capital letters on a blackboard.

rose, white

rose, white

 

 

 

Yahya Hassan (19 May 1995 – 29 April 2020) was a Danish poet of Palestinian descent, who in poems and public statements criticized both hypocritical Muslims and immigrants, as well as the hypocrisy in the Danish policy and the Danish society in general. His first collection of poems was published in 2013 and his second collection of poetry was published at the end of 2019. He was found dead in his apartment on April 29, 2020.  He was 24 years old at the time of his death.

 

I have done the translation  from Danish without permission, so it is for private use only on this blog, not allowed to be copied and spread outside it. Please respect this, for my sake. Thank you! 🙂

From Yahya Hassan 2, poetry collection 2019

BAD YEAR

THE FEELINGS SHORT CIRCUITED
AND THE THOUGHTS STRUCK SPARKS INTO THE HEAD
SHAME BECAME PRIDE
AND FEAR TO ARROGANCE
I DON’T BELIEVE IN MY PEN OR IN MY PISTOL
BUT I STILL HAVE THEM ON HAND
I DON’T BELIEVE IN MY LAUGH
AND I DON’T BELIEVE IN MY CRY
SO I WALK AROUND AND HEM A LITTLE
NOW I WRITE POEMS WITH A BROKEN HAND
IN A LANGUAGE THAT GRADUALLY HAS BECOME
A LITTLE MORE OVERLOADED THAN MY MOTHER TONGUE
NOW I’M SHOOTING PEOPLE
THAT DOESN’T UNDERSTAND OTHER THAN BULLETS
NOW I GO TO BED EARLY
TO STAND UP TO NOTHING
NOW I’M TRAINING ME UP
TO BE RUN DOWN AGAIN
NOW I HAVE SURVIVED ANOTHER WINTER
TO SPEND ANOTHER SUMMER BEHIND BARS
NOW I CURSE THOSE WHO PRAY FOR ME
AND FIND PEACE IN MY ENEMY’S ARMS

Det här inlägget postades i about writing, copied lyrics, dreamers, immigrants, inspiring writer, loners, poems, poems by vonnely, Poetry, reading, rebellious lovers, repression and borders, romance, sadness, troubled life, words, writing och har märkts med etiketterna , , , , , , , , , , . Bokmärk permalänken.

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