Three Poems by Egyptian poetess Deema Mahmood

15 November 2019
Author :  

Deema Mahmood

Egyptian poet.

Born in 1972.

Bachelor degree in Computer Sciences and Statistics, 1993.

Professor assistant for many years in the departments of Computer sciences, Mathematics and Statistics in both the College of Education and the College of Health Sciences in Abha, Saudi Arabia.

A Voiceover , Audio Narrator and Dubbing Actor.


Braids of Spirit (Poetry), Dar Al-Adham, Cairo, 2015.

I Pick Quarrels with the Horizon over a Violin (Poetry), Dar Al Ain, Cairo, 2017.

Third and Fourth books of poetry in progress

Many of her poems were translated into English, French, Spanish and Portuguese and published in several anthologies in those languages.

She also participated in many poetry and cultural local and International Festivals and events.





These jellyfish yawn after a night full of love and sleep.

Wake up when they got thrown by waves full of wine and fish.

The question seeps out of their tentacles.

Would bullet casings contain lipsticks?

Would the barrel of guns become lampposts?

Would the bombs turn into milk bottles?

Would the military suites be sewn to be ballet skirts?

Would the explosive belts be used as bandages and splints?

Napoleon, Macdoni and Hajaj crumple with viscosity above 3 lobsters.

Answer together in a voice oozing with ammonia and peeps of gambling tables,

Their clippers sway right and left:

No, No,

Don't believe us, we are liars.


Translated by Suha Al Sebaei



Fetus's Becoming


I become a fetus

roll on myself like a ball

This remembering feeds me

I get high on the musk

Of the umbilical chord

The melded odours of my parents


I bask in my beginnings

My mother and I and I as one

As we orbit our universe


Now the clear water sits

On the sediment

My true self without mask or gayle

Free from algay and colours

I arise without myths and predictions

Free to become.


Translated by Suha Al Sebaei


The Death of a Poet



I heard that a close-by poet crouched inside the mouth of death

I don’t know him

But the squeaking that smacked my nerve ends

Alerted me to the void around

Perhaps because death sensors in my imagination gleaming in all directions showed no mercy.

They were loading children, teenagers,beautiful women,

Paupers, vendors, old people, lovers, and gays for free

And dumping them into junk yards full of skulls, epitaphs, and skeletons

While cutting white surrender flags into shrouds, and silly coffins


A poet dies

That means the curve of the street corner will be sharper

That bullshit will pour out of the belly of indifference

That more holes and garbage will accumulate in the back street

That pine and oak trees will bend

That the executioner will increase the number of guillotines getting ready for the massacre


When the poet dies the wall on which jasmine sleeps

will fall

The maysaloon will wither, doves will cry

Seas will pour into rivers

Vine tree will yield raisins

And young maidens will awaken from love dreams


The poet overflows with love that exceeds life

Life can’t suffer him, so it mutilates itself.

A little while in the coffin,

And he’ll seep into the eye of the sun

After hiding it from the eye of death

And hiding death from death itself.

He’ll gather its light into balls that he’ll roll over the earth

So that others dance with butterflies on their way to death!


Translated by Nordddine Zouitni





Literary Editor

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অনুবাদ এর ক্ষেত্রে মুল লেখকের নাম ও সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি দিতে হবে।

আরো দিতে পারেন

লেখকের ছবি।

সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি।

বিষয় বস্তুর সাথে সামঞ্জস্যপূর্ণ অঙ্কন চিত্র বা ছবি। 

সম্পাদক | Editor

তারিক সামিন

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