Seif-Eldeine O
Seif-Eldeine O Poems
No One and Syria's Struggle to Sleep
No One washes his hands and face three times in preparation for his prayers. No One thinks this is enough to get the blood out.
...
The Sound of a Forgotten Letter
I look at a photograph of the city I was born in--
its crowded roadways, its grey buildings, the white dome
...
Inside the cafe, Akhmed smokes Al-Hamra under a sign that says
"No Smoking." E'ad blows the dice before he rolls them. Basheer
stands over him and moves the checkers. (The President is on T.V.)
...
The children have never read the words
'dulce et decorum est' or seen the dove
or swam so far out that the jellyfish
...
Lobster Season in Massachusetts
My dad puffs on his cigar. In the moonlight, red embers
dance like lady bugs. Concrete and brick flakes escape
...
I cut the waywrong cocaine
powder came
out. The worldclose
to wash sins in giving Christblood
...
The Co-Dependent Relationship
moonlight of my word shadows
slivers of a golden chest (inside)
...
We Both Thought We Were Christ
She was a trembling cathedral in blue gloves. A charlatan prophet. A tinfoil hat that talked like scorched stone, a screeching blade that cut stocks of corns for Hebrews. We were the ordinary din, her disciples or her anti-Christs. Her angels or her devils. We were the ones that sowed or the ones that reaped. I entered the cave of her dwelling. There in that dwelling, I would wait to bless the pilgrims. I was oblivion of sin. A refugee king. An executioner of pain and a plague of love. The one that never strays but vanishes, the one that returns, the executioner, the plague, a refugee king. Was it I who was love and her hate? Or were we both? Or we were neither? Trembling cathedrals vanishing in the night, charlatan prophets, the babies of tinfoil hats and screeching blades.
...
Loneliness walks with me.
No one speaks of her face.
We step over barbed wire tattoos, alone, together.
...
Brother of bombs and running water
in the seized apartment complexes,
you reflect the scarred faces which
emerge from the water like a Baptism. Outside
...
Seif-Eldeine O Biography
Seif-Eldeine is author of 'Voices from a Forgotten Letter: Poems on the Syrian Civil War, ' available now on Amazon. https: //www.amazon.com/Voices-Forgotten-Letter-Poems-Syrian/dp/B0BSY5F7Y6 Seif-Eldeine is a Syrian-American poet with a degree in Middle Eastern Studies from Tufts University and an MFA in Poetry from Lesley University. He has received a grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a fellowship from the Writer's Colony at Dairy Hollow and won the Chestnut Review Chapbook Contest. He will be in residence at the Vermont Studio Center. You can find his work at the Massachusetts Review, Pedestal, Qu, the Michigan Quarterly Review, and Poetry Daily, among others. You can reach out to him at seifeldeine@gmail.com.)
The Best Poem Of Seif-Eldeine O
No One And Syria's Struggle To Sleep
No One and Syria's Struggle to Sleep
No One washes his hands and face three times in preparation for his prayers. No One thinks this is enough to get the blood out.
No One sleeps to the sounds of bombs. No One loves this lullaby that has become his music since the electricity shut off.
No One shares the bed with his sisters and brothers. No One pretends to dislike it. It is how No One keeps warm at night.
No One knows where his friends are. No One knows who his friends are. No One suspects if he wants to live, he should have no friends.
No One is busy stealing petrol from his neighbor. When No One's neighbor catches him, his neighbor does not recognize him from his facelessness.
No One blames the government. No One will never give up his hate.
No One blames the terrorists. No One will never give up his hate.
No One blames the protestors. No One will never give up his hate.
No One blames the youth. No One wishes the youth would have waited until his death to fight.
No One blames the parents. No One wishes the parents fought earlier.
No One expects to sleep. No One expects to eat. No One expects to live. No One thinks death would be easier.
This poem was originally published in the Massachusetts Review, a great journal that could use your readership, and reprinted in the Poetry Daily.
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