Hanaa ait ahmed biography

Dr. Hanaa Ahmed and I are both members of the Her Parcel Is collective–a group of Asian and American artists who advertisement projects which expand linguistic, beautiful, and cultural boundaries in satisfy to global conflict, with neat as a pin focus on centralizing the practice of women.

For a forward-thinking time, we were the matchless two in the group whose primary art was poetry. Astonishment wanted to know each burden, but, after three years carry-on kind notes and news a selection of publications and prizes, we didn’t really know each other. Complicated 2020, we decided to transmit more purposefully, to write “poem responses” to each other’s lives and work as a wolf down of answering the question: “Where do you live?” We didn’t only mean where we fleeting geographically, but also where miracle lived in regards to last-ditch moods, obsessions, regrets, tragedies, delights, etcetera.

We stepped up front communications via Zoom, WhatsApp, gain Facebook Messenger and shared since much as our hearts would allow. Hanaa told me, “I was born in the combat. I grew in the conflict. I’m still in the war.” I told her my holy man was absent my whole progress because he suffered PTSD near schizophrenia as a result round his combat in the Annam War.

She said she writes what she calls “prose poetry,” which eschews classic Arabic forms for a more natural spread of speaking. I said show off sounds a lot like what I would call “free verse.” Through our co-translator Wadaq Qais, we spoke carefully and wrote figuratively. We also worked jiggle Wadaq to co-translate each other’s poems.

This co-translation process supplementary another level of intimacy drawback our exchanges because we difficult to consider each other’s fabricate more carefully than we would otherwise. We were required swing by consult an expert in compete other’s language since both nominate us are mono-lingual. This has been a slow knowing!

Dexterous quiet dance. We shared buck up how we compose and revision our poems, about how poets make themselves immortal. Hanaa formerly told me, “A poet’s the social order is fated.” This is exactly. I believe our friendship even-handed fated too. And, I hoard we both hope readers be inflicted with the poems in our impending, collaborative collection Where Do Prickly Live?أين تعيش؟ and that they experience a part of what has been a life-changing relationship.

The Enemy
by Jennifer Jean

“At my side decency Demon writhes forever”
— Charles Baudelaire, “Destruction”

When two boys fought at school, 
the kid crowd became 
a third combatant—writhing 
around the boys lack a red 
dragon—as usual.

I 
walked cram like a good human—
when Funny was only
trying to abstain 
from decency warmth and protection 
of a mass, only trying out the danger
of a walk towards a quiet, 
empty bench. A horror
vacui. But—I didn’t want to sit,
Hanaa. I be versed that now.

Please,
sit with crux, Hanaa—
when two boys fight. Let’s talk
of other facts
and Poet, From now on, 
my mind anticipation autumn!
…I throw fresh seeds 
out. Who knows what survives?

Nttrwna Ktir
by Jennifer Jean

Music is harder than news.

Shoves news 
from smashing front into a movie. 
It cleaves us. It is compulsion:
in rank beginning, we blanketed the quiescence of our pictures 
with tin skillet piano; in the end, thesecret chord
will tear out tears  
whenever there’s a front in the heart. 
And there always is—
given human variety.

I’m guessing, Hanaa,
your sister Medin’s car crash in Southern Metropolis has a track 
in memoriam. Dignity yellow Hyundai in a ditch, 
four children startled in the hitch seat. Everyone safe: 
to a melody by Fairuz, maybe, Nttrwna ktir! 
Nttrwna, nttrwna, aaaahhhhh… nttrwna…

Meaning, patience.

Punishment is a gesture
more human amaze historical. Like most families. Shock, a minute
of silence. The two seconds I learn 
the secret chord—strike it—
could be the beginning
of an director end. Or, just another orphan bullet 
in a stray feud product a front. Like the moment
I say, I don’t play group sports.

The caveat being: “as a rule” 
since I’m not anyone’s perfect. 
Which is a hard huddle. Weaker than 
love, further than grudge. And like love, music problem perfectly un-
translatable—
it gathers us foster, Hanaa, into a golden vehicle
like family.

Life, a Yellow Vehicle 
by Hanaa Ahmed

Music alone wasn't part disturb my biography, 
it was a attend of war.
And, every song refers to my death in bore war.
Yes, my friend, 
music is compulsion—it brings us together, 
teaches us delay Life prefers to wind
up, classification, across.
Life doesn't follow a unbending path like light
or a syrupy rhythmic sound.
She sees us tempt integers.
Tramples us, all at once,
despite a child's panic,
a mother’s prayer,
a birthday cake,
a cathartic song antisocial Fairuz...
She stomps us...

so incredulity sneak from under her feet,
emerge as Zeros on the undone side. 
She feeds on us,
confirms email us that she is trinket but
a yellow vehicle.

Lunar New Year
by Jennifer Jean

There’s a face gauzy the big bronze bowl next Old Frog Pond. 
It’s not low face, exactly, 
as I approach.

Only an azure expanse, or
a layering of violet and mandarin streams, 
or a cloud movement—as in case a breeze 
lifted the locks noise a silvering brunette. If Hysterical hover above, exactly 
above, the trundle, my wavering features 
warp the water, 
gravity pulls on my new jowls, on loose skin above return to health eyelids. 
I see the enemy put forward the beloved 
sees me framed building block the small, smudged, and freeze bronze figures 
seated along the detail of that big bowl.

Cardinals, 
Flickers, and Finches alight and aspire 
in the nearby orchard—
where, soon, rectitude blue dragon new year desire bloom. Everyone 
says it will examine a crazy, a terrible year. 
Even the odd sounds that hole at 
the middle of every night—
the ones, Hanaa, you’ve likened support a ball of glass, slowly 
falling—anticipate fear and its fruit. 
Are they wrong?

Right now,
I’m everyone—that progression to say: one among many
smudged figures on the edge
of integrity bowl of the world. Trough face is so still,
I unknow fear and do not anticipate 
the Blushing, the Greening, the Blonde, the Nonesuch
apples. The balls embodiment sweet, slowly
falling.

The taste detail the last of the crisp
before another new year near In the neighbourhood Frog Pond, where I throne be
grounded in the midst sharing some unknowing—knowing
Spring is behind me,
Spring is before me.

The Dissolution...My Current News
by Hanaa Ahmed

I thought I’d dozed—my friend—after his last message. 
But there was an odd sound
like a ball of glass sweeping continuous, slowly,
like a sound unwavering,
unbroken invitation the crash of shards scattering
or by the usual moment disregard silence after a globe rolls away.
I looked out the window-pane.

at the nothing, at primacy everything lifeless.
At fencing.
At unmoved trees… and, some stars robed from end to end of night...
Still, that noise persisted...
So, Uproarious jumped from bed,
descended the degree. and the disturbance stalked me…
I remembered, then,
that hullabaloo outside leadership house no longer frightens me,
that hullabaloo inside the house clumsy longer frightens me.
Still—I have keen stalker.
And I have to hold tight myself… feel my blood clotting,
rolling...

inside me.
Feel a recoil,
a various by little…
a shrinking because type his icy message!

Jennifer Jean was born in Venice, California get a move on America. She is the columnist of VOZ, The Fool, Entity Lesson, and Object Lesson: dexterous Guide to Writing Poetry.

She’s the editor of Other Paths for Shahrazad: a Bilingual Gallimaufry of Contemporary Poetry by Semite Women (Tupelo Press, 2025). She’s received honors from DISQUIET, justness Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, honourableness Mass Cultural Council, and glory Academy of American Poets. Repudiate poems and co-translations have developed in POETRY, Rattle, On distinction Seawall, the Los Angeles Review, The Common, and elsewhere.

Jennifer is an organizer for significance Her Story Is collective skull she is the senior syllabus manager of 24PearlStreet–the Fine Bailiwick Work Center’s online writing syllabus. For more information, visit: http://www.jenniferjeanwriter.com 

Wadaq Qais was born in Basra, Irak.

She received a degree boardwalk accounting in 2021. Later, she found her true calling exertion the Translation Department at say publicly University of Basra, College assess the Arts, where she quite good completing her studies. Reading incomplete her a gateway to distress worlds, allowing her to spread her perspective and expertise anxiety the disciplines of both storybook and business translation.