Deema Mahmood (Egypt)

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.


Braids of Spirit (Poetry), Dar Al-Adham, Cairo, 2015.
I Pick Quarrels with the Horizon over a Violin (Poetry), Dar Al Ain, Cairo, 2017.
A third book 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 events inside and outside of Egypt.



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


Throwing up

I’m throwing up,
Yes throwing up!
I curse the genes that bound me to the human race
And handed me over to this chaos

I wish I were a mangy or a Shirazi cat,
A mad or a well-bred dog.
I don’t care,
I wish I were a little bird,
Or a fly teeming with microbes from dumpsites,
Endowed with a pair of wings
To go far away and pull my soul
Out of this stinking human neurotic pit

I’m searching for an exit.
I’m suffocating and floating in nausea.
Thick foam is choking me and no way to stop that !

Translated by Norddine Zouitni


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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s