She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States.
And she is the first woman who wrote poetry for children in Iraq.
She is leading poetic feminist movement in the holy city of Najaf.
She got a master's degree in Arabic literature, and published sixteen collections of poetry in Arabic: Being a Girl, and a visit to the Museum of the shadows, five titles for my sea-friendly, although the later poems to the mother, Gardenia perfume, and a collection of poems for children, The Guardian dreams. It includes its Arabic prose Hazinia or lack of joy cells and freckles water (short story). ........Etc
Translated poems to (English, Turkmen, Bosevih, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain and Albania) and has received awards from the linguists and translators Arab Society (AWB) and the Festival of creativity Najafi for 2012, as well as Naziq God Award angels, Al Mu'tamar Prize for Poetry, and the award short story of the martyr mihrab and institution. It is on the boards of Baniqya member, quarterly in Najaf. Rivers Echo (Echo Mesopotamia); Iraqis in Najaf and writers association. Iraqi Union and is a member of the literary women, and Sinonu (ie Swift) Association in Denmark, the Society of Poets beyond borders, and poets of the global community.
Her poems and her stories published in different American magazines Such as : (Philadelphia poets 22), (Harbinger Asylum ), (Brooklyn Rail april2016), (Screaminmamas),(The Galway Review)and (Words without Borders)
By Faleeha Hassan
Oh I forgot.
The war that left us for two seconds
Yes, only two seconds, I forgot to throw a stone after it
- As my mother said-
So it returned with all its might
and swallowed us whole
Of shyness and apples
Wars grilled me on their fires
I don’t fear the beautiful face of war
The letters make me a liar
And paper whiteness mocks my words
I am southerner
Sadness grinds me to make the scents of sorrows
And jaded by windowsills of houses where birds don’t visit
When will my heart mature?
I am southerner
I sleep little
And dream between one heartbeat and another
That a branch leans over
And asks: who will replace the art of spying by revealing identity?
I know the meaning of similes in politics
And the pungencies of onions
They both evoke my tears.
Translated by Dikra Ridha