{"id":32536,"date":"2024-04-02T11:22:38","date_gmt":"2024-04-02T09:22:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=32536"},"modified":"2025-09-10T12:15:15","modified_gmt":"2025-09-10T10:15:15","slug":"two-poems-from-ladan-osman","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/two-poems-from-ladan-osman\/","title":{"rendered":"Two Poems from Ladan Osman"},"content":{"rendered":"<h5>Somalian American poet Ladan Osman presents her book<em> Exiles of Eden<\/em>, which looks at the origin story of Adam, Eve, and their exile from the Garden of Eden, exploring displacement and alienation from its mythological origins to the present. In this formally experimental collection steeped in Somali narrative tradition, Osman gives voice to the experiences and traumas of displaced people over multiple generations. The characters in these poems encounter exile\u2019s strangeness while processing the profoundly isolating experience of knowing that that once you are sent out of Eden, you can\u2019t go back.<\/h5>\n<hr \/>\n<div class=\"ose-vimeo ose-uid-00ef1012b28ea6162c14d15b9f4a4ccb ose-embedpress-responsive\" style=\"width:600px; height:550px; max-height:550px; max-width:100%; display:inline-block;\" data-embed-type=\"Vimeo\"><iframe loading=\"lazy\" allowFullScreen=\"true\" title=\"Poet Ladan Osman\" src=\"https:\/\/player.vimeo.com\/video\/929790429?dnt=0&amp;app_id=122963&title=0&color=00ADEF&byline=0&portrait=0&autoplay=0&loop=0&autopause=0\" width=\"600\" height=\"550\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"encrypted-media;accelerometer;autoplay;clipboard-write;gyroscope;picture-in-picture fullscreen; picture-in-picture; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\"><\/iframe><\/div>\n<hr \/>\n<figure id=\"attachment_32537\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-32537\" style=\"width: 600px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-32537\" src=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/04\/Exiles-cover-Ladan-Osman.jpg\" alt=\"Exiles of Eden, Ladan Osman\" width=\"600\" height=\"900\" srcset=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/04\/Exiles-cover-Ladan-Osman.jpg 600w, https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/04\/Exiles-cover-Ladan-Osman-200x300.jpg 200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\" \/><figcaption id=\"caption-attachment-32537\" class=\"wp-caption-text\"><em>Exiles of Eden<\/em> is published by <a href=\"https:\/\/coffeehousepress.org\/products\/exiles-of-eden\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Coffee House Press<\/a>.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<h4><\/h4>\n<h4>Ladan Osman<\/h4>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h4 style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">The sea fell on my house<\/h4>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">The sea fell on my house<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">I was sweeping<br \/>\nand counting my cups<br \/>\nand rinsing my toothbrush and bracing my hinges<br \/>\nwhen the sea fell on my house.<br \/>\nThe sea fell on my house<br \/>\nwhen I\u2019d braced for a straight-line wind.<br \/>\nThe sea fell on my house<br \/>\nand I couldn\u2019t tell if it jumped on me or me in it<br \/>\nbut I was filled with the minerals and matter<br \/>\nevery beast and root on earth contain.<br \/>\nI couldn\u2019t tell if it jumped in me or me in it<br \/>\nbut I watched it fall out of my body<br \/>\nwarm seawater from my body<br \/>\nonto the kitchen floor I\u2019d just checked<br \/>\nfor the earth-dust of winter<br \/>\nthe brown dust of winter.<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">When you enter with it<br \/>\ndon\u2019t say, \u201cMay.\u201d<br \/>\nsay, \u201cCan. Can I?\u201d<br \/>\nand I\u2019ll answer with a gesture.<br \/>\nCover me with your body.<br \/>\nIn the atmosphere between<br \/>\nour ribs: rain.<br \/>\nRain containing the minerals<br \/>\nand salve<br \/>\nfor every beast and root on earth.<br \/>\nCover me and cover my cries.<br \/>\nMy mouth a cave for the sea<br \/>\nto rush through<br \/>\nyour tongue some urchin<br \/>\nassigned to live<br \/>\noff my minerals and matter.<br \/>\nLater, when delinquent,<br \/>\nrefuse to move, your belly at rest<br \/>\nyour belly a palm on my belly.<br \/>\nRefuse to move until another train passes<br \/>\nand I\u2019ll say, \u201cNo\u201d with a gesture.<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">The sea fell on my house.<br \/>\nThe sky was paperwhite.<br \/>\nJust after noon.<br \/>\nAn exact white.<br \/>\nWinter-salt crests and froth<br \/>\non the sidewalks.<br \/>\nThat should\u2019ve been a warning<br \/>\nthat the sea would fall.<br \/>\nThe real one<br \/>\nnot the sad sea of a snow<br \/>\nmound resisting spring.<br \/>\nThe real one<br \/>\nfell on my house.<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">I couldn\u2019t tell if pressure<br \/>\nwas at the front of my mind<br \/>\nor if my mind got stopped up<br \/>\nunderwater.<br \/>\nThe sea fell the sea fell the sea fell<br \/>\non me and I\u2019m at ease<br \/>\nand thirsty<br \/>\nand a figure is made known<br \/>\na figure made from all the minerals<br \/>\nand matter<br \/>\nof his fellow beasts, the roots he eats.<br \/>\nWe are thirsty and at ease<br \/>\nand falling asleep to the mineral scent<br \/>\nof our contribution to the sea.<br \/>\nWe are thirsty and at ease<br \/>\nand the chalk and film of the sea<br \/>\nis dry on our thighs and fingers<br \/>\nand in the juvenile curve<br \/>\nunder our lips.<\/p>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">We are thirsty and at ease<br \/>\nwe are thirsty and at ease<br \/>\nwe are thirsty and at ease<br \/>\nwe are thirsty and at ease and mindful of our salt<br \/>\nand thirsty and at ease<br \/>\nand resting<br \/>\nand assured of the yield we\u2019ll mine.<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<h4 style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">Landscape Genocide<\/h4>\n<p style=\"padding-left: 80px;\">My mother walked Liido Beach every morning when pregnant.<br \/>\nI know the mineral scent of seawater wherever I am.<br \/>\nIf the sun bakes the metal of earth, if my own damp scalp sweats,<br \/>\nif I hold my hennaed palms to my face.<br \/>\nI have said, \u201cGod. There is no god but God\u201d into my metallic palms.<br \/>\nWhen my blood started, war started.<br \/>\nEver since the war started, I dye a henna disk on each palm.<br \/>\nI refresh it when it browns, old blood. \u201cGod,\u201d<br \/>\ninto my mineral palms when the whole street was white sheets,<br \/>\nthin men digging graves night til dawn til night til dawn.<br \/>\nThey paused for every single prayer.<br \/>\nAn orb of light dragged me through a dim street, lifted me off my feet.<br \/>\nI shouted \u201cThis is my light!\u201d and held it tight against my belly.<br \/>\nI was still, beyond known stillness,<br \/>\na gravity of my own, and still I didn\u2019t light the street.<br \/>\nThe last thing my mother promised me was a photo of her,<br \/>\nfive months pregnant, at the shore, backlit by the ocean.<br \/>\n\u201cGo at dawn,\u201d she\u2019d say. The water was warmest at dawn.<br \/>\nAt dawn, girls went to the sea in whatever they were wearing,<br \/>\neven if they had school later. Their mothers couldn\u2019t keep them<br \/>\nfrom the water, from walking fully dressed into it.<br \/>\nThere was nowhere to go but Liido.<br \/>\nThe orb, a giant marble in my diaphragm would float with me there.<br \/>\nThere was nowhere to go but into the sea.<br \/>\nBetween this interior desert and the sea at the edge<br \/>\nof my known world, orange pekoe-tinted sand<br \/>\nmarked with the heels and balls of firm and dazed feet.<br \/>\nCharred acacias facedown in the dust.<br \/>\nSucculents marking clusters of graves. Graves of people<br \/>\nand fruit-bearing trees. Bones of tall livestock,<br \/>\nthe startling domes of camel ribs lit like a great hall<br \/>\nby the relentless sun. There is nowhere to go but the sea.<br \/>\nBetween here and its mineral scent, bones of people,<br \/>\nsmall and not small, bush lions and their young,<br \/>\nalways litters of bones at the line between known<br \/>\nand wild worlds. Between here and Liido, the land<br \/>\nin full prostration. The only song, metallic. Shells,<br \/>\nor whole bullets underfoot, sometimes whole piles<br \/>\nat the edge and center of towns put facedown<br \/>\nat night, at dawn, during afternoon prayer, at dusk.<br \/>\nBetween here and Liido, the land and everything in it<br \/>\nin full submission to the mineral scent of our water<br \/>\nand blood and inability to cry anything,<br \/>\nnot even \u201cGod! No god but God!\u201d We go at dawn.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Somali American poet Ladan Osman presents poems &#8220;The Sea Fell on My House&#8221; and &#8220;Landscape Genocide.&#8221;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":549,"featured_media":32538,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center 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