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THE LAST GREAT POET: The Brilliance of Hadraawi

Two things made me really happy few weeks ago. Obama assured Americans that he was indeed an American, revealing for the first time at the lavish White House correspondents' dinner, his "birthday video" - the birth of Simba the Lion King, held by the wise Rafiki in all his majestic nakedness for all creatures to celebrate Prideland brilliantly-encapsulation Dreams from My Father and makes me so proud to be from Africa. Then, suddenly, I received a phone call from the motherland!As much as I love Africa, I do not receive calls from Africa.

The calls I receive from family members in Xamar en route to my meager portfolio, are in fact close to blackmail always late at night when I'm alone until 4 AM reading books, and n 'there's nobody to call for help. Once you pick up the phone, they intimidate you for money, then they hang up abruptly to worry about their fate. The worst of these calls: there are no questions in North America to overcome the awkwardness like 'How was your day?"" How's the weather in Canada? "" How do homeboy? "" Ya'll still together? "Sometimes I feel bad to ignore these calls, because the money is not neutral, and if I had that much money they are looking for a bit sloppy in my wallet, I throw it the air for them to take as Jay-Z "Big Pimpin." That's how we roll in the 'hood. But this call was notably Hargeysa, which made me ecstatic, and the caller is one of my friends who had good news for me Hadraawi, the Ernest Hemingway my Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

In 1957, when my favorite living writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez, twenty-eight years, saw his hero Ernest Hemingway walking on the sidewalk of St. Michel in Paris one day in spring drizzle, the exuberant young Colombian who was amazed and self-conscious of his rudimentary English, is a tunnel with his hands around his mouth and yelled across the street: "Maaaeeestro!"In 2008, twenty-one years, when I saw my hero from afar at a crowded banquet hall, crowned by old grandfathers Somali bated upright posture with drooping canes Malacca and mean-muggin 'for cameras flashing, I forgot that I was a lady and dig my hands around my mouth and screamed like Tarzan "Boqorka! Ar wuuuuw!"Hemingway did not know Mark later received the Nobel Prize in 1982 for one of my favorite books, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and would go write the great love story of all time, Love in the Time of Cholera, Hemingway was so head condescendingly, and raised his hand, pretending greeting, screaming comic "Adiooos, amigo!" He walked injuring his young admirer Latin as new shoes, but my hero stopped for me that day and then beckoned me among all these old men as if I was shit-hood etymology is for you, dear reader.I got up so fast, so fast at these old men that no longer occurs to me that I was born 20 June 1987, and more importantly, when I asked him if I could write his memoirs in English He actually welcomed the idea enthusiastically and invited me to be his guest in Burco, his hometown.

Cosmopolitan greetings, poems, 1986-1992

Greetings, Earthlings!, Space Poems

Poems of the West

Poems, original and translated

Principles of Microeconomics