About Me

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Alexandria, Egypt
Yasser Kashef was born in 1989, in Alexandria. He is studying English linguistics and translation in Alexandria University. Being a son for an Alexandrian mother and an Asswani father grants him a flexible character that enables him to deal with various cultures and thoughts. He started to write Arabic poems at the age of eleven. In 2008, he wrote his first English poem “Death Life” and then followed it with more than 15 poems. He won the third place in Renaissance Group Poetry Competition for his poem “Schizophrenia” in 2010. Furthermore, his poem “Africa’s Son” bestowed him the first place in the same competition in 2011. He is interested in drawing, traveling, and photographing. Sugarcane is considered as his first short story. ..

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Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Num Num Num

Num  num  num
Your hazel eyes are heaven
Your beauty makes my heart drum
Num  num  num
You have all the love
So give me some
Num  num  num
Your voice is the anthem of love
So let me hum
Num  num  num
You are the secret of eternity
My life with you will be plum
Num  num  num
Num  num  num

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Rady started to hum some old songs when I was trying to push him to the shadowy side of the street. Would you please leave me in the sunny side? said Rady.
I was detained for more than ten years. I rarely saw the sun. Can you imagine African pharaoh lives without sun. Can a human being hide the sun from another just because he grew his beard or memorized some holy speech? Until now, I can.t find answers to my questions. Until now, I hide the truth, and you know what? Once you hide the truth, it.ll be your unbearable burden. I.m a detainee of fears, pain and silence. Sometimes I envy martyrs because I live spiritless the same as zombies. The damned regime succeeded to zombify us. I even fear to articulate the tyrant's name, as it causes me this throbbing shiver. And now you want to push me to the shadow?

(This is a part from my short story "Sugarcane Juice", the story which won the forth place in SEA OF WORDS competition 2011) 

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Living Memories I Relish

When nostalgia gnaws at my heart,
Reminding me with memories from the past
It surrounds my eyes with flashbacks,
Dogging my solitude when darkness attacks

I remember my wide fertile land.
Also its sticky chocolate,
And the sun that turned me tanned,
Laying on the dry green carpet.

There I wave for friends to come.
We whistle with birds when they hum.
We play among dense fields of sugarcane
Shaking a citrus tree to taste its rain

From scorching sun, we always flee,
Panting for an old shadowy tree
We goodbye the sun when it leaves the sky,
Watch it gives the blue curtain a colorful dye.

I remember an old man looks like a gnome.
His stories and quotes inside me are home.
Wrinkles seize his face from chin to forehead,
Granting him veneration and cheerfulness instead

His sonorous voice when he does pun
Kills my ignorance, saying: "Listen, son!
The pure heart that sorrow cleaves
Is more fragile than autumn leaves"

A bitter grief chokes my throat
Because I really do miss the boat
I cry drowning in my salty tears
The wizened man no more will punch my ears

I dry my tears with my sleeve.
In a new sun of optimism, I believe.
Yet the return of the smile tastes sweet.
Still, the muddy land waits for my bare feet.

Saturday, November 12, 2011


    I started to move to the sycamore tree. I passed through the tropical plants of roselle. I picked up one of its flowers. It looked like a jester's hat. Its color was crimson, the same as a cloudy sky after sunset. It had the same texture of velvet, or it was near to the transparent wings of fairies. I stopped by the old gigantic tree, watching its elaborate branches and its raw sycamore fruits. We used to flee from the scorching sun, hiding our tanned skins in the shadowy zone. There, we witnessed the daily birth of sun. We watched the moon's waning and waxing. We drew our dreams with colors of our own imagination. The train of memories filled my eyes with tears. I wept my tearful eyes with my dyed-with-roselle hands, and swallowed the bitter taste of nostalgia.