Monday, September 7, 2020
Saturday, September 5, 2020
Martians
My life
is simple, not winter grapes, very juicy and fragrant, like the daughters of
the Temple of Enlil, but my life is a brown heart is full of sand. I remember very well when my Martian friend
landed on it, with a wagon made of wood of the Enkido Door, which he brought to
us from the cedars. I told him, "I admire the way the houses are being
built there. There are no roofs and no grudges." Martians are not like us.
Their hearts hung in the sky. He told me about his ancestors that they drank
the luminous Honey of Paradise. They would go out early in the morning in
search of warmth, as winter butterflies fall asleep in the hands of hard
workers. Times were magical, I remember well that Mars Alley brightly colored,
as if you were looking at an ornate Indian party and that man sitting among the colorful trees with branches, with a hat made of snow, was telling stories
of paradise to children, at that time I knew that we are not the only ones in
history and civilization. I asked about
his age and he was said to be a million years old, but it was strange that he
was full of youth, and I also asked him about his name, which I forgot now
because I was fascinated by those moments in which we were laughing out loud.
Wednesday, August 19, 2020
Fake Eyes ; expressive narrative prose poem by Anwer Ghani
You shake
my hand in amazement, amid winter-dressed fields and tired white branches. When
will this anxiety go away? Then the eternal words will come. How are hopes?
When we remember those distances, we are filled with laughter and nostalgia.
Yes, our memories are inspiring, full of tears. Maybe it will attract our
friends and they will love to sail in this memory; in this sea of
inspiration. Why not? We can be good writers, and of exceptional sizes. Yes,
we can be good writers; we grow wheat and buy reeds to warm the autumn. Is not
this our blood flowing, and our bodies sold in the streams? I am tired of these
merchants and the people of cheap goods. They hold us fake eyes. Are they not
tired of this slavery? Are they not ashamed? I hope you hear, there must be
freedom, there must be a beginning, a scream that awakens the sleepers.
The Whispering Language in Pragya Suman Poetry By Anwer Ghani
We have always been dazzled by the beauty of poetry, but since the
advent of the prose poem, poetry has become another concept, and language has
become more powerful and manifested in clearer forms, and has become the focus
of beauty, and the center of creativity.
The prose poem has lavished upon us wonderful worlds of beautiful
language, and it is only necessary to focus, contemplate and taste unique in
order to see all that magic in the language of prose poetry.
I have dealt realistically with beautiful forms of the language of prose
poetry, some of which were insurmountable. By following the language written by
the Indian poetess Pragya Suman, I always felt that she was whispering in her
rhetoric and words. And this whisper takes many forms and images. It is nice to
follow those pictures and forms to see this enrichment in this beautiful color
and unique language.
The whispered language appears in Pragya's poetry in many different ways;
Some of them depend on words, some of them depend on the meanings, and some of
them depend on pictures.
The whispered language is manifested in images that do not tend to
sharpness, and many aspects of it are deferred, and the revelation reaches the recipient
through reverberations and jolts far from indoctrination, with whisper words
and subtle meanings. Every follower of Pragya finds this evident in her
writings. We find this clear in a smooth stanza in which she says:
" Autumn is at
the door of Vincent and it seems his brush is running in a red river. Red dunes
of Mars are heaped up in the horoscope of Vincent and in a fiery mood he would
do an adultery."
This highly poetic section contains a group of stylistic elements of the
whispered language, but the most prominent of them is the pictorial whisper:
" Autumn is at the door of Vincent/ his brush is running in a red river /
Red dunes of Mars are / in a fiery mood he would do an adultery.") This
pictorial collection presents a soft and whispering revelation and conveys the
idea and the goal to the recipient not through a loud voice and indoctrination,
but rather with whispering and quietly inspired, intellectual, and pictorial.
It is clear that the poem and other poems focus on a central figure, Vincent,
and the symbolic sign in this figure is also whispered. The poetic whisper is a
form of expressive symbolism through sentences and images, not through
metaphors, and this is a major leap in the concept of poetry that is not
accessible only by expressive writing in the prose poem.
In another form, the way in it is the transparent and sensitive thing
that proves its state in action and existence and not by direct description, so
she says:
" Auvers is red
and red, as red poppies are seekers of infinite sleep and petals are still in
closed fist. A master stroke of impressionist splutters the infinite cerulean
sky. One day petals would kiss a painter's brush."
This form of colored infinity and this is a form of existence that
transcends life, eternity and color, it can only be ethereal and subtle, it
consists of this in a whispered statement that conveys the idea and purpose to
the recipient through this colored representation with a painter's brush.
Notice how this painting was filled with whispering letters, and how the
expression in it reached its extent in a colored panel that despite the
loudness of the revelation in it, the objects of the picture do not appear
except as expressive entities in the painting. Despite the depth of the
revelation, it has a gentle expression and a whispering, charming expression.
It is clear that the Pragya language is unique, with clear terms,
meanings and structures that have created a special world for it, and a
distinct space based on whispering and gentle revelation.
Tuesday, August 11, 2020
ANWER GHANI: The City of Snow
ANWER GHANI: The City of Snow: It's a city combing its hair in snow, what a sleepy city. Despite what has been said about its great glory, and that the evenings ...
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Monday, July 13, 2020
Wednesday, July 8, 2020
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
NEW YORK DREAMER
I have told New York's bustling streets, and its blossom flowers,
that I have a dream, a loud dream, that I love without limits, without boredom,
and tiredness. You, like me, are also a farmer from the south, and like
me you dream of loud love, yes, the loud love has another taste and has another
color. When you close your eyes, you fly, because you are free and because you
are a dreamer, and because you love without limits. I will talk to you
about all bright dreams, bright tales, and bright eyes. Yes, I will talk
to you tirelessly, and without getting bored, because I am a New Yorker
dreamer.
THE BLIND MAGIC
When I saw the crazy blindness sweeping
our streets, I knew magic was real, and at that time I understood all that
great passion for violence that kidnapped the heart of humanity. I am not a
professional poet, but the poem told me that humans have soft and delicate
souls. It also taught me a method that could help me get away from the
limelight. But as you can see, the lights are magic and eyes can be stolen.
When I decide to become a man of lights, I will definitely learn a different
magic that is not like a thief's magic. The poem, like me, believes in sorcery,
but I am sure that when it knows a little about the magic of this blind world,
it will change its idea of dazzling magic.
SOUL TRANSPLANTATION
I am a son of a farmer, not a son of a queen. What will happen if
we exchange our destiny? But frankly, I cannot imagine myself being a son of a
queen, nor can I imagine you as a farm son. So, I will rely on another way to
achieve our transformation. I will go to a spiritualist friend and ask him to
perform a soul transplant; by giving my body your soul, and giving your body my
soul. I think after that, we'll all understand the true story.
THE CRAZY CORONA
Your message is scary, and I can't stand all this longing. I am
learning the song; my eyes will never fall again and my hands will not be
noisy. This is a pledge and a celebration. I will go to the far market in
search of my start. And as an old lover, I will repeat every absent dream that
fades before evening on the foliage. I will tell my story for many generations,
and Like a bitter rain, I will slowly fade, and I will stand wet in the middle
of the road hoping for you. And loudly I will sing my sorrow; that the crazy
Corona told me everything and taught me the game of silent life. I am learning
because I am a good student sitting behind a tightly closed door without sharp
eyes and without hard heart.
THE FADED END
THE FADED END
I heard that the rivers will breathe their last laughs in the faded
stream, and the birds will leave their eggs in the faded trees and build their
nests in my grandfather's faded garden. Clouds will make the sky tell faded
stories and rain faded hours. The absences will sleep in my faded dreams, until
you can see the spirits embracing their faded shades. The sun's rays will drink
their last tea in the faded darkness, then you can see my poem standing at the
faded end.
I WRITE TO YOU WITH SADNESS
I am just a sad rock on the road, but when I remember your voice, I
feel the strange green and dewy touch of my skin, so I smile. I am alone, like
this bitter time, and I am only good at sadness. I write to you with sadness
because I am from the sad land. The roads here are sad, the stories are sad,
the hearts are sad, even the smiles are sad. We are here when we write, we
write with sadness, when we read, we read with sadness, when we love we love
with sadness, and when we laugh, we laugh with sadness. They stole our door and
stole our windows, so the sadness entered our homes with air. We have become
fish that breathe sadness, and when we are born, we are born with sadness
because we know that behind our stolen doors and behind our stolen windows,
nothing awaits us but sadness.
THE FESTIVITY OF THE GREAT WATERMELON
Summer is not beautiful in Iraq; it is old and it is standing on a
long failure. The summer here, like me, loves watermelon, but it is a bitter
love. The watermelon here is something hidden and wondrous, full of secrets and
magic, and our ancestors often tell us about it strangely, until I thought that
the watermelon is a mythical being. When I return from my long absence, I will
go to one of the doors of my grandfather's small orchard, and I will paint a
small watermelon on it and I will celebrate. I will invite all the birds of the
earth to seed the grain of watermelon in the fields of the Iraqis in order to
make a big celebration; it is the festivity of the great Watermelon.
Sunday, March 8, 2020
Shining
I will end up in love with the Tigris and the Euphrates, as both are blamed
as long as they have vanished in their intense love. It is my beginning towards
the heavens that I know, full of warmth, it is my stories as a waterfall
kissing the rebel foreheads. Yes, that's how I learn the red chant, this is how
the sky smiles for its lovers, and from there your face shines.
I Will Melt in Love
Yes, I will melt in love with you like the
holidays in my country, without delay or postponed words, because love does not
know faded songs or fake looks. It must be a beginning, a rebirth and a sound
that refreshes sunken souls, separates the marble heart and strikes the rock
until the unforgettable hope lights up.
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
A CEDAR TREE
Oh, Cedar, how many aspirants loved you and the immortal Gilgamesh knew
how to write you a poem. I am from the distant cities, where the sun is without
robe and no eyes, only a story of waiting and something of an ancient fragrant.
I am an old traveler, I learned the trip by accident. I also tell you that I am
a small sailor and inherited the sea song from my grandparents. The hard wave I
will know its desire. I will know it, and I will keep a little silent, so I may
remember something. Yes, I will wait as a cedar tree overflows with returnees.
A COLD MESSAGE
The word has a thousand wings full of fear. How can I see? Love of the
Earth is not enough; complete freedom is required. Yes, when it comes time for
the paving to shake, to walk barefoot, I will collect my breath like a bouquet
of flowers smiling for the near future. Here, the word freezes, you need
another poetry, a body that trembles. My words are cool message, thorns
permeate me; I multiply in the fields of language as a harsh tent, I am still
powerless; the language is looking for new sailors. No, the sun is not enough
to symbolize freedom and the distances persecute me; I am still stuck to the
ground. My words feel cold and my limbs are freezing like trains inhabited by
snow travelers.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
FAME
It was a coincidence when I met that famous man. I mean, very famous and
very empty. He is not from Hilla and does not work in my grandfather's fields,
so he is famous. He is known by his distinguished and surprising name, because
surprise and strangeness are something inherent in this civilization. They are
looking for fame at any cost, and looking for strangeness and excitement at any
cost. But I don't know why sometimes when I hear their names, I remember blown
cars, I mean empty souls. They are famous and empty, made with false and artificial
influences. Fame is not an Iraqi citizen and Euphrates does not know it because
it speaks fluently about beautifying for everything that's really ugly.
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