HEARTS

 

HEARTS

As evening approached our old window, It told me that hearts were fingers of light, descending in the evening like an old peasant with eyes of lapis lazuli.

It told me that the heart has two long braids, and it goes out at dawn to his grandfather's precious orchard, which is very similar to the picturesque gardens of Kashmir. There are pure faces that remind me of my grandparents. Where hearts are white and bright like pearls. I wish you had seen them covered in silk. I hope you saw the gentle rivers; they were as tender as the hearts of the Basrans.

That quiet evening advised me to leave behind foggy hearts, for a pure heart is a free bird that does not live in this dark world. He spoke softly, and I listened. He told me that the heart is the brother of the sun. It was strange and amazing news. So where are the hearts of our dear ancestors? Where are their bright lights?

SOMETHING OF DEATH

 

Something of Death

Oh days, oh birds, wait, wait, for this is my heart still stumbling over the slopes, its feet made of snow, and its eyes the remains of a copper voice searching for something of death.

I searched for a long time everywhere my fingers could reach, I searched for my gray color, and I also searched for my hidden veins, but I did not find an image of myself.  Maybe I'm tainted to the point of blindness. I must find my purity in order to see the image of the person I know, who longs for a free death. I am really sorry now, because I was not able to do that, because I know that life has a smile that cannot be seen except through that beloved death.

I stand here every day like a bird of distant islands. I stand as a stranger listening to that voice; The voice of my heart. Yes, I am standing here waiting for my pure soul to return; I wait for my life every day in the hope that I will die.

Expressive Narrative Prose Poems

 

It is me, Anwer Ghanim; a farmer from the south where the strangeness had drowned in the gulf. My voice is a watery tale and my yearning is an absent moment. Someday I had crossed into that sorcerous riverbank with a boat of silence. I had looked at the face of the field when it chanted its song.  At that time, I had met the travelers’ souls which gave me their treasure. They gifted my ribs unforgettable beats and hid in my pocket their eternal secrets.

https://www.docdroid.net/Z4blHmJ/expressive-narrative-prose-poems-pdf

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.

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.

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.

The Sad Iraqi Smile

Iraqis cannot live without war, and the morning breeze cannot flirt with their cheeks without its futile sound. I am an Iraqi man; my soul was kneaded by the acidity of sumac, and my dreams drowned in the sea of our sad tales. It is the death that we inherited from our Babylonian fathers, and that cannot be changed without a soft and patient hand. But despite all this bitter smoke, you need the sad Iraqi smile to see the glory of the sun.

Yasser Arafat Peace Award 2019

SMOKE GIRL

 You said "we will meet with smiles under a shining tree in the shining city where the sun songs swaying beams above your golden wrists, but the city has swallowed by smoke, so how can I see your smile? How can I come with two silver rivers and my eyes are filled with tears; amid all this smoke, how can I see you? My heart trembles, and the road is blind; amid the smoke, I cannot see your smile. I have become called Smoke boy and your name is Smoke Girl. My city has become called the city of smoke and my country is the country of smoke. Our days, our hours and our moments are smoked. Your smile, your face and my heart are smoked; nothing here- in our city- but smoke.

Pushcart Nomination

Iraqi poet Anwar Ghani has been nominated for the 2019 Pushcart Award, the world's most important poetry award by inner child press. Anwar Ghani is the first Iraqi poet to be nominated for this award.
After dedicating this nomination to my dear friends, and after more than 500 poems, I announced my retirement of literary writing and devoted myself to religious writing, but I will re-publish my poems on my blog and on social media. So All what I will publish are old poems.

Pushcart Award Nomination 2019

Iraqi poet Anwar Ghani has been nominated for the 2019 Pushcart Award, the world's most important poetry award by Inner Child Press. Anwar Ghani is the first Iraqi poet to be nominated for this award.
After dedicating this nomination to my dear friends, and after more than 500 poems, I announced my retirement of literary writing and devoted myself to religious writing, but I will re-publish my poems on my blog and on social media. So All what I will publish are old poems.

Smoke Girl

You said "we will meet with smiles under a shining tree in the shining city where the sun songs swaying beams above your golden wrists, but the city has swallowed by smoke, so how can I see your smile? How can I come with two silver rivers and my eyes are filled with tears; amid all this smoke, how can I see you? My heart trembles, and the road is blind; amid the smoke, I cannot see your smile. I have become called Smoke boy and your name is Smoke Girl. My city has become called the city of smoke and my country is the country of smoke. Our days, our hours and our moments are smoked. Your smile, your face and my heart are smoked; nothing here- in our city- but smoke.

Yasser Arafat Peace Award 2019

Let's Celebrate Asia

The sun touches our window every morning coming from the east, from Asia, so my mom calls it Bright Asia. The sun is old, the east is old, but Asia is new and young today. It is beautiful today and attractive. Very attractive, I feel it, I see it, I believe in it; it is a new Asia, beautiful Asia, its mouth is made in China and its eyes are made in India. The sun that shines from Asia is not yellow, but white like the skin of the Japanese and their cheeks are not pale; it is rosary like the Korean cheeks, and its sound is not harsh but rather very musical and soft like the voices of Arab women. Asia is very charming and amazing like Chinese arts and sports and she is very real like Indian girls. Here, I celebrate Asia because it is a soft and delicate river and every wonderful story can be planted in the heart of the world. Let's celebrate Asia and its new sun.

Russian translation of my poems by Rahim Karimove

Wisdom Is Here

It is a story that spans hundreds of years. The story of a unique man who knew the earth and saw everything, sing in his name, my country. Wisdom is here; in his heart, in his words, in his sorrow. Yes, the wisdom is here, it is the witness and the martyr; the gift of heaven to Iraq, Ali Al-Sistani; the voice of wisdom and its pure flag. The man who saw the truth and said it in the time of wandering. When the voice of Iraq was almost lost, his words illuminated the way. When enemies invaded my land, it was released with his call. Do not be afraid, Euphrates from fire, there are always loyal men extinguishing its bitter flames. Now, when Iraq began to raise a beautiful voice, he was scattering roses on the heads of free people. He is truly honest, sincere and loving. He is truly a nation in man.

- the art-photo is my work.

It's His Voice

It is his voice; the precious voice, pouring over the sidewalk to tomorrow's smile. Only, he and his voice and Iraq, so there is no place here for the yellow laugh or the strange story. When he calls, he preaches the palm trees, and when he smiles, he smiles to the beautiful Iraqi eyes. It is the brown sparrow born from a high southern palm. It is not a shadow so his voice is golden and his dream is great kneaded with the blood of the martyrs and the tears of women. Here; in his heart live the cane of Iraq, and here; in his eyes, its beautiful future shines. His eyelid is a safe ship, a flapping wing and a beautiful dream. Yes, it is his voice; the future of the new Iraq.

The artphoto is my work

ICMDR Meeting Award

I am speechless to thank this honor and this generosity of ICMDR meeting.