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?

THE SAND CITY

 

THE SAND CITY  

 

I am from there, from the city of sand, a traveler in my heart is the sound of water. I stumble in the seas of my life, only resting at every shore that sings beautiful songs. I am just a memory that came to us from afar, telling us the story of absence. The story of a city that still lives in dusty leaves, and still looks strangely in the mirror. It always told me that aerosol is a strange thing that gives us the illusion of reality, but when we go to sleep, we see it clearly, and we face it face to face, and it tells us its cold stories.

Don't you see this city with its silver hands, holding our breath tight, creating a long line of rocks that dream of faded roads? And this time, how pale and free it is, flies away without return, it laughs mockingly at our bulging eyes.   I am not very delusional, but I feel blind, so you find me wandering around that city looking for every unique flower that only the blind can see, and every time I find one, it says to me: Oh, Sand Man; Sometimes to see clearly, you have to be blind. I hear her voice and see her with my heart because I am a blind man.

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.

MELTING

 

Melting

I will write about love strongly, as I am a universal abbreviation for a love whose place only new lovers know. They are looking for me on the paths. It is strange how can they see me when I am a planet of ice melted by the blind winds? Since then, I have been disappearing in a river of tears.

 All I'm good at is that I descend every day from the sparkling springs into a foggy valley that knows no clarity. My letters are unreadable, and my years are unimaginable. They are just a memory from a time when the lights went out.

Everything here turns like a lost wheel, and I am that strange tree, standing there with the crown of longing on my head, looking towards the road, hoping for your arrival, even if it is a cloud. I cry every day because of all this longing, I cry because I am lost in your vast world. I'm crying so hard because I'm so happy by you.

MEETING AT ABSENCE

 

I will wander the corners of the wheat in the wee hours of dawn, and then warm my boat and my glowing islands and the shirt of the brown horizon for a joyful tomorrow.  I will give you a song you have never heard before. I carry it on my shoulder with the leftover bamboo.

When I met you in your absence far away, and you sat me down on that white hill, I was so amazed that I sailed strangely at your whisper. You are a cup blessed with wisdom. You looked a lot like the pink turtle whose shell the children of my village ate.

You told me about the houses that the ancients built in their alleys. You told me that my eyes are no longer shining.

Come near, come near, I am those falling meteors in the courtyards of paradise.  Come closer, come closer, hear my voice.

 How I wish I could write my name in the absence early because the day has become scary.

Wild love

 

 

I am a salty memory, on whose brown wood a stork has nested. I know no sail or coast but this wild love

Oh, wild love, how you burst into the corners of my dreams and closed worlds. You drag me into unbridled passion like a wild traveler lost among the bamboo trees.

It is a wild love that grows here and there. And I'm a wild shadow that can't dream, I just smile. My soul melts in its tales, stands there with this terrible feeling; touching the skin of the water. It is irresistibly soft and charming.

Let me sail to infinity. And I disappear into you happily in a wave that says it all. I just want a moment between its raging waves that surround me with all the sparkling drops that sit on the table of my eyelids, messing with the capitals of my thinking, the seagulls that can guide me to nothing.

          This is how my dream sings. So it becomes a strangely trembling bed. I'm not good at pretending, but songs of joy and euphoria that never leave the grass wet stir this love.

          O beloved impulses, where did you get all this purity from? And all this strange existence? The heart flooded my shadow with its gentle pain, and this body of mine became a follower of a captivating longing. When I look at your smiling face, overwhelmed with pride, I remember the ancient stories of that sea.

Babylonian man

 

 

I loved the sun because it reminds me of your warm soul. And I loved the evening because it reminds me of your wet whispers. I love the brown color, because it reminds me of your immortal hands.   And subconsciously I feel proud, when I see swarms of arrivals at your door asking for some nectar, and you are the owner of the great secret.

  It is amazing how much we have talked about the fading of time and space, and here you are kneading them with your fingers, so your board is infinity. You look down on us - O Babylonian - from the balconies of your walls that shine with copper, and in your hands a cup of Iraqi honey tea is like the eyes of an angel frolicking in the wilderness with the antelopes of Enkidu.   Yes, I know. You want something wonderful, because you are the wise one who knows things and knows the secrets. Your hands have conquered old age and death. Yeah, I know, you look at us and smile, you (He who saw).

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

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.

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.

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.