whispers
COLORED WHISPERS
prose poems
Anwer Ghani
COLORED WHISPERS
prose poems
Anwer Ghani
Second edition
Arcs Publishing House
Dedication
I dedicate these colorful whispers to Iraq, the wounded country, laden with colored wounds.
Preface
Poetry is not a celebration. Poetry is not bleeding. But poetry is bleeding and celebration. In "Colored Whispers", Anwer Ghani celebrates his bleeding, and his celebration bleeds. He forgets that he is a doctor or a cleric and only remembers that he is an Iraqi citizen who lived the scourge of war and wants only a simple and quiet life.
Colored whispers by more than sixty prose poems written by Anwer Ghani in the first half of 2019, we find the same message that Anwer repeats in his speeches and writings that it is the call for a life of peace for the war-ravaged Iraqi people.
It is the celebration of tears and the revolution of crying until victory, amid a bitter siege of sorrow and devastation. Through crying and weeping and tears, Anwer Ghani points fingers to the seriousness of the situation and to the real crisis that threatens the existence of Iraqi human, with messages in poems looking forward to legitimate but missing dreams.
The poet's reliance on the whispering narrative language, which is characterized by simplicity and the wavy narration between direct revelation, symbolism and metaphor, achieves its message through sensations and feelings before meanings in a abstract and brilliant space. The variety of poems and the accompanying colorful feelings gave this collection a colorful character, so these poems are colored whispers.
Here, in “Colored Whispers”, and in more than sixty poems of prose, written by the writer of the prose poetry Anwer Ghani, we find whispering, revelation with multiple messages and deep and large stories of people have been destroyed by wars which stole their smiles and their mornings by hard dancing and its cruel hands. These poems are the tales of a people and a nation that is devastated. They are the tales of a sad man who lives in a country of sorrow and always looks forward to a moment of hope and happiness.
The Author
Anwer Ghani is an award winner poet from Iraq. He was born in 1973 in Babylon. His name has appeared in more than fifty literary magazines and twenty anthologies in USA, UK and Asia and he has won many prizes; one of them is the "World Laureate-Best Poet in 2017 from WNWU". In 2018 he was nominated to Adelaide Award for poetry and in 2019 he is the winner of Rock Pebbles Literary Award and the award of United Spirit of Writers Academy for Poetry. Anwer is a religious scholar and consultant nephrologist and the author of more than eighty books; thirteenth of them are in English like; “Narratolyric writing”; (2016),“Antipoetic Poems”;( 2017) and "Mosaicked Poems"; (2018), and “The Styles of Poetry”; 2019.
Crying Until Victory
Here, in this absent part of the world, I mean my land, you will find me standing under that tent with tears. No one taught me how to cry, but I learned deeply that crying is a victory, and that the stupid devil does not realize the power of crying, so I will cry and you will always find me crying. Yes, it is me; the man of crying. If you see me one day on a tree branch, do not expect to find me sing, but you will find me crying. If you see me one day with my beloved, do not imagine that you will find me whispering in her ear words of love, but you will find me crying. If you ever see me reading a book, do not imagine that you will find me dreaming of a worldwide but you will find me crying. If you ever find me painting, do not imagine that you will find me drawing pink roses, but you will find me crying. If you someday find me write a poem, do not expect you will find me singing purple dreams, but you will find me cry. Yes, it is the life of crying; crying revolution; crying until victory.
Smashed Flowers
Yes, it is a flower, but it is just a smashed flower from the ruined land. It has been made in Iraq; the destoyed land. If you want to see the sadness face to face, then look at it, if you want to see the wetchedness face to face, then look at it, and if you want to see the ruination face to face, then look at her. It is from here, from Iraq of the ancient sadness and old ruin. The age of ruination here extends to haunderads years. Yes, for hundeards years the hands are destroying us, ruining our land and smashing our times, and why? I dont know. When the sun rises here, it rises ruined, when the moon appears here, it appears destroyed, when the morning wakes up here, it wakes up with screaming ad when the night sleeps here, it sleeps with weeping. Yes, we have roots and flowers, but smashed flowers and roots of ruination.
A Cold April
I will end at the evening's doors as a thirsty spike, and I will cruise the valleys in search of a crippled dream. A tree of almonds I am, and a stolen delight for a feast of a mirage. I bow as a sound of snow in the face of the morning, numerating the sacrifices of the ages from the souls of my innocent village. Like this I will come back; like a yellow tree whispering in April's ear with all the coldness. The children in April are kites over the houses, while the children of my village are lying down as gray bodies whose bloods irrigate the denial land. O the days, O the echoes; come closer, come closer, here is a wound with the size of the chants of the galaxy. I wish I were a deaf rock on the banks of the Euphrates.
The Fake Man
Please dont look at me and dont try to hear my voice. I am sure won’t see anything and wont hear anything because I am just a fake man. I think you may like to find a thought in my mind; even a simple thought, but you should know that there is no thought in the mind of a fake man. You may expect to find a heart here, in my chest, but believe me won’t find any heart here, in my chest, because I am just a fake man. My smile, oh, my sad smile; it is a very fake smile. Our river, oh, our dry river; it is fake like me. Dear friend, do you hear about the dreams of our girls? Yes, they are fake dreams exactly like my fake soul. Do you hear about our land? Yes, you are right; the fake land which has been stolen in front of the eyes of this real world; I mean the very real world. Do you hear about my flower? Yes, my very romantic morning flower; it is also a fake flower. They stole my dream because I am a fake man and they kill my flower because I am a fake man So, now I think you know that I am a fake man have no land, no soul, no heart, no girl, no dream and no flower.
Dead Dreams
killed dreams
What do you think these buds dream of? I mean the boys of my village. Do they dream of an abloom flower, of a colorful bird, of a warm kiss? Or do they dream of war, of ruin, of the blind smoke that you breathe out of your bitter mouth as a snake, like a black predator monster? O the black earth. Please enough for being a predatory snake, enough for your bitter absence, enough for
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.01.2019
ISBN: 978-3-7438-9505-8
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Widmung:
To the mosaicist