Arcs Prose Poetry 2020 E-Book

Anwer Ghani

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Arcs prose poetry anthology is an annual anthology by the Prose Poetry Society of international writers of the expressive narrative style and this is the fifth issue.  Arcs 2020 contains poems, essays and awards. Editor is chief Anwer Ghani from Iraq.

Leseprobe

Anwer Ghani

Arcs Prose Poetry 2020

expressive narrative prose poetry

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Introduction

Arcs prose poetry anthology is an annual anthology by the Prose Poetry Society of international writers of the expressive narrative style and this is the fifth issue. Arcs 2020 contains poems, essays and awards. Editor is chief Anwer Ghani from Iraq.

Pragya Suman

ETHEREAL TALKS

PRAGYA SUMAN

I lifted up the lid of my coffer of coffee color. Laid in form limitless time, they suddenly began to whimper and melt. They liquefied in wide sea but I would have sipped them!! I just awaited and scanned them carefully one by one. Pale presence of talks, white talks, tawdry talks, mauve talks, red talks of every hue I ever imagined. Suddenly thaw of liquid vanished like bodied one they reminded me once upon a time they shook the world. Brief bit of reincarnation. I took them one by one and threw in ethereal sea. They are gleaming like serene sacred sonnet. I gaped for a while, gave a detached look; infinite peace descended upon me. I belong to all; all belong to me.

Karim Abdullah

THE SOLDIERS OF GOD

KARIM ABDULLAH

Heavily armed with their frustration, Your soldiers drag the metropolis misery before your authority that ends up in the blindest tyranny, violate their humanity and you do not know anything about the banks of supplication lounged on by her distant voice that comes to the ears of the sea, whenever the trees of alienation smile, the extensive face of night falls, lying there, ahead the soldiers as deconstructing my lavishing history on the tongues of the ominous war. They led the leftover of dream crucified in your shining evening, searing it in front of the mockery of stations, elegized by the childbirth of a morning that sleeps on the brink of a glow of the waiting of my return shackled with rifles as tearing the whoop of the resurrection, tattooed on the wings of the colorful butterflies behind the glass of the bombed cars.

Translated from Arabic by me John Henry Smith

Psalms pester her virginity

She much asks the flowers of her high balconies if he, the fascinated, still loves her, and in his soul, love madly accumulates. Why do the hailstones, as falling, break our young leaves, which the flowing river buries in the dream of her vast garden before the eyes of the singing nightingales? The day I fell in love with her, her eyes have greened; she undoes her buttons, chants the fascination, gathered on the fringe of the dream and emits highly neighing perfume, raiding the accelerating anxiety in autumn. He was a violent windstorm that sweeps from his heart, a devil, which forcibly infiltrates, exposing my poems, the pain still vindicates the uplifting eagerness behind the fences of gloom as knocking at her doors every night and we recite her out unbridled poems like horses under her high windows, defeated are his foolish horses, complained by the dawn as it flees from her luxurious bed, the gallops of my shameful horses stumble at the tones of my stuttering psalms. In the unknown, a sigh of regret disappears, how desirous it was to clean the gathering dust around the table of waiting. Even the old berry tree went moaning from a crow, as watching him sharpening his dagger on the stones of her house, looking at me, waiting for the hour of defeat.

Translated from Arabic by John H. Smith

Amara Christa

TORTURED LIVES

Mentality is corrupt in the dark, brainwash is the opposite of blind. I see the prisons packed with crowded spaces and prison guards with hollow faces. Tricked hearts seem afraid of changes, yet, the wicked wails and turn complacency yet, I maintain the patience. Yes, time can limit, but not chandlering my will. Strength is placed across my chest but, my shadow remains still.

STRENGTH

Yet, the silence here speaks; it tells me all I need to hear; it confirms my belief and ease promises I have to fear. It reminds me that, without freedom, I'm alone and these white-washed walls don't make up the blacking source. Yes, I gave my boys handshake before they were buried in the symmetry but, who I is what I do now.

Dear Father

It's been a long five years and still counting. I've cried and still crying a thousand tears; squeezed and enveloped in my fears. If I could get a glimpse and feel of your skin once more, I would take you to the city of red roses, holding your hands and getting splashes on crystal code mountains; stream that would bring chill to our legs. I'll take you to old brick houses, listening and reading your lips, the old tales about them. I'll call up the valley-valley to wind as a thread through us once again.

These unshed tears still sit like ice pallet in my eyes; I still sit, staring at the sun, laying cool curses on mother-earth, for she left this cracked drying tears in a brittle trail on my cheek.