Expressive Narrative Prose Poems E-Book

Anwer Ghani

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

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.

Leseprobe

Anwer Ghani

Expressive Narrative Prose Poems

prose poems

Anwer Ghani is an award-winning Iraqi poet and Pushcart nominee. He was born in 1973 in Babylon and he is a religious scholar, consultant nephrologist and author of more than a hundred books; thirty of them are in English like; "A Farmers Chant"; Inner Child Press 2019, and "Warm Moments", Just Fiction, 2020. Anwer is the editor in chief of Arcs Prose Poetry magazine.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Preface

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.

Here are expressive narrative prose poems I wrote between 2016 and 2020

Anwer Ghani is an award-winning Iraqi poet and Pushcart nominee. He was born in 1973 in Babylon and he is a religious scholar, consultant nephrologist and author of more than a hundred books; thirty of them are in English like; "A Farmers Chant"; Inner Child Press 2019, and "Warm Moments", Just Fiction, 2020. Anwer is the editor in chief of Arcs Prose Poetry magazine.

2016

Songs

Winter songs drown in the fog, leaving an unforgettable memory on the streets. Its cold corners are full of silence, so I froze in my dream like an old forest tree.

Bending

Sound bends and fades in the wide space. The word just has to fall into the mud. Miserable ships pierce my ear. These flowers turn away, vomiting the eternal pain inherited by generations and dreams.

Tales

Tales of a civilization sinking in the ocean. It was said; That even the sea water, including the bangles and dates, was devoured by flies in a captivating moment, so its stomach became warm springs.

Absent Songs

Heart of the World is retiring as a widow. There is no place for a human dream. No warmth and no applause. Wheat thorns strip their legs, bending timidly with heavy air in their heads. Yes, for the thousands of absent songs, the peasants know nothing about them.

Trembling

Years tremble, children ate their skin. No, it is false to accuse the body of being the cause of humanity's sins. Moon love does not need blood.

Cold Street

I have no choice but to die and the dear civilization has no choice but to feed every yellow drop in the ocean. The southern sun has such a brightness that the poems of our trees know nothing about eternal death. Thus, civilization lies, multiplying in the veins left by the bells, stretching a cold street with few pedestrians.

A Trembling Smile

The smile trembles like an ostrich whose head multiplies under the ground, thorns grow in its ears and it starves. Blood fills streams, devours tree veins, and the dream vanishes like a gaunt cow. No, the peasant's heart does not know a lie.

Dark Bodies

The city is coughing, throwing up its goodness, and from toys it makes guns and black bodies. The woman elongates and bulges out like an echo. Civilization reeling, inventing the history of tears. No, beauty is another thing.

Pale Flowers

Everything spins mercilessly, even the flowers turn pale. The sidewalks vomit the dead. Their head cells rot. In their arms, grief explodes like a bomb. There the sun kills cold.

New Death

My eyes are filled with dust, and my ears are pierced by the sleeping civilization. I almost don't know how this air is available to my lungs. Torrents are no longer enough to put an end to this sick world. Yes, a new death is necessary. This is how I take the ghost of peace out of my throat.

Failure

The valleys are suffocated by ants folded in a table for hungry souls whose bodies are stacked in cheap sand that fills the cracks of the forehead of drowning civilization. Yes, failure is the legacy of this galaxy, and in order not to say that I am a person knows nothing about roses, and in order not to pretend that life has retired in the season of sowing, I will come out as a lean cow fills the earth with a call does not allow the time a chance to leave. Thus, the word splits as a star fades in the dark.

Weak Calls

For whom the flowers were picked? And for whom the candles were ignited? The wave has destroyed every lover that melts in its longing for sunset. These dreams revolve without mercy, and my weak calls are not enough to find my starting points.

Silence

Silence is expanding in the pores of my skin; it runs deep in my land like a bird of a lake the evening cuts its wings, there is no high sky and no beloved coast. I will abandon the idea of a happy life, as this world does not keep a shadow when it talks about its desires.

Explanations

My words sail crisp, scattered around, like a legendary witch with infinite glory, then you can imagine its painful ends, despite everything I see. I must have enough explanations. I must be very shy and apologize for every date palm and tent.

A Smile

In the evening the song bows down, kisses the sidewalks, and makes the elders' hearts port of remembrance and wars. In the evening I gather a legendary army to drown in the ocean, then I will smile as a monk who knows a lot. I'm going out with a pale lily; I don't care about the sun and eternity.

Understanding

The stars have left horrific marks on my dream. Was it not for me that I do not know anything about the history of peoples, had it not been for the fact that I do not understand much of what explodes in my head, I would inevitably and without hesitation have a wild rock that grows in bloom. My clothes scattered around, like the houses of an old village. The disappointment permeates my song, the freedom falls in the absence of the dread and Yusuf searches for new travelers, there in the well, the beauty will shine.

Beginnings

My beginnings are pale; winter has stolen their clothes. My fingers evaporated; loggers overthrew them as twigs hide every civilization, I do not speak their great secrets.

Magic Lost

Nature is adept at launching every possible story and every pigeon whispering in my ear; tells me about that flood that stole the nests of birds, leaving only my dark skin and magic carriage lost.

Singing

Although frogs are pure, they do love putrid water. Even though their chants stained my evening cheer, I do not see my ears eager for their great singing.

The Gulf

I will fall into the well because its paintings are free of pearls. Pearl is the message of death and rape of the gulf. I will sleep hungry on its golden coat. These swamps are like virgins on my back and those hands with long fingers pick up me like autumn leaves. What a happy gulf and sunset full of magic dance.

Yawning

This land yawns, from among its ribs the skulls of childhood emerge. Smile, smile, O, icy capitals, ages. The night walks on the arms of the tar, and I, the old stone in the womb of the earth, inflates their shrubs with a bitter cough. My teeth are a painting of beauty, and my falling lip in the oasis of longing is the story of an older who once passed through my village.

Come Close

Come close, come close songs, your body parts I know, here I stop like death. My capitals are devoured by locusts, and my mouth dissolves every strange boat. Hurray, hurray, O smile, O freedom!

Cracks

At noon, every bird on its branches has finished singing meager leaves, so I have been brought out in autumn as rough cracks on the hands of the peasants.

Bleeding

Here I am alive to see the new world, I am no longer a child. In sunset spaces every planet is bleeding weapons. There - in the dark - the frigidity gives its grandchildren lessons to ignite nature.

Pale Winds

All wind is pale. Weapons stifle my memory, storm the place, distribute messages of eternal love for the hungry.

Hiding

Pens do not want to write anything, because beauty fled outside the galaxy looking for new lovers. The world is hiding in an old bottle, so that the holidays no longer release new air.

The Wide Pain

I am not surprised by all this wide pain because I have learned enough reasons. Desire makes beauty a vehicle which can only collide with the sides of the road so that it can live. There, the trees do not have a shade. They were as sweet as they should be. You know, the human heart is a city of ice but a memory flashes thunder and clouds deep in it.

Floating

Children reproduce in wells in search of an ancient legend. There, the streets shrink, floating in the sky of the hustle and bustle as pedestrians. At that time, I was a child, and you know; the past is a wide look that teaches me to hide, my ears are heavy like a mountain has no nectar.

Brazen Eyes

Fertile seasons no longer have clothes to receive the rain. The cold closed its doors and its deadly joints. Which immortality defines brazen human eyes? It is good for history to ask the sidewalks for torrents that were dumped by the cold next to barefoot.

A Hungry Sun

The world is a hungry sun. All it is good at igniting the fuse and drowning the sea in tears. Yes, dawn still carries that great meaning, although I became convinced that the myth could inhabit the diseased homes as a modern car.

Strangeness

No, you cannot imagine the strangeness of spirits stumbling on the road. The distance captures the place, and as you can see, this man has nothing but pale tales. I am not surprised by all that coolness in the faces of things. My organs cleavage like grain of rice, hidden behind the broad smile of the night, and expanding as an illusion in the fields. They are attractive and abundant, they are impressive.

Dunes

In that vast and unforgettable space, there is no boat left for children who emerge out of the Euphrates. On the brown foreheads, the river has drawn dunes of fine sand. I remember it as it should.

A High Light

It is not difficult for a person to descend from the sky, and it is not difficult to stand like an old tree waiting for joy and death. The sounds of the night thicken a person's arteries, so the shyness does not apply to his blood. Behold, I see you in the dark multiply in place, bleed the high light and flood the galaxy with those who know.

Dead Spells

The sunset messes with the heads of the children; it scatters them in the field like dreamy butterflies, so the trees wear their sleepy hats. Stop, stop, dead spells, for a person’s soul does not survive without boys playing in the mud.

Glances

The glances of things still drag me hard as a faraway tent and a proud fighter. Yes, I am the only one who knows the meaning of war, because I am talking about it honestly.

Broken Chests

The storm changed the face of water, and so did war. It makes from the mountain heart an eternal love for the passers, so the valleys have nothing but broken chests and echoes.

The Bitter Melody

War is a dark color of the morning and the singing that stealing holiness of tears. It is a brown tale whose secrets are deposited only in every shattered coast. Yes, the feast and war are twins, their words play the bitter melody of migratory birds.

Eternal Dance

War has an eternal dance that I have hidden in my forehead for ages. Between its ruins are the legs of naked children, and over its waters every boat looks for a sail. You were not present at her last scene.

The Soldiers Have Returned

The soldiers have returned, the soldiers have returned, and my song capitals buzzing as a skinny mosquito engulfing hype and questions. The soldiers have returned, their joints moaning like snow and their hats slip in the streets like virgins the fall has kissed their foreheads.

Legends

Here I hear the legends that descend from there. This is how I will return; my lips will be a city whose hills have changed their faces and the happy soldiers' stories sank into its sands.

Vows

I will come out from the jungle with a new dawn that guides the galaxy every story that the years have not known. Thus, I will go down to the river as a cow that loves vows and sings shadows in its head.

Dawn

I like the color of dawn. It fills my lungs with the breath of revolts, so I faded in the love of freedom. Then the yellow word does not have place on my lips.

Returnees

My eyes; I hold them above my back. And my hands; I make from them a boat overflowing with returnees. Wait, O days, wait for the seasons, my heart is still beating despite this wounded world.

To You

To you a thousand greetings from a strange lover; the evening in his eyes is a song its smiles come from your hands. To you this strange longing, and my lips melting in a time that does not remind me of any warmth.

Helplessness

great carefree owner, here I am in front of you admit bitter helplessness. My voice is fossilized amidst cities overflowing with fog, and the streets of night above my cheeks are lost as old spikes looking for walkers.

Radiance