Antipoetic Poems

Antipoetic Poems

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Antipoetic Poems

Antipoetic Poems Antipoetic Lyricism Anwer Ghani 2017

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Antipoetic Poems

Contents Contents ............................................................. 3 Preface ........................................................ 5 Smashed Souls............................................. 9 My Grandmother’s Whispers ........................ 11 My grandfather’s Flowers ............................ 13 Light lavaliere ............................................ 14 Mud of the Infinity ...................................... 16 The Feminine Perfume ................................ 18 The Womanish Souls ................................... 19 Feminine Mirrors ....................................... 20 Womanish Winds ........................................ 21 Pinky souls ................................................ 22 Alfresco Wishes .......................................... 24 Outdoors Letters ......................................... 26 Our Days ................................................... 27 Our Boat ................................................... 28 The Mother Love ....................................... 31 Be Brown................................................... 32 3

Antipoetic Poems Rocky Girl ................................................. 33 River’s Tales .............................................. 35 Pentasi B ................................................... 37 The Flowers City ........................................ 38 A bright finger ............................................ 39 A Liar Soul ................................................ 40 White World ............................................... 41 Conversation.............................................. 42 Illusions .................................................... 43 The Smokers............................................... 44 Azzalan ..................................................... 46 Simple New Yorker ..................................... 47 Shameful Incompetence ............................... 48 The Kebab Glory ........................................ 49 In The Hospital.......................................... 50

The cover painting; by Pasqual Bettio

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Preface The lyricism which forms the cornerstone of poetry is, in its traditional state, characterized by selected ideas, themes and words, with a world of expression and imagination parallels our world.

These features give the poetry its prestigious status.

Here, in "Anti-poetic Lyricism" I try a new shape of lyricism, where there is no prestige, no selectivity and no parallel world. Here is a lyricism with very usual ideas, very usual themes and very usual words.

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Antipoetic Poems

The poetry should exit from the selectivity to live among us as a man, and the antipoetic lyricism is the solution.

Anwer Ghani, Hilla, 2017

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About Author

Anwer Ghani is an Iraqi poet and author. He was born in 1973 in Alhilla city. His name had appeared in Adelaide, Zarf, Peacock, Eunioa, Otoliths, November Bees, and others.

Anwer Ghani is the chief editor of "Tajdeed" literary magazine. Recently, he published "Antipoetic Poems", (Creat Spacee 2017), "TRUMP"; a poetry collection, (Inner Child Press 2017) and "The Narratolyric Writing"; essays (Smashwords 2017). He had, in 7

Antipoetic Poems Arabic, forty books in literature and religious sciences Website; https://goo.gl/pivQsa Amazon: Author.to/AnwerGhani

Anwer Ghan is president of the Arab Critics Unon, the ambassador of world institute for peace (WIP) in Iraq, the vice president of TheArabic Cultural House (ACH), the chief representative of the World Nations Writers Union (WNWU) in Iraq, and the member in the International Writers Association (IWA).

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Smashed Souls

I know the wars and their ugly voices, because I am their son. The war is a gray tale, dressing her red mantle in lonesome nights. She stole my blood and any smiley piece, so you may see nothing here but sad moments. In the morning our children fill their eyes with hazy clouds and in the evening you can smell the odor of hungry souls. The walls of our rooms are fissured liked a smashed soul and the beds of our brides are bloody like the colors of our streets. The Youngsters and oldsters are sitting in the dark corners waiting their hazy fate, and every hand here has nothing but 9

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paralysis. Without any sin we are drowning deeply in the fired field, and you are, the reader, doesn't do anything.

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My Grandmother’s Whispers I love the moon because his smile is shining like the tales of my grandmother. She was whispering every night in my dreams’ ear, and telling me the story of colorful birds in that remote land. She was a good narrator, and sometimes her narrative surpasses our narrative poetry. I saw her ocean and sat beside its shore in that warm world. I told her my story and inform her about my shivering years, which the gray souls had eaten their peels. I told her that I don’t like to cry, but you see there is no place for my smile.

Those bloody souls had stolen my life.

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They said that the body is the cause of the sadness, but I found no truth in their red voices. I had heard my tales and she grandmother’s whispered in my deep that the love of the moon doesn't need blood.

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My grandfather’s Flowers I remember my grandfather’s small flowers. They were silent and colorless like my life. They always filled with a fugacious blossom, and incessantly hid with gray veils as biting friends. Those colorless flowers had seen my face on our rivulet with his unaccountable failures and as a woman’s heart; they had colored my life with their bitter passion. They had dressed me the sadness since I saw my earth’s tears and as a legendary waterfall they had filled the streamlets with my blood.

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Light lavaliere Your carnelian was submerged in ice tobacco and your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls of Mashu Mountain, where the secret springs of the universe were immersed in the dust of brown towns and misted by the breeze.

Uruk, the white wings of your blooming spirit told the earth the tale of light, which had been colored by a shawl of girl gathering the date from her father small garden.

I don’t amazed by those distances which were crossed by knees and bare feet, and the time disguise which is falling in your hall as a wax images. For this, the mightiness of 14

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earth bends with astonishment at your old glitter, where the Scorpion Men irrigate them with silver water. They draw my souls in a shape of brown bird, and give me a coppery kiss, so I fly as spatial vehicle which saw a new face of the moon.

Didn’t you teach me the brown summer? Didn’t your hot sands slap my face? Didn’t Euphrates immerse my dream with angles? Because of this, I became a bitter voice of light lavaliere.

- Crnelian , azure trees, Mashu Mountain and Scorpion Men are characters in Epic of Gilgamesh.

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Mud of the Infinity For the Great Sin Leqi Unninni I love the mud, because it was a memory of your great hands. I feel so pride when I see flights of arrivers sit at your door seeking some nectar from you big secrets.

Surprisingly, the scientists talk about the unlimited time and place, and you hid them in you simple clay where you plunged your tablet with the infinity. From your balcony of Uruk in warm Babylon afternoons, you look at us, the primitives, and send with the wind an old Iraqi tea. That honey colored wisdom and infinity which rejoiced with wilderness of Enkidu's deer. Yes, your hands defeated the 16

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aging and death, because you saw the secrets. O Sin Leqi Unninni, you look at us and smile, because you are (who saw the deep).

Sin Leqi Unninni was the writer of Epic of Gilgamesh.

(Who saw the deep) is a phrase from Epic of Gilgamesh.

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The Feminine Perfume

When a woman taught me the meanings of the green trees and showed me the soul of ambergris, I find the hidden colors of the life. So the angels who know everything add nothing and the sorcerers who do everything do nothing.

From her perfume, the world takes his meaning. The candles have no souls in the absence of her big heart and the roads will be blind without her soft hand. You can’t feel the days’ pulses without feminine perfume and the riverbanks’ flowers can’t find their chants, but in the eyes of a dreamy woman.

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The Womanish Souls The wings should not sit under the bare trees awaiting the change of crow’s color. His blackness is a fate and if you want to see the magic orchard, you should plant your flowers and you should teach the morning the brilliantness and the evening the soft whispers. The pigeon is the meaning of the life and the melodic voice of her womanish souls gives the field their awesomeness. O, moony smoothness, how can the pinky souls get her freedom? And when does the blind world stop his shameful exploitation of the beauty.

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Feminine Mirrors Our river, the sea’s ships, and the blue flowers try to see the deep truth in the womanish glances that teach the world his wonderful existence and give the life her shining love.

Everything knows the deep smoothness and the honorable highness of the women’s hearts.

When the days try to sing their beauty, they will sing the womanish chants. From these moments, our days take their colors and dress her beautiful cloak. Yes the magic land sees her wonderful birds on the face of the female water and the sky winds can’t find her eardrops without the real color of the feminine mirrors.

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Womanish Winds The woman is a legendary tale who can’t stop her stormy love. She gives our world his unique flavor. The womanish winds give the life its spicy taste; her words give the words their meanings and her glances teach the glances their yearning. The sea is a girl but strong and the wind is a woman but shadowed. The fire is a free female with happy mantle and the earth is the mother of the love. As you see; I am sitting behind the wisdom which tries to numerate the feminine things, at that time the big master said: everything has a feminine soul.

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Pinky souls When the morning starts his journey, and the squirrel travels through his green songs, all the flavors take their pinky veils from the womanish souls.

The books, the history, and the old farmers know the amazing colors in the hearts of the women where the blue dreams wear pinky dresses and the girls’ whispers make a sunny cake from the braids of the mornings.

I am so dazzled for this glory and without any delay I find my soul has delightedly disappeared over the smooth hands. The time is an absent moment without the stormy feminine passion and the places are just dry deserts without woman smiles. By their exposed secrets, you can see the river’s sleepy waves and from 22

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their loud wishes, you may know the poetry with silent telling.

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Alfresco Wishes Our trees which wear their short skirts and the dreams which play with our small boys are mirrors swimming delightedly on the faces of remote seas. All of them in addition to the free shadowed spaces sit in the midst of the universe with their blue chants. Outside our souls, the bags bring colored butterflies, but on the faces of our trees, you can’t see but black sadness. I know, as any bird, that my wishes need a new open air, and the smoke of the wars had killed my oranges. I know as any young soldier, that the black souls can’t buy my cheap ambergris, and all the remnants of the wars’ voices are liars. We like the colors of the 24

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flowers and the sounds of the waterfalls, but what can I do if all the sun’s songs were stolen in a free trade.

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Outdoors Letters The cars, the hotels, and the markets are letters. The women, the perfumes, and the smiles are letters.

The trees, the waterfalls, and the flowers are letters. But in spit all these outdoors letters, my post box is empty.

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Our Days Our days are mirrors of our souls and their smiles are the chants of the love, The night kisses are just echoes of the morning roses. They will be white if the birds of our hearts are cloudless, and will be gray if our images are hard. They may show you the laugh or the tears and you should remember that their flowers can't open their eyes in a hazy sky. Our days are warmhearted; if their coldness burned your cheek in the morning, their breeze will be amazing in the night.

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Our Boat Here is our white boat, where our dreams chanting their songs and our happy moments blossom. Its warm woods appease my heart, and draw on my pulse a butterfly searching your face. When you feel my husk in your hands, and when you see my soul flying dreamily in front of your eyes, at that moment you should remember our boat.

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The Enchanting World It was late when we reached Mumbai, but the streets were crowded and the noisy had filled the space. It was December when we had left the ice covering the ground in Tehran, but in Mumbai it was like summer. No winter in Mumbai, so no need for heavy coats. In fact, you don’t need any extra things in the enchanting world, where the souls had been filled with flowers and the minds had been colored with songs. The screamed lights had made the buildings shining as a colored bride filled with henna. I can't forget that road which was disappearing in the time of high tide 29

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and that skyscraper which had stood in the heart of that shore.

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The Mother Love When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish will come to my sea. The road is a smile exits its pinky ear from that window which sleeps on my mother hands. Without any end and without any delay, I am disappearing with happiness in the mothers' voices.

My heart, like a bird on an icy bough, will immerse in that moment which come from their chants. At her will, I am rivulet water, and at her gaze, I am a motionless leaf. My love is that wind which can cross all clouds, and that grass which hug all world goats, but the mother love is a different world and impossible in its oneness.

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Be Brown When I saw him, he smiled. I didn't expect this clarity from that brown urchin. You know the brown things are deep and expressionless. He was an adept fishmonger and he had inherited his silver net from old grandfathers. He told me that he didn't like fish, but he likes to color them with silver and casts them into the other riverbank where the sun reaches the river at her sunset and catches the fish as a bear. He has warmhearted family. They were smooth like the lemon leaves. They were bewitching. Firstly, they mock at me, and then they say: be brown.

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Rocky Girl The world has a heart exactly as ours.

He is pulsatile and the bags are the pumping devices. I respect the globalization, not because she was the indulged daughter of our wide world but because she is beautiful.

Yes, she has thousand songs, but the farmers know nothing about them.

The globalization is slim and bright but her heart is rigid like a rock.

When she visits our city, our damask rose disappears quickly and without any explanation. There are no wedding in the neighborhood, nor any sounds from the youngsters' guns to expect that the hidden well may be filled with the blood. She should have a big heart inherited from her grandmother Uruk, and a soft glance 33

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colored her souls because her ancestry the Skyshipers. I cannot imagine how this pleasant family can give birth to this rocky girl. In her hand no place for man dream, no warmth and no chants only spikes uncover their legs. Yes, she is bending in amazing position but in fact there is nothing in her head but the heavy air.

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River’s Tales The winter chants which had been made from our mumbles had a very delicate roaring. At that time the roads is wide because we are sons of old farmers know nothing about the river tales. In fact in "Al-Arian", my childhood town, everything is simple even the river tales, and you shouldn't expect that there may be fairies in our water. From that purity we had built primitive skyscrapers, exactly as our dreams. Now you can imagine the smell of our feet, it had left in our heart unforgettable trances. We didn't know how our dirty feet’s could 35

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illuminate the darkness and whispering softly in the ears of our silence? We did not know the color of the sun at its beautiful sunset. That is to say we are stolen people. In the same time our trees had knew everything, and this is very strange, where my tree know everything and I don’t know anything.

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Pentasi B I wish to make wings to fly towards Pentasi B, taking a picture at Qutb Shahi’s Tomb and drink water from Hussain Sagar’s Lake. I am an Iraqi man and didn't visited Hyderabad previously, but I saw Bombay’s shore and its building in the sea where its road had disappeared in the tidewater creators.

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The Flowers City It was a sunny morning when my Indian friend told me about a "The Flowers’ City" in Ahmedabad. The wild flowers cover her face and her colored veil was a dreamy universe of the Bollywood songs. Instantly I had flown on a magic motorcycle with a soul had been filled with the amazing road. The wizard land steals the minds and left an unforgettable memory in my deep corners.

Honestly, I am not a big traveler, but I am sure that I won't see like this bewitching land.

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A bright finger When you reach those remote lands and when you see my pain, please ignite a candle in our cold night, and make this sleepy world know something about light. I know; you can't believe the magic roads and the bewitching tales, but we should remember the souls of the flowers which know nothing but beauty. When we drown deeply in our dreams and when you meet all the possible illuminations, at that time we may find a bright finger of the poet.

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A Liar Soul Believe me; all our sadness can't be happened without the silence of this soul which hides our dreams behind her lost head. It is here, in me, this icy tale, which always kills cold bloodedly my days. She is not beautiful at all, and in one day she shredded my kite fiercely. This obscurant soul teaches my flowers the war’s songs, and slyly lies near our riverbank with her dark sorcery.

She is liar and blind like me.

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White World I am not young, but I am filled with their voices. The icy lands always say: we will live in a white world, but what we see is this redness. Where is that whiteness? May be the clothes had been run out. Please don’t steal my dream, and don’t cover my life with grey roars. My foot is cold, and my hand is so short, but you have a nice whitish tongue. I will swim with fish in that waterfall to tell you that the water in my glass is not warm and not white. Here, in my heart is the life pulse with its golden trees. Here, in my heart is a stolen white land.

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Conversation -There are a lot of instances for our program.

-Oh, fantastic. You do well.

-The desert’s air is so dry and there are a lot of wooden plants, and dead animals. There is nothing but hungry shadows and bones.

-Oh, surprising subject for our TV. -Yes, but there is no food here.

-Oh, come back. You will go back later on.

-Yes, you are right. The people are hungry here, and the air is dry.

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Illusions I love the reading and the big artists.

I find the pleasure to color the sun’s eyelashes with a magic dreams. My smile’s page does not eat her breakfast and my eyes became brilliant because of their illusions.

Now I can see a faint light with silver skin like the moon. I see a braves’ ship swimming under my destroyed roof and travels through the infinity as a shadow. It is flying in my wide illusion as a bird. Yes, I am here, with this motionless brain and useless body, an eastern man drowning in the illusions.

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The Smokers I didn't smoke, and my skin is not white, so I don't understand all what was said about the big hearts of the smokers. They said that you may find birds with gray hats and fish with silver eyelids in the branches of the smokers’ air. They are big like my city when I was a child, but now you see how the stones choke its streets.

The smoke which travels freely in the dreams of our rivers doesn't differ from the hazy face of the black corners, but what makes our life possible are the harsh voices of the big hearts of the smokers. I like the hearts of the smokers, not because they are filled with nicotine, but because their spicy illuminates our 44

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days with the truly love, exactly as pure as the fire of the sun which illuminates the moon.

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Azzalan

My life is shivering like our grandfather’s brook which we try to plant trees in its sand without benefit.

Because of its angry moment he had named "The angry river; Azzalan",and because its dead land they had named its village; "The bare land, Alaria". Despite all the palms which he had planted around it, you can't recognize its colorless face from my life. Now I am not in the bare land, but its dry winds color my dream daily.

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Simple New Yorker My dream is the living in New York, but I know this is a faraway because I am a simple man know nothing about the dramatics or the baseball. May be someday I will accompany a New York poet on Brooklyn Bridge, at that moment I won't buy "A poet in New York" from Fifth Avenue, in steed of that I will collect the rain drops from the heart of Statue of Liberty. Yes, I am an Uruki man and I can see the soul of sun from Empire State and also when I walk above Brooklyn Bridge. In fact I wish to sleep near the Central Park in that unsleeping city.

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Shameful Incompetence I am a young man has loved the reading and like a big artist, I found the pleasure to color the sun’s eyelashes with a magic dreams. My smile’s page does not eat her breakfast, so she is dizzy. My eyes in their illusions became brilliant and they travel through the infinity as shadow. Now I see a faint light, its skin is sliver and soft as the moon. I see a braves’ ship swimming under my destroyed roof. It is flying in my wide illusion as a bird. Yes, I am here, with this motionless brain and useless body, a young man drowning in a shameful incompetence.

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The Kebab Glory The Iraqis can’t live without war or kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with the war’s tales and the kebab’s sumac. Our streets, which are immersed in the kebab’s perfume, had straggled in the desert of sad sumac, and like our kebab, they always dream of fireless days.

The kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian ancestors, can’t be transfigured without a soft lamb, and any saying discords this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the kebab’s sublime glory.

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In The Hospital

I had met an old friend in the garden of our hospital. His hand was warm, not because of his fever, but due to his love. You can’t imagine the impact of the flowers in the garden and a friend in the hospital. Our hospital is small but it was the place where we see the chanting birds and the smiling trees. Here, in my city, it is unusual to see the smile and our days are gloomy as the mangled wood, but the hospital is tenderhearted as a mother. In fact, all the birds in our hospital are smiling and white, but in a dark day a dread hand had invaded their souls and put frowning twilight in their corners.

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