3. Antipoetic Poems
Contents
Contents
.....................................................................
1
Preface
...............................................................
2
Smashed Souls
...................................................
3
My Grandmother’s Whispers
.............................
4
My grandfather’s Flowers
...................................
5
Light lavaliere
....................................................
5
Mud of the Infinity
.............................................
6
The Feminine Perfume
.......................................
7
The Womanish Souls
.......................................
7
Feminine Mirrors
...............................................
8
Womanish Winds
...............................................
8
Pinky souls
..........................................................
8
Alfresco Wishes
..................................................
9
Outdoors Letters
..............................................
10
Our Days
...........................................................
10
Our Boat
...........................................................
11
The Mother Love
..............................................
12
Be Brown
..........................................................
12
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Rocky Girl
.........................................................
12
River’s Tales
.....................................................
14
Pentasi B
...........................................................
14
The Flowers City
...............................................
15
A bright finger
..................................................
15
A Liar Soul
.........................................................
16
White World
.....................................................
16
Conversation
....................................................
16
Illusions
............................................................
17
The Smokers
.....................................................
17
Azzalan
.............................................................
19
Simple New Yorker
...........................................
19
Shameful Incompetence
...................................
19
The Kebab Glory
...............................................
20
In The Hospital
.................................................
20
The cover Image; Artography by
Pasqual Bettio FRPS
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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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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";
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essays (Smashwords 2017). He had, in
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
.(
Smashed Souls
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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
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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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. They said that the body is the
cause of the sadness, but I found no
truth in their red voices. I had heard
my grandmother’s tales and she
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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
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
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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 aging and death,
because you saw the secrets. O Sin
Leqi Unninni, you look at us and
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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
.
Feminine Mirrors
Our river, the sea’s ships, and the
blue flowers try to see the deep truth
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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
.
Womanish Winds
The woman is a legendary tale who
can’t stop her stormy love. She gives
our world his unique flavor. The
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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
.
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.
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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
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
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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
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
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warmhearted; if their coldness
burned your cheek in the morning,
their breeze will be amazing in the
night
.
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
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soul flying dreamily in front of your
eyes, at that moment you should
remember our boat
.
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
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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
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
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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
.
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
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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
.
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
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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
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
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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
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.
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Honestly, I am not a big traveler, but
I am sure that I won't see like this
bewitching land
.
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
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riverbank with her dark sorcery.
She is liar and blind like me
.
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
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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
.
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
.
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-
Yes, you are right. The people are
hungry here, and the air is dry
.
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
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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
.
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
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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
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
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land, but its dry winds color my
dream daily
.
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
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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
.
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
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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
.
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.
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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
.
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
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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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