The document provides an introduction and summary of a collection of narrative lyric poems titled "Narratopoet". It begins with a dedication and table of contents. It then provides biographical information about the author, Anwer Ghani, who is an Iraqi poet. The preface discusses narratopoetry as a hybrid genre combining elements of both narrative and lyric styles. The collection then presents over 20 poems written in this narratopoetic style, each telling a brief narrative through lyrical language.

1. Narratopoet
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2. Narratopoet
Narratopoet
Narrative Lyrics
Anwer Ghani
2017
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All rights are preserved
The Cover image and the interior
illustrations; Artography by Pasqual Bettio
FRPS with permission and thanks
.
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3. Narratopoet
The Dedication
To the Transgenrics
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4. Narratopoet
Content
The Dedication
..................................................
1
Content
.............................................................
2
Preface
..............................................................
2
The Author
.......................................................
3
The Poems
.........................................................
4
Free Bird
....................................................
4
The birds
...................................................
5
A Colored Shadow
.....................................
6
Cloud tales
.................................................
6
Strange holiday
..........................................
7
Love
...........................................................
8
A Slivery Air
...............................................
8
The Yellow Bird
..........................................
9
A Dry Breeze
............................................
10
Winter Tales
............................................
10
Colored smiles
.........................................
11
The Dreamy Owl
.....................................
12
A Perfume
...............................................
12
Babyish Winds
.........................................
13
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5. Narratopoet
Saba Breeze
.............................................
13
Farmer
.....................................................
14
A Moment
..............................................
15
Melodic Compassion
...............................
15
A Meeting
................................................
16
Springs’ Daughter
...................................
17
The Ocean’s Mirrors
................................
17
Whisper of the Sea
.................................
18
The River’s Face
.......................................
18
The poets
................................................
19
The Coffee Man
.......................................
19
The Glamorous Gardens
.........................
20
The Magic Gemstones
.............................
20
The Wizard Land
......................................
21
The Enchanting World
.............................
22
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6. Narratopoet
Preface
In Literature, there are
the poetry, the prose and
in the middle, the prose
poetry according to the
characters of the
superficial and deep
structures of the
speaking. Every speaking
or its writing has a
superficial structure
which is the first
construction and the
understanding level in the
hearing or reading
process, and a deep
structure which is the
analytic and semantic
level in this system. While
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poetry characterized by
rhythmic superficial and
deep structures, the prose
in contrary to this has
characterized by
unrhythmic superficial
and deep structures. But
in the prose poetry we
find the unrhythmic
superficial structure and
the rhthymic deep one,
and this is the cause of
hybridization in the prose
poetry. So the prose
poetry is a hybrid of prose
and poetry and the
rhymicity and
unrhythmicity
.
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The prose poetry can be
produced with a
narrative or lyric
manner. If the style is
lyric in both superficial
and deep layers, there
will be the lyric prose
poetry, while if the style
was narrative in both
superficial and deep
layers; there will be the
narrative prose poetry.
But we can find the
superficial narrative
structure with the deep
lyric structure. In this
case there will be the
hybrid of Narrato-lyric
prose poetry, and this the
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9. Narratopoet
second hybrid inside the
first hybrid of proso-
poetry. So the
Narratolyric prose poetry
is a hybrid inside a
hybrid
.
I am happy to introduce
thses piece of my
experience in the
narrative lyricism, and
for more details about the
narratolrysicism you can
read my book
"Narratolryic Writing" on
my website
.
Anwer Ghani, Babylon 2017
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10. Narratopoet
The 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,
Otoliths, Tow drops of Ink,
and others. And also had
appeared in Inner Child
Press anthology "The Year
Of The Poet". Anwer Ghani
is the chief editor of
"Tajdeed" lit magazine.
Recently, he published
"The Narratolyric
Writing"; (Smashwords
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2017), "Antipoetic Poems";
(Creat Spacee 2017), and
"TRUMP"; (Inner Child
Press 2017). He had, in
Arabic, forty books in
literature and religious
sciences
Website;
https://goo.gl/pivQsa
amazon.com/author/a
nwerghani
Amazon:
Author.to/AnwerGhani
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Anwer Ghan is the vice
president of The Arabic
Cultural House In India
(ACHII) , the chief
representative of the
World Nations Writers
Union (WNWU) in Iraq,
and the member in
international writers
association (IWA) . In
(2017) he held a certificate
of achievement from
Stratford University and K
K Moddi institute. . He is
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the founder of "Tajdeed
Literary Institute (TLI)"
and the annual "Tajdeed"
Prize for expressive
narrative
.
The Poems
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Narrative Lyricism
Where the poet is a
narrator
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Free Bird
I am an old farmer. I
cannot see my figure, but
on the water face. It was
small like my dream, At
that time I had been a
child dissolved in the
butterfly colors. Oh the
purity which they steal it.
They take our smooth
olive, make missile from it,
and then they told me that
I am a serious plant
.
Yes, without tiredness I
shall repeat the birds’
songs, I should not care
about the world brassy
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17. Narratopoet
face, nor the one-eyed city.
Yes, I shall learn the earth
the rose voice, and the
lonely winds will not find
a place in my skin. I am a
free bird, I love the mud
smell, and because my
father planted me with a
wheat seed in our small
garden, I like the noon sun
when it touches my face
.
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18. Narratopoet
The birds
Despite all of these dark
clouds, and despite the
absence of simplicity
behind the skyline, I still
like the sky color, and its
wide space which makes
you feel that you are a
light paper over the winds.
The sky despite its
changeable color, it likes
the simple things. It bends
to wipe a head of a wet
bird. As this, as a paper in
the river, I want to live in
simplicity, walking in my
town alleys with breeze
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jests with my deep. I am
now feeling boredom in
this noisy city. The birds
are few nowadays. I was
trying to plant a tree from
that type which blossoms
in winter to make the birds
live with no estrangement,
or in a precise words to
make myself live with no
estrangement, because the
color of my county
becomes so strange. The
birds told me that they are
tired from waiting the
runaway boats. They were
whispering in my ears that
the earth becomes red like
the lipstick. Yes, the birds
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don't lie. They are icy and
strange creatures. Listen
to their chants which will
make your soul remember
the loyalty
.
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22. Narratopoet
A Colored Shadow
She whispers from there:
Where will you find your
story? The violet roses are
sleepy, and the mirrors
follow the white trees. The
birds and the fabled river
know that moment, which
needs a smile and
warmth
.
I will drown in the
yearning sea. I will hug
that train where we met
sleepy sounds, so from
there, my story will begin
.
She said: the river colors
are descended from that
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23. Narratopoet
balcony and they should
kiss the eyes of flower
seller. That colored
shadow told me: when the
moon sleeps in your lids,
you will know a new kiss
and you will see the cloud
flowers
.
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24. Narratopoet
Cloud tales
When we learned laughs,
the moon lights sleep in
our lids, and when I
groped the face of a
strange voice, the vehicles
pass very fast. How you
can imagine this? How
you can count the cloud
tales
?
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Strange holiday
The holiday is a very
delicate thing. We learned
it in our childhood, as we
learned to carry our bags.
It is smooth as a summer
dream, filling our chests
with spring butterflies. I
was very happy when I
touch his heart. Its
waterfalls amazed me.
They were calm as girl
braids. That holiday,
which we saw him in
someday, and we feel his
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27. Narratopoet
sleepy hands, I see it
clearly when it plants the
wet tales. That holiday,
which is coming from
faraway town, stands
with its silky coat in the
middle of the street as a
strange man. It dissolves
in our veins as a passion
letter. I was very wrong
when I assumed him an
emigrant goose
.
27

28. Narratopoet
Love
As a dazzled butterfly, I
will end in the love of this
earth. I will exit from its
fissures with a crown of
heavy years. Like this, like
an old hunter, I will
dissolve in the lake’s
dream
.
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A Slivery Air
This silvery air is delicate
as a green apple. Under its
wings, the town lives with
quiescence, and the swans
dance like sun songs. The
field’s birds with their
vivid colors, bath over its
swings with delight. Wet
leaves fill the street with
morning songs and
moisten the girls’ hearts
with the breeze. It comes
from a remote land on a
softness’ wing. Its sleepy
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31. Narratopoet
river colors my blue
dreams with pearl taste
and its fragrance jumps
between our breaths as a
butterfly
.
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32. Narratopoet
The Yellow Bird
You can feel my pulse with
its violet water and great
tales of blind sand where
the echo groans as a
yellow bird exhausted by
rain. It narrates his bright
pain with wide eyes. The
crying clouds are shameful
because they dissolve his
feather and bring an
autumn whoop filled with
a yearning death. Oh the
bitter yearning, I am not
happy and can't tell you
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33. Narratopoet
about my fiery passion,
but you should remember
that yellow bird and his
grey blood
.
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34. Narratopoet
A Dry Breeze
That evening with its
breeze has planted in my
soul an unforgettable
tales. I don't like the
crying, and as any man, I
wish to fall in a deep love,
but you see my smashed
tress and my lonely
streets. I am a man from
the ruined land. My
dreams were killed as a
beautiful bird and my
smile was stolen in a
bright day. I am standing
under these remnants as a
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shadow without feet or
head. I try to cry and
always attempt to wash
my bitter heart, but the
stormy wind is constantly
coloring my soul with a
dry breeze
.
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36. Narratopoet
Winter Tales
It is silvery, just like my
dream, this winter, which
I began to feel vigorously.
His rain colors my soul
and plants in my deep
unforgettable tales
.
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Colored smiles
The water has a smile,
which you can’t see but in
Holi day, where the colors
spread their dreams over
the watery fingers. In its
March, the colored air
fills the sky and gives the
earth its springy face. In
Holi, the souls dress their
new veils, and the birds
chant their colored
smiles
.
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The Dreamy Owl
When he sees our dreams,
that owl with his glassy
eyes opens his book. He
knows our hearts deeply
and his hand, which had
come from the remote
valley, colors the moon
with a laugh. O dreamy
owl, this is my desert and
this is my fear, sit behind
my eyes
.
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41. Narratopoet
Pretend
Can you hear my
muteness? Here is my
pretend cover; the colored
veil. It covers my sadness
with lovely smile and
bears my coldness over
warm wings. Can you see
it
?
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42. Narratopoet
A Perfume
My skin is brown and I
can see the bars and the
cold prisons of our fences.
You can see my rowdy
trees, my bitter coffee and
the loneliness of my
words, but when we
return to our deep, we
will find the shining
universal perfume
.
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43. Narratopoet
Babyish Winds
The life is so vacant
without the fire of babyish
winds. They color the
rocky hearts with their
frivolity and give the hare
his flying soul. If your old
trees had taught you the
antique aloofness, you
should uncover your deep
spring’s warmness
.
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44. Narratopoet
Saba Breeze
Summer's waterfalls are
so bashful, but they inspire
my body an unforgettable
heartbeat. They hit my
head by their stones, so I
feel incompetent. In their
hands the gentle Saba
breeze appeared more
peaceful. How can I touch
their tales
?
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Farmer
I am an old farmer
knowing this earth
perfume. I grew between
its legumes like a butterfly.
Come here, look at the
Euphrates’s sweetness. He
doesn't know any spite.
With a brown garment
and a headband, he
descended as a desert
cavalier, so it is not
strange to see all that sand
covering his face. Also, I
will tell you about Uruk,
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47. Narratopoet
the sleepy city, which were
the seven wise men built
up its foundations. Come
here; look at my palms,
and see how they are
coarse like our trees.
Because of this, you find
the darkness sits there, in
that corner with its icy
dress, and killing my
children
.
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48. Narratopoet
A Moment
In my windy boat, you can
see all blue colors, and the
deep lands of dreams.
With it, I have crossed the
seas of sound where the
magic fields singing their
ballads. At that moment,
some secret souls , which l
can't tell, greet me
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warmly; how blessed I
am
?
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Melodic Compassion
Do you see the lights’
lusters over a quiet sea?
Do you understand the
snow’s twilight? Like this
are the hearts of the
unsleeping physicians.
They stand like trees;
instead of leaves there are
patients' wishes and
instead of chanting birds
there are beating hearts.
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51. Narratopoet
In that warm space, you
can touch infinite
warmth’s essence with
worry eyes. By his
melodic compassion, the
physician catches the
remote lands’ valleys and
brings a smooth
management
.
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52. Narratopoet
A Meeting
When he found the sound,
his journey became a
river, and when he saw the
light, his soul became a
flower, and when I met
him, I found the hope
.
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53. Narratopoet
Springs’ Daughter
The poem is a secret
springs’ daughter. Her
wings make me swim in a
remote sea. You may live
her summer, but you need
a butterfly’s heart to see
her shining face. She told
me in a strange moment:
If the words don't shake
your heart, they are just a
dead paper
.
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The Ocean’s Mirrors
I am a farmer from the
south. My heart was
made from the sun rays
and my pulse is a birds’
chant. At the twilight, I
try to kiss the faces of
fairies and in the evening
I drown delightedly in a
hidden ocean. Now, you
can see my shadowed soul
which sits on the blue
chair with her silky veil.
She always attempts to
catch theses melodic
colors and planted them
on the ocean’s mirrors
.
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Whisper of the Sea
Here, is our sea with
endless dreams. Do you
know anything about the
whisper of the sea? Do
you see all the smiles
which reside behind his
veil. The sunset loves the
sea, where the sun combs
the hair of the fish and
draw smooth seasons on
his tales. I saw his dream
in a precious moment,
they are blue and
brilliant. They are our
souls
.
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The River’s Face
The river knows the story.
I don’t tell him the secret
of our south treasure, but
the bean has a gross
voice, and you can hear
all the news from her. He
draws butterflies on our
lips and make from our
pain a colored breeze. He
is warmhearted and his
pulse is always hot. From
his face, the image of my
soul emerges like a
dazzled flower. She is blue
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59. Narratopoet
and sleepy and there is a
white spike on her left
hand
.
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60. Narratopoet
The poets
I like the poets, because
my mother said that the
poets descend from a
magic paradise and
hidden demons sit in their
souls. The legend says
that the poets awake
before the chickens,
knocking the snow’s doors
to tell us the dreams’
stories. Their fingers feel
the soft breeze and their
eyes see the rivers’
mirrors. My mother said
that the snowy mountains
are the lands of poets’
hearts, and their
shivering birds are in a
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hot love with the poetry
colored mantle
.
The poets are flying
horses emerging from the
ink to change the gloomy
colors. They jump
delightedly over the grass
with the deer, and their
smooth pens are echoes of
the birds’ chants
.
The Coffee Man
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62. Narratopoet
I am a simple man from
the south. My skin is
brown and it may become
darker when I hear about
the giant salmon of Japan
or the smooth clothes of
Roma. In the midst of this
glory, I have an amazing
coffee coloring my days.
Of course, the story does
not start from my
grandfather’s coffee
beans and his coppery
jar, because my coffee is
of the instant type with
rich foam and has no any
perfumed memory of that
coffee man. You may
remember that I have no
time to know myself and
in addition to that I am
empty, so I have nothing
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63. Narratopoet
to find. All what can I see
is the sleepy eyelids and
aimless speech. Now I will
tell you a secret; we are
farmers and feel so
delight when we vanish in
the coffee’s flavor, so you
see our palm trees dress
brown veils. In our
Middle East the best
coffee beans come from
Yemen with the best
honey, and there were
good coffee makers in my
family, but now I am as
well as my friends addict
on the instant tasteless
foreign coffee
.
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64. Narratopoet
The Glamorous
Gardens
The sun has two long
braids, and goes out at
dawn to her grandfather's
flourishing orchard. It
resembles the glamorous
Kashmiri gardens, where
the faces are pure
reminding me of the
ancestors and the white
apples are glimmering like
pearls wrapping themself
with silk
.
They advised me to leave
the purple coasts, because
the truth is a free bird.
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65. Narratopoet
They told me that Iraq is
the brother of the sun. This
was astonishing news. If
so, where are the orchards
of our dear grandfathers?
Where are the thriving
Kashmiri gardens
?
The Magic Gemstones
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66. Narratopoet
I remember clearly
Sahajanand Van in
Akshardham and the
inspirational Lord
Swaminarayan’s
pilgrimage. You will see
the justice fighters whose
try to save the earth. They
are the real ancestry of the
Indian, the great creators.
You can see Taj Mahal, it
is unbelievable and I can't
forget these magic
gemstones which were
changing their colors with
the position. They
illuminate as New Delhi.
In fact I loved New Delhi,
but Bombay powerfully
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67. Narratopoet
leaves unforgettable
sentiments in your deep. I
wish to spend my leftover
days with peace near
"Gandhi’s Ashram" as a
free bird
.
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68. Narratopoet
The Wizard Land
In "The Flowers’ City" the
wild flowers cover the land
and her colored veil has a
dreamy universe. On a
magic motorcycle with a
soul had been filled with
the amazing road I had
flown toward this magic
land. 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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The Enchanting
World
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
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71. Narratopoet
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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