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Antipoetic Poems

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Page 1: Antipoetic Poems

Antipoetic Poems

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Antipoetic Poems

Antipoetic Poems

Antipoetic Lyricism

Anwer Ghani

2017

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ContentsContents ..................................................................... 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 byPasqual Bettio FRPS

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Preface

The lyricism which forms thecornerstone of poetry is, in itstraditional state, characterized byselected ideas, themes and words,with a world of expression andimagination parallels our world.These features give the poetry its

prestigious status .

Here, in "Anti-poetic Lyricism" I trya new shape of lyricism, where thereis no prestige, no selectivity and noparallel world. Here is a lyricismwith very usual ideas, very usual

themes and very usual words.

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The poetry should exit from theselectivity to live among us as aman, 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. Hewas born in 1973 in Alhilla city. His namehad 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 ChildPress 2017) and "The Narratolyric Writing";

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essays (Smashwords 2017). He had, inArabic, forty books in literature and

religious sciences

Website; https://goo.gl/pivQsa

Amazon: Author.to/AnwerGhani

Anwer Ghan is president of the Arab CriticsUnon, the ambassador of world institute forpeace (WIP) in Iraq, the vice president ofTheArabic Cultural House (ACH), the chiefrepresentative of the World Nations WritersUnion (WNWU) in Iraq, and the member in the

International Writers Association (IWA.(

Smashed Souls

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I know the wars and their uglyvoices, because I am their son. Thewar is a gray tale, dressing her redmantle in lonesome nights. She stolemy blood and any smiley piece, soyou may see nothing here but sadmoments. In the morning ourchildren fill their eyes with hazyclouds and in the evening you cansmell the odor of hungry souls. Thewalls of our rooms are fissured likeda smashed soul and the beds of ourbrides are bloody like the colors ofour streets. The Youngsters andoldsters are sitting in the darkcorners waiting their hazy fate, andevery hand here has nothing butparalysis. Without any sin we aredrowning deeply in the fired field,and you are, the reader, doesn't do

anything.

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My Grandmother’s Whispers

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I love the moon because his smile isshining like the tales of mygrandmother. She was whisperingevery night in my dreams ’ear, andtelling me the story of colorful birdsin that remote land. She was a goodnarrator, and sometimes hernarrative surpasses our narrativepoetry. I saw her ocean and satbeside its shore in that warm world. Itold her my story and inform herabout my shivering years, which thegray souls had eaten their peels. Itold her that I don’t like to cry, butyou see there is no place for mysmile. Those bloody souls had stolenmy life. They said that the body is thecause of the sadness, but I found notruth in their red voices. I had heardmy grandmother’s tales and she

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whispered in my deep that the love ofthe moon doesn't need blood.

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My grandfather’s Flowers

I remember my grandfather’s smallflowers. They were silent andcolorless like my life. They alwaysfilled with a fugacious blossom, andincessantly hid with gray veils asbiting friends. Those colorlessflowers had seen my face on ourrivulet with his unaccountablefailures and as a woman’s heart; theyhad colored my life with their bitterpassion. They had dressed me thesadness since I saw my earth’s tearsand as a legendary waterfall they had

filled the streamlets with my blood.

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Light lavaliere

Your carnelian was submerged in icetobacco and your azure trees smiledat the waterfalls of Mashu Mountain,where the secret springs of theuniverse were immersed in the dust ofbrown towns and misted by the

breeze.

Uruk, the white wings of yourblooming spirit told the earth the taleof light, which had been colored by ashawl of girl gathering the date from

her father small garden.

I don’t amazed by those distanceswhich were crossed by knees andbare feet, and the time disguise whichis falling in your hall as a waximages. For this, the mightiness ofearth bends with astonishment atyour old glitter, where the ScorpionMen irrigate them with silver water.They draw my souls in a shape of

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brown bird, and give me a copperykiss, so I fly as spatial vehicle which

saw a new face of the moon.

Didn’t you teach me the brownsummer? Didn’t your hot sands slapmy face? Didn’t Euphrates immersemy dream with angles? Because ofthis, I became a bitter voice of light

lavaliere.

-Crnelian , azure trees,Mashu Mountain and ScorpionMen 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 amemory of your great hands. I feel sopride when I see flights of arrivers sitat your door seeking some nectar

from you big secrets .Surprisingly, the scientists talk aboutthe unlimited time and place, and youhid them in you simple clay whereyou plunged your tablet with theinfinity. From your balcony of Urukin warm Babylon afternoons, youlook at us, the primitives, and sendwith the wind an old Iraqi tea. Thathoney colored wisdom and infinitywhich rejoiced with wilderness ofEnkidu's deer. Yes, your handsdefeated the aging and death,because you saw the secrets. O SinLeqi Unninni, you look at us and

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smile, because you are (who saw thedeep .(

Sin Leqi Unninni was the writer ofEpic of Gilgamesh.

)Who saw the deep) is a phrase fromEpic of Gilgamesh.

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The Feminine Perfume

When a woman taught me themeanings of the green trees andshowed me the soul of ambergris, Ifind the hidden colors of the life. Sothe angels who know everything addnothing and the sorcerers who do

everything do nothing.

From her perfume, the world takeshis meaning. The candles have nosouls in the absence of her big heartand the roads will be blind withouther soft hand. You can’t feel thedays’ pulses without feminineperfume and the riverbanks’ flowerscan’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 thebare trees awaiting the change ofcrow’s color. His blackness is a fateand if you want to see the magicorchard, you should plant yourflowers and you should teach themorning the brilliantness and theevening the soft whispers. Thepigeon is the meaning of the life andthe melodic voice of her womanishsouls gives the field theirawesomeness. O, moonysmoothness, how can the pinky soulsget her freedom? And when does theblind world stop his shameful

exploitation of the beauty.

Feminine Mirrors

Our river, the sea’s ships, and theblue flowers try to see the deep truth

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in the womanish glances that teachthe world his wonderful existence

and give the life her shining love.

Everything knows the deepsmoothness and the honorablehighness of the women’s hearts.When the days try to sing theirbeauty, they will sing the womanishchants. From these moments, ourdays take their colors and dress herbeautiful cloak. Yes the magic landsees her wonderful birds on the faceof the female water and the skywinds can’t find her eardropswithout the real color of the feminine

mirrors.

Womanish Winds

The woman is a legendary tale whocan’t stop her stormy love. She givesour world his unique flavor. The

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womanish winds give the life itsspicy taste; her words give the wordstheir meanings and her glancesteach the glances their yearning.The sea is a girl but strong and thewind is a woman but shadowed. Thefire is a free female with happymantle and the earth is the mother ofthe love. As you see; I am sittingbehind the wisdom which tries tonumerate the feminine things, at thattime the big master said: everything

has a feminine soul.

Pinky souls

When the morning starts his journey,and the squirrel travels through hisgreen songs, all the flavors take theirpinky veils from the womanish souls.

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The books, the history, and the oldfarmers know the amazing colors inthe hearts of the women where theblue dreams wear pinky dresses andthe girls’ whispers make a sunnycake from the braids of the

mornings.

I am so dazzled for this glory andwithout any delay I find my soul hasdelightedly disappeared over thesmooth hands. The time is an absentmoment without the stormy femininepassion and the places are just drydeserts without woman smiles. Bytheir exposed secrets, you can seethe river’s sleepy waves and fromtheir loud wishes, you may know the

poetry with silent telling.

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Alfresco Wishes

Our trees which wear their shortskirts and the dreams which playwith our small boys are mirrorsswimming delightedly on the faces ofremote seas. All of them in additionto the free shadowed spaces sit in themidst of the universe with their bluechants. Outside our souls, the bagsbring colored butterflies, but on the

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faces of our trees, you can’t see butblack sadness. I know, as any bird,that my wishes need a new open air,and the smoke of the wars had killedmy oranges. I know as any youngsoldier, that the black souls can’t buymy cheap ambergris, and all theremnants of the wars’ voices areliars. We like the colors of theflowers and the sounds of thewaterfalls, but what can I do if allthe sun’s songs were stolen in a free

trade.

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Outdoors Letters

The cars, the hotels, and the marketsare letters. The women, theperfumes, and the smiles are letters.The trees, the waterfalls, and theflowers are letters. But in spit allthese outdoors letters, my post box is

empty.

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Our Days

Our days are mirrors of our souls andtheir smiles are the chants of the love,The night kisses are just echoes of themorning roses. They will be white ifthe birds of our hearts are cloudless,and will be gray if our images arehard. They may show you the laughor the tears and you should rememberthat their flowers can't open theireyes in a hazy sky. Our days are

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warmhearted; if their coldnessburned your cheek in the morning,their breeze will be amazing in the

night.

Our Boat

Here is our white boat, where ourdreams chanting their songs and ourhappy moments blossom. Its warmwoods appease my heart, and drawon my pulse a butterfly searchingyour face. When you feel my husk inyour hands, and when you see my

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soul flying dreamily in front of youreyes, at that moment you should

remember our boat.

The Enchanting World

It was late when we reached Mumbai,but the streets were crowded and thenoisy had filled the space. It wasDecember when we had left the icecovering the ground in Tehran, but inMumbai it was like summer. Nowinter in Mumbai, so no need for

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heavy coats. In fact, you don’t needany extra things in the enchantingworld, where the souls had been filledwith flowers and the minds had beencolored with songs. The screamedlights had made the buildings shiningas a colored bride filled with henna. Ican't forget that road which wasdisappearing in the time of high tideand that skyscraper which had stood

in the heart of that shore .

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The Mother LoveWhen the roads open their eyes, allthe blue fish will come to my sea. Theroad is a smile exits its pinky earfrom that window which sleeps on mymother hands. Without any end andwithout any delay, I am disappearingwith happiness in the mothers' voices.My heart, like a bird on an icy bough,will immerse in that moment whichcome from their chants. At her will, Iam rivulet water, and at her gaze, I

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am a motionless leaf. My love is thatwind which can cross all clouds, andthat 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'texpect this clarity from that brownurchin. You know the brown thingsare deep and expressionless. He wasan adept fishmonger and he hadinherited his silver net from oldgrandfathers. He told me that hedidn't like fish, but he likes to colorthem with silver and casts them intothe other riverbank where the sunreaches the river at her sunset and

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catches the fish as a bear. He haswarmhearted family. They weresmooth like the lemon leaves. Theywere bewitching. Firstly, they mock at

me, and then they say: be brown.

Rocky Girl

The world has a heart exactly asours. He is pulsatile and the bags arethe pumping devices. I respect theglobalization, not because she wasthe indulged daughter of our wideworld but because she is beautiful.Yes, she has thousand songs, but the

farmers know nothing about them .

The globalization is slim and brightbut her heart is rigid like a rock.When she visits our city, our damask

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rose disappears quickly and withoutany explanation. There are nowedding in the neighborhood, norany sounds from the youngsters' gunsto expect that the hidden well may befilled with the blood. She shouldhave a big heart inherited from hergrandmother Uruk, and a soft glancecolored her souls because herancestry the Skyshipers. I cannotimagine how this pleasant family cangive birth to this rocky girl. In herhand no place for man dream, nowarmth and no chants only spikesuncover their legs. Yes, she is bendingin amazing position but in fact thereis nothing in her head but the heavy

air.

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River’s Tales

The winter chants which had beenmade from our mumbles had a verydelicate roaring. At that time theroads is wide because we are sons ofold farmers know nothing about theriver tales. In fact in "Al-Arian", mychildhood town, everything is simple

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even the river tales, and you shouldn'texpect that there may be fairies in ourwater. From that purity we had builtprimitive skyscrapers, exactly as ourdreams. Now you can imagine thesmell of our feet, it had left in ourheart unforgettable trances. We didn'tknow how our dirty feet’s couldilluminate the darkness andwhispering softly in the ears of oursilence? We did not know the color ofthe sun at its beautiful sunset. That isto say we are stolen people. In thesame time our trees had kneweverything, 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 towardsPentasi B, taking a picture at QutbShahi’s Tomb and drink water fromHussain Sagar’s Lake. I am an Iraqiman and didn't visited Hyderabadpreviously, but I saw Bombay’s shoreand its building in the sea where itsroad had disappeared in the

tidewater creators .

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The Flowers City

It was a sunny morning when myIndian friend told me about a "TheFlowers’ City" in Ahmedabad. Thewild flowers cover her face and hercolored veil was a dreamy universe ofthe Bollywood songs. Instantly I hadflown on a magic motorcycle with asoul had been filled with the amazingroad. The wizard land steals theminds and left an unforgettablememory in my deep corners.

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Honestly, I am not a big traveler, butI am sure that I won't see like this

bewitching land.

A bright finger

When you reach those remote landsand when you see my pain, pleaseignite a candle in our cold night, andmake this sleepy world knowsomething about light. I know; youcan't believe the magic roads and thebewitching tales, but we shouldremember the souls of the flowerswhich know nothing but beauty. Whenwe drown deeply in our dreams andwhen you meet all the possibleilluminations, 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'tbe happened without the silenceof this soul which hides ourdreams behind her lost head. It ishere, in me, this icy tale, whichalways kills cold bloodedly mydays. She is not beautiful at all,and in one day she shredded mykite fiercely. This obscurant soulteaches my flowers the war’ssongs, 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 withtheir voices. The icy lands alwayssay: we will live in a white world, butwhat we see is this redness. Where isthat whiteness? May be the clotheshad been run out. Please don’t stealmy dream, and don’t cover my lifewith grey roars. My foot is cold, andmy hand is so short, but you have a

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nice whitish tongue. I will swim withfish in that waterfall to tell you thatthe water in my glass is not warm andnot white. Here, in my heart is the lifepulse with its golden trees. Here, in

my heart is a stolen white land.

Conversation

-There are a lot of instances for ourprogram.

-Oh, fantastic. You do well .-The desert’s air is so dry and there

are a lot of wooden plants, and deadanimals. 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 arehungry here, and the air is dry.

Illusions

I love the reading and the big artists.I find the pleasure to color the sun’seyelashes with a magic dreams. Mysmile’s page does not eat herbreakfast and my eyes becamebrilliant because of their illusions.Now I can see a faint light with silverskin like the moon. I see a braves’ship swimming under my destroyed

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roof and travels through the infinityas a shadow. It is flying in my wideillusion as a bird. Yes, I am here, withthis motionless brain and uselessbody, an eastern man drowning in the

illusions.

The Smokers

I didn't smoke, and my skin is notwhite, so I don't understand all whatwas said about the big hearts of thesmokers. They said that you may findbirds with gray hats and fish withsilver eyelids in the branches of thesmokers’ air. They are big like my citywhen I was a child, but now you see

how the stones choke its streets .The smoke which travels freely in thedreams of our rivers doesn't differ

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from the hazy face of the blackcorners, but what makes our lifepossible are the harsh voices of thebig hearts of the smokers. I like thehearts of the smokers, not becausethey are filled with nicotine, butbecause their spicy illuminates ourdays with the truly love, exactly aspure as the fire of the sun which

illuminates the moon .

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Azzalan

My life is shivering like ourgrandfather’s brook which we try toplant trees in its sand without benefit.Because of its angry moment he hadnamed "The angry river;Azzalan",and because its dead landthey had named its village; "The bareland, Alaria". Despite all the palmswhich he had planted around it, youcan't recognize its colorless face frommy life. Now I am not in the bare

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land, but its dry winds color mydream daily.

Simple New Yorker

My dream is the living in New York,but I know this is a faraway because Iam a simple man know nothing aboutthe dramatics or the baseball. May besomeday I will accompany a NewYork poet on Brooklyn Bridge, at thatmoment I won't buy "A poet in NewYork" from Fifth Avenue, in steed ofthat I will collect the rain drops fromthe heart of Statue of Liberty. Yes, I

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am an Uruki man and I can see thesoul of sun from Empire State andalso when I walk above BrooklynBridge. In fact I wish to sleep nearthe Central Park in that unsleeping

city.

Shameful Incompetence

I am a young man has loved thereading and like a big artist, I foundthe pleasure to color the sun’seyelashes with a magic dreams. Mysmile’s page does not eat herbreakfast, so she is dizzy. My eyes intheir illusions became brilliant andthey travel through the infinity asshadow. Now I see a faint light, its

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skin is sliver and soft as the moon. Isee a braves’ ship swimming undermy destroyed roof. It is flying in mywide illusion as a bird. Yes, I am here,with this motionless brain and uselessbody, a young man drowning in a

shameful incompetence.

The Kebab GloryThe Iraqis can’t live without war orkebab and can’t smell the morningbreeze without their deep voices. Iam an Iraqi man, and my soul waskneaded with the war’s tales and thekebab’s sumac. Our streets, whichare immersed in the kebab’sperfume, had straggled in the desertof sad sumac, and like our kebab,they always dream of fireless days.

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The kebab, which we inherited fromour Babylonian ancestors, can’t betransfigured without a soft lamb, andany saying discords this is a hardillusion, but essentially you need theIraqi sad smile to find the kebab’s

sublime glory .

In The Hospital

I had met an old friend in the gardenof our hospital. His hand was warm,not because of his fever, but due tohis love. You can’t imagine theimpact of the flowers in the gardenand a friend in the hospital. Ourhospital is small but it was the placewhere we see the chanting birds andthe smiling trees. Here, in my city, itis unusual to see the smile and our

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days are gloomy as the mangledwood, but the hospital istenderhearted as a mother. In fact,all the birds in our hospital aresmiling and white, but in a dark daya dread hand had invaded theirsouls and put frowning twilight in

their corners.

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