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This is a collection of my narrative expressionistic prose poems which has been written between 2016 -2018,
Narrative expressionism is a writing style where the literary piece has been written in narrative-lyric system in which the written text has appeared with the narrative superficial structure and deep poetic one. In narrative expressionism the narrative text composed of poetic elements and there is no time, place, or characters but there are poetic, lyric, imagery elements which have been narrated. In this hybrid system, the glory of both; prose and poetry have transfigured completely, so it reaches the infinite target of prose poetry writing. The expressive narrative text appears in one block; no lines, no breaks and no blanks.
In the mosaicked writing multiple texts have appeared in different theme and story but they are one in their deep idea and letters. In my "mosaicked expressive narrative" there are multiple poems in one poem so there are primary title and secondary titles. The adjective primary titles of the triple pieces is the depiction of the poems and not the themes, that is to say it is a descriptive title of the titles where the poems behave as a mirror in a mosaic system.
Anwer Ghani Jaber (previously Anwer Ghani) is an Iraqi poet and artist. He was born in 1973 in Babylon. His name has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies (as Anwer Ghani) and he have won many prizes; one of them is the "World Laureate-Best Poet in 2017 from WNWU". Narrative expressionism and digital expressionism are his peculiar styles. Anwar is the author of "Narratopoet"; (2017), "Antipoetic Poems"; (2017) and other 50 books.
The Gypsy Girl
I like our quiet lakes and their reviving breeze, where the water’s eyes are always sleepy. You can't imagine his red cheek in the winter nights. I remember when my mother had made a nice hat for him. My mother is so expert in the seasonal souls and she told me that Autumn is a gypsy girl. I didn't see Autumn, but I am sure that my mother saw her because she described her face precisely. She told me that Autumn flies between the trees’ branches as a small bird and leaving her veil weaving airily in our souls. Sometimes I feel that Autumn is a fairy and you may see her stormy tale swimming deeply in our dreams’ water.
A Gypsy Tent
I am not a hippie, but I seriously had thought to live in the forest without cooker or air-conditioner, just wood for the fire, and if you don’t agree, I will leave fire for you. I will leave all the walls and the closed doors for you. I will drink the river water with the birds and eat the greens with the deer. I will sleep under a gypsy tent because I wish to dream at night widely and chant at morning loudly.
A Gypsy Wagon
My grandfather had a beautiful horse filled with compassion and kindness. I didn't see her, but they said that she was legendarily brave. My family might have possessed a wagon. I don't know and I didn't ask about this, but I think if we had one, it will be closed as the desert’s souls. I am an Arabia man and you know there is nothing here but desert, so I decided to bring a gypsy wagon to my home to learn my children the freedom.
The face of earth will be grim without the childish jumping of the rain drops. Yes, rain is a pleasant bending which had planted the ambergris in the hearts of our farmers. My ancestors have taught their souls the abysmal waiting, and kneaded their mud with its tales, so you may see them sitting in their narrow gardens with rainy wishes. They look at the sky and whispering with yearning. Yes, you are right; I am the inheritor of silence and rainy wishes.
The rain is the yearning’s tear. I remembered when the sky had ascended towards the throne; she remained looking at her sister; the earth, with deep passion. Silently she was sending kisses with the wind’s wings, but when the yearning fires, her eyes tear with rain. Yes, the rain drops are the grieving tears of a lucent soul.
I like rain because he is the portrayal of love. His color was wet, but warm and his hand was shivery but kind. He comes at evening as an old tale hugs the small leaves with big passion. When we get lost in our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how it will be miserable, if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing.
Our days are colored with passion where all springs of happy times are emerging from their tall amazing nails. I am not water and can’t sleep in the hearts of these springs, but the martyrs had made a home for valentine’s birds which they know nothing but love and say nothing but chants. They are the creatures of light; from their travelling all the beginnings have started. Their hands were silvery, and you can see their brassy chants lying peacefully in our inner lands. Those valentine’s birds are constantly standing under love’s trees and give me an unusual kiss.
Our days are like my poems, gray and tasteless, and they oftentimes asked me to throw her from the bridge, but I am an old lover who can’t drink his coffee without passion. They had a wide heart, exactly as the big cows which I saw them in the remote city, and without any delay I had disappeared in their watery souls. These souls, which you may see them in old mirrors, can’t say anything but hesitancy and can’t know anything about love, so I will bring a jar of valentine’s smile to color their gray faces.
Do you see all the amazing colors in a beautiful sky? They are merely a pretty smile of our love. On his hand, I saw my soul and on his hat I found my nest. Our love is a green treasure I saw him before the wedding of sun and before the delivery of the trees, so all our days are valentines and all our shy whispers are holidays. From our kindhearted gaze, the earth had made her white dress, and from our smooth touch, the birds had learned their chants.
The War’s Son
I am the war’s son; my memory was kneaded by her rugged dance and my heart colored with her gloomy soul. When the tales of the mountains ended at her cold knees, you will find me in her smoky corners with my dreadful shivering. Look at my water, it is dirty and look at my future, it is nothing but vagueness. I am a good son, so I am her mirror. I can shred all the flowers of the sleepy mornings. I can drink all the milk of Australian cows and I can destroy all the souls of Cedar forest. Here, in my chest, is a legendary fire with a voice demolishes the entire beautiful mirrors and a passion kills the moon’s dreams.
The War’s Garden
I am an Iraqi man; my life is postponed and my face was stolen by wars. My voice is vaporous as a shadow and my dreams’ clothes are as short as a laugh. I know nothing about beauty or love and know nothing about Detian Falls. I don't want a colorful hat, or a golden watch. All what I want is seeing Euphrates lives a day without blood, and the shells leave the crushed ribs of Babylon. When you visit my garden won’t find but sadness and won’t see but the stolen face.
The War’s Daughter
The bean leaflets live amidst the stormy days, and chanting sadly for our absent horses. She is standing in the face of winter's hell and gives him an icy kiss. She is like me, sleeping in the field without a garment and planting all the wounded souls in the sandy desert. The Bean is the daughter of war, teaching me the beautifulness of a free death. She resides in the death before her birth and lives her end before any starting. I see her gray soul at every morning and without any delay I disappear in her bitter aloneness at every evening.
The fish is pure, and a real water lover so it will promptly die without his kisses. The fish, unlike me, knows nothing but the truth, and does anything to live with freedom. When the blindness puts weirs on the river's chest, I heard a fish’s voice and I saw the blood. The weirs are a face of death, absence, and stealing, but when you look at my hands, you may know that I am a smashed weir.
I am neither a horse nor a rabbit and when the sunset kisses their old wood I realize the sweetness of the fence-less life, but when all these horses with their heroes stand on my back, at that time I will remember our war’s children. You know, grass is green and the horses are attractive, but who will love my small rabbit? Because of this, I will die alone in a dark soul away from your hard fences and bitter hints. I will live in the horse's forehead, behind the lovely fences. I mean behind any heartiness.
I remember my grandmother’s white fabric which she had used as a barrier to make the cheese. In fact, I had liked that barrier because I did not like milk and because it is real, white but you see our days’ barrier; they are red and gloomy. They are, like my heart, bitter and dark and their hands filled with lie.
The Rivery Flowers
The blue flowers of our river try to see the womanish glances that teach the world its marvelous existence and give the life its shining love. When the days try to sing their beauty, they will intonate their magic chants and when the rainbow decides to wear its colors, it will take from their beautiful cloaks. Yes, the magic lands see their wonderful smiles on the face of our river flowers, and the winds can’t find her eardrops without its mirrors.
The Rivery Wind
The rivery wind is a legendary tale penetrating our depth with her stormy love. She colors our world with its unique flavor, gives the life its spicy taste and its glances teach the hearts their yearning. The river is our wavy essence, and the wind is a free woman with an orange mantle. As you see; I am sitting behind trees to see the wind glory and dissolving in my master words:" everything has a rivery soul, even you."
The Rivery Color
When the morning starts his journey, and the squirrel travels through his green songs, all the flavors take their azure veils. The flowers, the women, and the old farmers know the amazing colors of the river’ tales where the blue dreams wear light dresses and the faint whispers make an aurorean cake from the early dawn smiles. The time is an absent moment without the rivery passion, and the places are just dry deserts without its colors. Through their hidden secrets, we see our sleepy dreams and from their loud wishes, we write poetry with hidden letters.
I can understand all that joyfulness which you may see on the faces of the American youngsters, and all that songs which had filled the Whitman’s poems, but I am an Iraqi man knows nothing but death and see nothing but darkness. My land, and unlike Whitman continent, had immersed in gloomy desert, and stand barely with moonless nights and sunless days. Our dreams are empty and absolutely unlike Whitman’s vigorous souls. Whitman saw that everything can be anything, but now and here, I have neither feet nor hands. My face was stolen, and everything is but nothing. So, how can Whitman live in my soul? And how can I see his poems?
I am, the war’s son, can’t read Whitman’s poetry, because my eyes were stolen and all Whitman’s eyes which had seen the lustiness were cornered. I am not in anti-Whitmanism, and the human souls are miracles, but they are not a miracle of beauty as he saw. Here is my empty life, I don’t have a grass’ child and nothing in me can stand to see the glory, and I am sure if Whitman is alive now he will cry with bitterness, and he will forget his thirst for eternity. I know the sublime Whitman’s land, the sublime Whitman’s descent, and the sublime Whitman’s continent, but I am merely a road and a shoddy vehicle for all this blossoming. Yes, I know that the human soul is a big universe, and Whitman, the life, will not die, but I am merely a lifeless shadow. Whitman’ eyes had seen the pain, but his sons don’t see my pain. O Whitman’s sons, I am in pain, do you hear me?
Whitman, the father of American, had seen the doctrine. He is the man of greatness, where he saw the great land, the great youngness, the great life, and the great death, but I am lifeless creature and a nonexistent tale. Whitman is a brave poet, with a boat of gladness, but I am an Arabian young can’t live with dauntlessness. Here, in my destroyed land, there is no glory, nor poems, and all what can you see is a dark smoky death. Our houses are filled with black bitterness and they are totally different from perfumed Whitman’s houses. Whitman’s women can hold everything but our women are the field of sadness and lack. Here, there is no grass which abstracts everything, and If Whitman sees my streets, he will profoundly change his idea about the grass. Yes, we are the sons of death, but our death is, unlike Whitman death, blind and without vivid doors.
This coldness is one of the lovely pages which I had met in my hard life. She is silently going deeply in my dreams and making from my heart an icy shadow. It has stolen any possibly warmth from the bag of my days, so I was delightedly standing under that tree as a damp bird. This lovely coldness intentionally cuts my skin with her hidden knife, and destroying my face like a frozen lake’s water. She had fiercely slapped my face, so you are seeing the redness on my cheek every morning.
My friends are so polite and respected and they always try to drink the clean water, but unfortunately we are in the same cold darkness of universal humanity. I am a man of the twenty-first century and my legs had dipped in the soul of the earth as an old cow. I don't like the darkness, or its cold voice, but my hand was frosted as a woman’s coat and my friends’ hearts were hung on the absent trees of the coldness. My friend, you may see the lights and grasp their chants, but the real face of all of these illusions is, heartbreakingly, a cold darkness.
My land’s sun has a thick veil and many daughters with hard hearts. I saw many of Sun’s daughters walking in our streets, but the strange thing that they are lightless and cold. Everything under our cold sun is icy and soundless even our evenings which they were travelling between the ambergris as a blind grasshopper. They are as an eternal hero eating all the beauty and building on our back all the glory. Please don’t ask me about their skirts or hair, because in addition to my blindness they have cloudy faces and we know that they had arrived from their cold winds.