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”, (CreatSpacee 2017), “TRUMP”; a poetry collection, (Inner Child Press 2017) and “The Narratolyric Writing”; essays (Smashwords 2017). He had, in Arabic, forty books in literature and religious sciences
Anwer Ghani is president of the Arab Critics Unon, the ambassador of world institute for peace (WIP) in Iraq, the vice president of The Arabic Cultural House (ACH), the chief representative of the World Nations Writers Union (WNWU) in Iraq, and the member in the International Writers Association (IWA).
Works of Anwer
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.
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.
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.
-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.
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, aneastern man drowning in the illusions.