Heavily armed with their frustration, Your soldiers drag the metropolis misery before your authority that ends up in the blindest tyranny, violate their humanity

Kareem Abdullah, an acclaimed poet from Iraq, shares his poetry

Kareem Abdullah is an Iraqi poet, writer and playwright. Born in Baghdad in 1962, Kareen Abdullah is the author of “Baghdad in Its New Dress” (2015). His name has appeared in many important Arabic literary magazines and he won the Tajdeed Prose Poetry Prize in 2016. Kareem has published eight collections of poetry in Arabic and his poems have been translated into numerous languages. Creator of the highly successful cultural project that promotes poets and artists with the critical literary and stylistic analysis that he carries out in collaboration with the international cultural promoter Elisa Mascia – Italy, with subsequent publications in Alessandria today Magazine and on the blog nonsoloarteepoesia Magiche Emozioni dell’Anima. He is an official international member of Ciesart and has been published in Humanity Magazine Global.

A Three-Dimensional Text

The Soldiers of God

Heavily armed with their frustration, Your soldiers drag the metropolis misery before your authority that ends up in the blindest tyranny, violate their humanity and you do not know anything about the banks of supplication lounged on by her distant voice that comes to the ears of the sea, whenever the trees of alienation smile, the extensive face of night falls, lying there, ahead the soldiers as deconstructing my lavishing history on the tongues of the ominous war…. They led the leftover of dream crucified in your shining evening, searing it in front of the mockery of stations, elegized by the childbirth of a morning that sleeps on the brink of a glow of the waiting of my return shackled with rifles as tearing the whoop of the resurrection, tattooed on the wings of the colorful butterflies behind the glass of the bombed cars.

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Tree – A Song of Jubilation

A narrative expressive poem

The lemon tree piled her dry vibes, over there at the topmost tedium, the spring molded her into a glittering and warm crystalline, that melts tenderness, she is slender, delicate and intimate, fragrant jubilation glows in her dress clothing the nudity of her dry days, there is no way out for the night but to take off his sandals, and about her secrets roam, and lay his head on her quivering scent, two braids of listening stars, wave while topping her magical pride, out of her gloom, the lemon fragrance flows, swaying on the turquoise shores, while the murmuring of flickering sea decorating her, with twilight and daydreams hues. Her soft fluffy leaves in her armpits, dew hold, sunbathing on her translucent throne, kidded by the fluttering rainbow on her soft pillow. Every morning, her sparrows fly overhead, singing her the universe song, betting for life standing, as she gathers the nuggets of spring, and feeds her buds elixir of immortality. She wears the feathers of pink dreams, gleefully dances, flowing elegance, suspending wishes with alerted kisses, waiting for the season of meeting to wipe out the austerity of winter and make her evade the withering of hibernation, her features will shyly sweat, if love in her fasting heart flashes, while expelling sorrows out of her chest, her blooms ripen and reckon, if the handkerchiefs of dawn covertly tickle them, and the pulse in her deeper roots, increases, as the gleeful glitter of the pollen spathe appears, and her lineament ceaselessly exult, the fingertips of the tender warmth, on the peak, rejoice in bliss ,she still retains a beautiful smile that opens the doors of the morning adorned with silk, there is in her looks a drunken horizon, brightly hopeful, beneath her eyelids, the flowers hatch, and embrace her lights, freely loitering, breathing the fragrance of her innocent laughter, the seasons will inevitably listen to the roar of her loving treasures, as satisfying her starvation with nightingales’ melodies, and changing the rituals of days, drooping the truthfulness steps towards her towers, inviting me to freely muse myself, as she grants me the crowns of her spring, she colors me.

(Translated by John Henry Smith)

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