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Arcs
Prose Poetry
Annual Literary magazine of prose
poetry
2017
Editor
Anwer Ghani

Alharf Publishing House

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Content

Content ........................................................... 3
About .............................................................. 4
Farmer............................................................ 6
Whenever I Call You, My throat Gets Perfumed ... 8
Kareem Abdullah ............................................. 8
Overcrowding ................................................ 12
Wall deceit .................................................... 14
The Jump....................................................... 16
This Thing ..................................................... 20
The Bacteria Cities ......................................... 26
The Thief ....................................................... 30
Three who cannot smile today .......................... 33
The Nonstop Train .......................................... 35

The cover image from Wide Wallpaper

The internal paintings by Robert Rhodes

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About

Arcs magazine is a digital annual

literary magazine specializes
exclusively with prose poetry.
We are seeking the prose poem
which has been written in English
and in sentences and paragraph,
(horizontal as prose piece) with the
narrative lyricism where the
complete poetry emerges from the
complete prose.
We are an independent young
magazine, so we cannot pay to
poets, but by publishing here, we
say to them that they are real
writers of the prose poetry.
Here is the place of narrative
poetry lover. Here is the world of
narrative lyricism.

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Submission

we accept any prose poem characterized by

following:

1- It was written in English.

2- It was written in sentences and paragraph.(

horizontal as prose piece)

3-It was written in poetic narration (anti-

narration).

4- It should be unsolicited.

We are independent young magazine, so we

cannot pay to poets, but by publishing here, we
say to them that they are real writers of
modern prose poem.

For submission, you can send your poem to the

following email:

anweralmosewi1@gmail.com

Please send the poems in word document with

short biography.

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Farmer
Anwer Ghani

I am an old farmer knowing this

earth perfume. I grew between its
legumes like a butterfly loving the
sunshine. Come here look at
Euphrates. He is sweet and clear.
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, the sleepy city,
which were the seven wise men
built up its foundations with
copper. Come here look at my
palms, and see how they are
coarse like our palm trees and
lucent Ambergris which filled with
honey. Because of this you find the
darkness sits there, in that corner

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with its icy dress, killing my

children.

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 "Arcs Prose poetry"
annual digital magazine. Recently,
he published "Antipoetic Poems",
(Creat Spacee 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

Website; https://goo.gl/pivQsa

Amazon: Author.to/AnwerGhani

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Whenever I Call You, My throat

Gets Perfumed
Kareem Abdullah

This ether bears the perfume of

your images, blossoming alone in
my eyes' night, raining with
abundant dreams, in whose new
springs swim the voices of my
blooming youth. How could I
collect the sprinkle of your eyes
while these stars beseech for
washing their darkness by the
blueness of your shores. Flower
coronas stand every morning at
your window, waiting the moment
you get up to grant them the
perfume. Flocks of birds land down
on your table, hoping that crumbs
of your voice would make them
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sing very softly. Even your clothes

in their cupboard are impatiently
waiting your soft fingers to caress
them so that they dance playfully
and recover their glittering. Only
your name uncovers me, since
before I call you my throat gets
perfumed, its strings play the
symphony of this love, and all the
women who went into my bosom
through the hole of a needle, went
out with exhalation, lamenting
their bad luck. Only you swing
back and forth by my veins, and so
increase the pulse of my
wordbooks, in order to write you
an eternal poem. Oh, my fingers,
whenever they touch the shyness of
dew in your cheeks, it sprouts as a
wail defying your crazy quake; you
rain heavily on me, every night,
purify me of my savagery, flap over
my rivers with the wings of
longing, and go deep into my cities

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Translated by Fareed Ghanem

Kareem Abdullah (b. 1962 )

Kareem Abdulah , is an Iraqi poet,
born in Baghdad in 1962 . His
name appeared in many important
Arabic literary magazine and in
Tajdeed magazine, an Arabic
prose poem magazine. He has
many poetry collections in Arabic.

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Overcrowding
Fareed Ghanem
Just now we've concluded the
conquest of Constantinople. It took
us fifty three seconds, the time
between two cigarettes and two
hallucinations. Then, we came
back.
The city inflates at night. Noisy
lamps stained by excrement of last
summer's beetles, sweep the
shadows out of the roads. Piazzas
become overcrowded by humans,
screens by words.
White birds scream in the
illuminated evening. Night mimics
day and deprives sparrows of
sleep.
I withdraw to the trunk of an
indifferent tree, climb through its
phloem up to a leaf just about to
fall, so I might have a break out of
the exhausted horses, and write
down whatever I wish.

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Fareed Kassim Ganem, literary

name Fareed Ghanem , poet and
writer. He was born in 1958, 0n
Magar village near Galille sea
(Palestine). He studied English
literature, psychology and law at
the Hebrew university (Al-
Quds/Jerusalem). Since 1991 he
works as a lawyer, except for 5
years during which he the mayor of
his village. F. Ghanem writes
literary texts, including prose
poetry, and has published 3 poetry
collections already during the last
2 years.

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Wall deceit
Jawad Zainy

How is this wall spiting me? He is

a slyer, exerts deadlock in my
attendance, and pretends that he
has no life, but I'm hearing his dim
intermittent breaths. I know
certainly that he has a slender
hearing, sharp sight and fluent
tongue in spite of pretension of
muteness. He still insist on
ignorance my daily talk with him.
Whenever I draw my lonely sad
face, he smiles. The aging features
of my father picture- which is fixed
lonely on it- are changing every
day, until my father backs as a
young face .I know certainly that
my father was dead, but this wall is
still deceiving me with the pulse!

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Jawad.H.Zainy is an Iraqi poet,

born in 1966 in Annajaf city. He is
one of the minimalist in Arabic
poetry, and in 2016, he won
Tajdeed minimalism poetry prize.
His name appeared in Tajdeed
magazine, an Arabic prose poem
magazine.

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The Jump
Imad Theeb

Bewildered by the vast white, you

are fencing the walls of my heart;
you watch its beats synchronized
by yours "How could be?" yelling
thy shivering voice. "Telepathy"
brings the unsatisfactory answer
yearning for more. The questions
raise themselves in a wonderful
cycle: I am but these very
questions blown by a human soul
to ask for more evermore. They
soar so high touching the unknown
areas of the eternity corners, then
all of a sudden they fall apart
seeking a lurking place to jump.

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Imad Hani Theeb, Syrian poet,

born in AlAal , Al Qunaitara in
1965 , got a BA degree English
literature from Damascus
University in 1987. He has been
teaching English for 28 years in
Syria ,Yemen and Kuwait.
Currently he is an HOD English
Department literature high school
in Kuwait. He started writing
poetry at an early age, but not until
2008 that he started publishing in
various Arabic literary magazines.
He joined Tajdeed group in 2015,
whereby he published many Arabic
prose poems in its
magazine. Many other literary
sites published his poems. He
translated to English many poems,
and looking forward to publishing
his first book very soon.

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The Horror
A'adel Kassem

Once, at a winter night, I was

raving out of fever, seeing a crowd
of ordinary people, heavily armed
by their swords and thick beards,
cutting the way of passers-by in the
city alleys, breaking through into
clay houses emptied of their
inhabitants. I was running, despite
my old age, at remote huts, fearful
of their valor. I recalled that I
didn't take my sons and wife with
me. When I decided to go back, I
saw a very old seed astonishly
laughing at my naivety. This,
because there were no door nor
windows, but columns of nudes,
above their heads colored cranes
wavering, where inscribers with
white robes, azure skies and
charming music, maybe The
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Requiem Mass*, and a clamour

similar to the voice of mob, mixed
with artillery echoes while I've
lost the way amidst fever and
horror.

* Translated from Arabic by

Fareed Ghanem.

A'adel Kassem is an Iraqi poet and

artist, and a co-founder 'Tajdid'
literary group. He was born in
Baghda in 1963. He has published
several poetiry collections:
'Condensed Light's' , '1980's',
'Poems of Waiting' and 'Cloudy
Spaces'. His name appeared in
most iraqi important literary
magazine.

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This Thing
William S. Peters, Sr

I know not what curious factors

compel me to hold you in my
thoughts each day, all day.
I anticipate with longing each
moment we share whether it be
speech or your presence.
I neither know not what drives and
directs me to sit and exact this
communication revealing my inner
self in such a manner.
I have long learned the
incrimination of putting ones
feelings in writing, but I care not.
All too often the things I desire to
say, I lose courage to say, and the
words melt away in to the abysmal
nothingness that abides with us all.
All too often in life there are
moments and experiences that
acquaint us with something or

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someone special, and we do not

comment.
To not at least acknowledge that
our souls have been touched,
stirred or moved is a sin against
life itself.
It is holding all that is dear in life
in disdain.
I, as we all do, know and
understand the rules of man and
social structure and its
condemning nature for what it can
not accept, understand or
control..
well . . .
This Thing is of a non conforming
nature within the structure that
wishes to erect the edifices of its
own greatness only to pass into
history as a time that used to be.
This Thing is timeless, universal
and cares not of the rules that are
set upon the table before itself to
abide by.

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This Thing existed long before man

could utter his desire for order and
conformity.
This Thing fractures the rules by
which we so vehemently deny
ourselves and our divinity.
This Thing cares not save for the
opportunity to share itself with
another. Unabashed.
Uninhibited. and Unrestrained.!
This Thing will either be our
undoing or our salvation in this
lifebut in the infinite
misunderstanding of our existence,
This Thing is all that there is.
This Thing is the Mother of all that
exists. It is the relationship
between all living things. each of
its own kind.
As we develop in our
consciousness we come to
understand and accept that we are
all connected and interdependent,
for all is one. I have encountered

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thee and I aspire to thee to become

one with thee.
For This Thing I will suffer the
indulgences of a finite society, for
my cause is timeless.
This Thing have brought thee
through many histories and
lifetimes and we shall go forth with
much more. for I am but a
servant.
Thou has awakened in me this
Thing that has lied so dormant for
too long.
I acknowledge the grandeur of
This Thing I have found in thee, for
This Thing is . . . . . . .Love !

circa 1985

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Bill aka William S. Peters, Sr. is the

Proud Father of 11 children and 8
Grandchildren. Bill has been writing for
over 48 years, expressing his thoughts
on matters of the Heart, Spirit,
Consciousness and Humanity. Bill has
published over 30 Books. His latest
offerings include Poetic Collections,
Short Story and Witticisms such as;
Stories, Fables and Quaint Little Tales,
Confucius Says, The Vine Keeper, This
Too Shall Pass, the light in the window,
The Wind, The Mountain and The Sage
and many more. Most of Bill's Books
are available for purchase on this Web
Site. Bill's STORE As i mentioned
earlier, Bill is also a Spoken Word
Artist and his current CD free thinker
is available through this site as well as
CD Baby, ReverbNation, Amazon,
iTunes, etc.

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The Bacteria Cities

Saddam Ghazi

Aplenty of terms, you along with

astonishment stand to watch and
question: since when this bacteria
had invaded the world? Is it before
coming to existence on your tongue
as a result of hyper-tobacco, or
before the establishment of the first
American railway coined of skulls?
You might ask yourself when you
practice yoga, why the room of
mental illness is white? What is the
relation between mind and color?
Is it a symbol hinting that the
content of mind has been wiped
away? What is the relation
between color and '0'? What is the
relation between a bride and a
white dress? Is the coffin a
wedding too?
We question and answer, too.
Trenches filled up over heads
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wearing helmets are the suitable

environment for bacteria.
My friend who suffers from over-
solitude and practices crying all
time, she is also sympathetic to
bacteria. Cigarettes are an
environment, too. Water faucets
made of ultra-cheap metals, are
conspiring when they abide away
from the sun. White walls are
faking of other colors behind them,
where societies with active minds
are related to zero. Those walking
in the streets, sitting behind office
desks, hospital beds, and
astronauts, we all are infected by
bacteria. Whoever of you that can
shout let him do it, since
advertisements of purifiers are just
a surface invasion.

* Translated from Arabic by:

Fareed Ghanem

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Saddam Ghazi Mohsen, is an Iraqi

poet, born in Babylov 1975. He
graduated of Teachers' Center. His
name appeared in many group
poetry collections, and in Tajdeed
magazine, an Arabic prose poem
magazine.

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The Thief
Riadh Alfatlawi

Why do you steal my dreams? And

stuttering as an intimate friend.
You broke all my boats, and closed
the windows of my sea with your
back scales. You wash me on a
smooth rock, and upend me by a
red hand. You touch me with two
different adjacent eyes, one is a
green soft-textured eye and the
other is yellow, which slices my
body on dispersed letters. Let days
upend me as they like. Take all my
things and do not break my mirror
at the moment of immersion
between my breaths, as though you
close the air inlets in the lung of
tomorrow. My sun still shines over
my prose leaflets, and a plant
around the waiting, where I see my
destiny.

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Riadh Mshi Afatlawi is an Iraqi

poet, born in 1972 in Alkufa city.
His name appeared in Tajdeed
magazine , an Arabic prose poem
magazine. He published many
poetry collections in Arabic in
2016 and 2017.

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Three who cannot smile today

Faleeha Hassan

The Mother waves farewell to her

son now who is getting ready to go
to the war,
And the soldier is running down
toward the gate of the war,
And I a little girl watching from my
window my grandmother sheds
tears when she waves farewell to
my father and I sigh for them.

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Faleeha Hassan is a poet, teacher,

editor, writer born in Najaf, Iraq,
in 1967, who now lives in the
United States. And she is the first
woman who wrote poetry for
children in Iraq. She is leading
poetic feminist movement in the
holy city of Najaf.
Translated poems to (English,
Turkmen, Bosevih, Indian, French,
Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain
and Albania) and has received
awards from the linguists and
translators Arab Society (AWB)
and the Festival of creativity
Najafi for 2012, as well as Naziq
God Award angels, Al Mu'tamar
Prize for Poetry, and the award
short story of the martyr mihrab
and institution.

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The Nonstop Train

Lanka SR Prasad

When that interminable train of a

caravan surges forwards or
backward,
As you wished, a series of
montages struggle past inward and
outward;
In the first compartment sits
withered faces with age old
wrinkles and groans.
The terminal room is empty of life
but filled with bizarre skulls and
bones.
In the Engine room resides a grave
grotesque dark sinister creature,
With a sharp curved blood oozing
scythe in his hand and
expressionless feature,

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To his opposite presides a faceless

face of illumination beyond any
description,
In that sea of Fire, all the three
periods merge into emptiness of
cosmic friction!
In that night of nights, in that pitch
darkness without moon and stars,
A night that envelopes the mighty
forests, seas, mountains and
shores,
When that train passes non
stationary stations it slows,
whistles but never stops,
Fireflies, glow worms buzz in and
buzz out of their form with hopes
and hops.
As you walk across the
compartments of the various ages
of uncertain lub dub,
Among the vermin ruins you shall
find Cains stone, Davids sling,
Hercules club,

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Primitive mens obsidian knives,

stone axes, boomerang, hatchet,
tomahawk
Ramas bow and arrows,
Krishnas wheel or disc, King
Arthurs Excalibur, Achilles shield
Umpteen swords, daggers, spears,
bastilles, catapults, seize towers,
battering rams,
Bullets, canons, tanks, fighter
planes, missiles, atomic bombs and
all that junk,
Scattered amidst the flesh and
blood, bones and the treasures of
war stink!
In that night of nights, obsequies
and funerals are in full spate, the
overcrowded platforms
open their hell down stair cases, to
fling the rotten bodies crawling
with flies and worms,
and the invisible ladders from
above wait desperately to find a
few qualified souls!

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Oh you Visitor! Did you see the

images of all the prophets, in that
glow worm light?
Hung to the walls of the
compartments, and crosses,
pleading the people to do right?
Awake! Arise! Act! In that night of
nights no train stops at your
station!
Your past deeds allot you a ticket
to the hell down station or the
ladder levitation!
You can be a firefly or glow worm
or just a fly or worm, choice is
yours!
In the Engine room the face of
illumination decides and the scythe
creature executes!

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Lanka Siva Rama Prasad is an

Indian poet, author, and
translator.He has written and
translated more than 100
published books. Prasad is a
cardiovascular and thoracic
surgeon in Prathima Institute of
Medical Sciences and a fellow of
Indo-Asian Literature. Here is his
website:
http://www.anuvaadham.com.

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