Asaad Al Jabbouri

Asaad Al Jabbouri Poems

Asaad Al Jabbouri Biography

Poet, Novelist and Journalist .Born on the land of earthquakes (Iraq) in 1951 in the town of Rifai Dhi Qar .His father Mr. Abdul Jabbar Al-Jabbouri and his mother Ms. Zamzam Gawdat Khafaji .He practiced journalism in many newspapers and magazines. Worked in radio time)

The Best Poem Of Asaad Al Jabbouri

New York A Shelter For The Angel's Orphans

In the garage…
A family beyond slee
And there is an ulcer that
Blabbers in a lift that reads the
Clouds.
This is a star winkled
Suggestions
For a rose that resembles the
Womb of the mixer.
A woman trembles under a
Skin of glass.
Her autumm is a reader in a
Marchiavellian garden;
Where trees are made of
Iron
And laws are canned.
New York,
This kiss is narrow!
And water asks for its
Female in Roosevelt's bed.
Where pants, helmets,
Ballons and plagues
Are scattered.
This kiss is narrow!
Because it does nor fly over
Banks.
Desire does not float
Neither the blue moon in the
Hudson.
Thus the stab grows in the
Festival
In order to reach Harlem's
Day which is hanged
Like washed clothes
It is a garden of black milk
That vomits humanity.
There are no question in a
City surpassed by seasons
And cover left its body.
It is not possibility.
And it is not the maid of
Possibility.
Life was torn apart here
In the authority
In the air
In the breasts
In alcohol
The seas of vision are brilli-
ant
but the Mississippi
is an apple of Marijuana in
the head.
Now I sit between a sword
And tile birds…
In my own shadows the sear of
The clinics' philosophers is
Waving
While Katrin is purifying
America's punches.
Above her the clouds that
Descend towards the hills of
Mice and
Seek their center in the
Nerves.
Now
There is no empty room in
The book of New York
Which got rid of its bra
And ran with its breasts to
Dust
Dragging question behind.
It is disturbed by Urwa Ibin
Al-Ward
And the antiques of the Orient
And the Cries of birds.
New York
How can we start our dialogue
While there is an adolescent
Torpedo in your mouth?
Oh! Columbus, time is a
purse of money
New York../
Are these eyes a shelter for
The orphans of angels?
We will enter the brain.../
To liberate our pictures
From delayed calendars.
Also our childhood
Will take us to the post
Office.
In order to travel
In the perfection of ash.
There is no country.
Except Language.
We enter the field of indifference
And look at the far towers.
The mind is an aquarium
Of cognac
For the sake of freedom
Between dioxide desires
The saxophone
The saxophone…
Did not invent history.
The sun of New York is
Still locked
Destruction is the only driveling
Wheel on the road of writing.
I spend a perfect time
Enjoying the opposite inheritor
Where plagues walk on the
Table of diplomatic dinner.
Towards any wisdom
Towards any imagination
New York is moving?
New York…/
A cart of pace artillery
Followed by chorus of
Electronic trumpets.
While love is a hat that
Weeps above American's
Baldness.
Oh godfather.
You did not hear except the
Trible's groaning
The coming days
Are cerebral concussions.
This air says../
I am an air.
But New York says:
I am the law of breathing
An my greeting to my brother
In nihility
Our singing is black
And whenever a rose
Touches it
The grass of suffocation
Grows in the sky.
Is it the rose of love or the
Rose of iraq?
We are standing on the
Political carpet
The windowers of parties
And scets stand in front of us.
Behind us the tribes of doxtrines
And the opposition's divorced
Women.
This is a country suffocated
By the necklace
These roses are not for our
Festival.
New York
The highest table for
Omission.
And the glass is the map of
The stranger.
What will u day
To the domes, the gardens,
And the ghosts
Of the temporary constitution?
And everyone in the
Country
Is like the ruler in hell.
Let us smuggle the texts
Through the emergency door
Bearing fires on our backs
Like censers of tears.
It is the table of the last
Supper.

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