Art by New Canadians

Poetry

Quicklinks to poems - arranged alphabetically by title:

African Union: AU is for Gold - by Charles Roberts
Alaska - by Dishad Abdula
The Fool & The Almighty - by Leo Campos
War - by Jalal Barzanji
Who Are You? - by Leo Campos

Alaska

For Jalal Barznji / Written by: Dishad Abdula ©
Translated by: Sabah Tahir / Edited by: Leo Campos Aldunez

From Alaska my friend writes: know that I am distressed by the snow. The ugly snow never tires. In this coldest night, it just grabs the ground, and never let go. I kneel on white powder; I am hearing a new song, a kind of a snow song. I am lost in passion. Remember? In Siktan you dreamed of snow, of entering a woman's body and be lost, in lust.

In Alaska my heart is pounding, and the heart is full of white stuff. Dawson City becomes a slice of melon; a round plate of Arctic cold, long. I am interested in the wild melon. I want to learn about Konya's side roads, the folkloric birds with snow wings. They also bring songs and when they depart, they sometimes fall, as fresh snow. Like a child, I cry. In Alaska, if an old woman brought fresh bread, it is sent from her mother in Howler; she sends it to feed you my friend. You don't like junk food? She said. If any one served you hot tea, it is from a hollering coffee man! Wasman, please brings two cups of tea, yes?

In the joyful days of Alaska, we drink tea. So, what brought a stranger from the Far East to these lands? You bowed to the top mountains? No. I have a diary of my sonnets full of defeats, that's what. How many time we lost the fight? Too many. We punished our songs with the ghosts of bygone times. Forever, I say; past, old, gone. Our present is blind. The ripper, form an old dream reapers. I choose death; sleep it until it comes to your dreams. Pears bow on the trees branches. Night never bows to collect the fallen stars. What happens next is useless.

Enough about the last song! A little voice murmurs. I see a new melody, but my drum plays a different one. The treasure of death is greater than the treasure of the country. Please, let's recognize the garden by the beautiful flowers blossoming in our hearts. The dream is now surrounded by wild animals; they are powerless before the slaughter. What can they do? I ask. Imagining them on a green garden; it's my only offering, my last protection. Sorrow overwhelms me; I am not able to build the garden, not even to put them in my pocket, and run away.

Hand shaking in whiteness the world vanishes beyond my pain. Arrows are aimed at my angels from the North; from all directions. Arrows of love fired at my angels. Witch paths would my angels chose to flee? Arrows flying against the East, arrows flying against the West. Dawson City is a vanished place beyond the snow. The howler disappeared beyond my tears and I am left with a broken heart; sad.

In this far away land, who would like to be your friend? People come and go, they say. Some put a flower on your desk. Some come to share a cup of tea. They tell you, to be sure; the war is over, it's not happening here.

The omen of wars to come still present, I keep thinking. Old wars still being fought, new wars being planned. Where to hide? At the bottom of the oceans? Which ocean? Governments prefer to place war and lies under a rag, but we know better in our minds.

Through key holes, light is coming in. No one dares to open the main door. She tries. But, it's only the early morning wind that wakes us up. I see the fallen leaves on the night table; watch the illusion knocking at our many portals; shadows of the secret police lurking, waiting. The news of our tragic demise was coming in; the lights are off. The windows are closed.

It's nothing but a big strange bird opening, flapping its wings. The sky is big enough for all, she says. We fly seven days, seven nights. We reach God's entrance and no one is left behind. Only now, the brightest star of our souls has dimmed. I check in my dictionary of all languages of love - find nothing to say. The death of the singer; it's true. You should know.

Everything is buried in his tambour now. In Alaska the snow is singing for you; you feel like seating on its white wings. When you come back, no one is here, waiting. Only shadows. It's all true, my friend. We move on, leave it as it is; untouched.

© Dishad Abdula

The Fool & The Almighty

© Leo Campos A.

The Fool & The Almighty

She came from out of the sky - Like a lightning bolt from Zeus!
Asking for attention - a presence felt despite the distance traveled.
She said, "Aphrodite sent me and you must surrender"
He asked, "Who's Aphrodite? Why would she send you to me?
"Because," she said, "you have been chosen"

"Chosen? For what?" He queried.
"Well, to hold and be held, to reveal the love inspired by your deeds."

"But," he hesitantly replied, "I have done nothing to deserve such honour. If anything I have led an ordinary life - love, family, children and a garden to pass the time in company of good friends."

"Precisely!" she said. "That's all that is required to qualify in the eyes of Aphrodite; a simple life. She also thought you know well the paths of the Beloved One and have journeyed through it with some distinction, is it not so?"

"Yes, but, what about the lies & deceptions along the way? The silly mind games we all play because of fears, sorrows or just plain stupidity? I mean, sometimes we even believe them ourselves!"

"I see your point," said the "angel of goodness."Yet all that can be forgiven, in part because your deeds were so small they could barely be seen and in part because the bad lies you told were also a mirror to Aphrodite's and she, well, she empathizes. So, no worries"

"Then, are you saying that paradise can be mine? That my errors in judgment, my lack of authenticity and having led a duplicitous life all count for nothing?"

"Absolutely!" she replied. "Your merits are based on a point system, so to speak, and overall the scales of divine justice favour you, so, no more questions and prepare to be lifted!"

"But, where are you taking me Oh 'angel of divine' revelations?"

"To Neverland," she said. "It's an imaginary place for ordinary people, who have led ordinary lives, and have done ordinary things, and have been fool enough to believe, much like you have, and who will soon be forgotten."

"There," she continued, "you will rest at peace with yourself, with the past, with all the creatures that at one point or another have bothered you, but most importantly, they will no longer matter. Worried?"

"Yes, I am. I don't want to be erased just like that! Is there anything I can leave behind just so that others remember I was once here?"

"Yes," she replied. Your shadows…

War

© Jalal Barzanji

l

It was war That made my first morning sad;
It was war That cast my book to the sea;
It was war That left me repeatedly exiled;
It was war That destroyed me evening play ground;
It was war That deprived me of (garment)'s flowers;
It was war That drove me to despair;
It was war That made me useless.

ll

War is found in all aspects; War is a flying soul between being and not being.
War is a record of atrocities Between one war and anther, is a barren flower.
Between cease -fire and cease fire is startled sleep.

lll

Since my beginning I have been locked inside
A fence with a door shut behind me.
Since my beginning, I have been embraced
In the convexity of the cease -fire.
Since me beginning I have been like a vanquished army
Sitting idly behind walls Or Like an answering device
For another war combat.

lV

I am tired; I am tired of war. There has never been an evening, which allowed me to throw down my gun, dust myself, and take off me my belt. Sleep softly, without having to be awakened by anther morning battle. I am tired; I am tired of war. War is with out victories and defeats. I am tired. Since my beginning, I have been wandering from war to war.

Note: This poem was originally written in Kurdish in 1993.

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Who are you?

© Leo Campos A.

In the giant soul of a tormented beast there was a small garden; no Eden, but a field of tender jasmine, rosebuds and sunflowers… Thin hands, decrepit like a sad puppet, the giant collected daily the flowers for a ghost that never came.

The little figures of clay kept falling one by one and with tense eyes he waited for the puppeteer's next move. There was always a feeling of having to carry an eternal walk. Feet of mud, dry lips like a desert - had he ever known of friends? It was said that he never had a lover; never knew of poetry or sonnets.

A chorus outside sang a lullaby - asking to see the eyes of sadness. A song roared through the valleys, shaking up the trees … And on the mirror of the thousand times, a sleepy face stared back.

Water fell on the feet by the pond and the ghost kept remembering, while the sun burned the scars of memory. An ocean of dreams passed by. Ardent desires consumed his thoughts; and all of a sudden his body was passionately swallowed by the garden's soil. He was never seen again…

Edmonton Immigrant Men Support Network
Contact: Leo Campos Aldunez, Executive Coordinator

	Address: 6819 - 119 Avenue Edmonton, AB T5B 4L9
	Phone: (780) 474-6058
	Email: quest@eimsns.ca

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