Poetry and Art by MUBEEN KHISHANY

Updated: Mar 30


The day that I will die in What is the day on the calendar? it is the day of my death and the day that repeats every day and I die in What did the world trade me for to bear all this pain? Sadness is my second name and my portion from the treasure of feeling, I have been meant to make the books of history fattest with pain, And I bury myself so that the vita reproduced.

My rising from bed is a resurrection, I walk to my end and my shadow precedes me, Is there any sun could be ashamed of this clarity? remember me if the wind moved a branch and an innocent bird shrieked. I will need you to remember me. He's been asked about me the empty of gardens, but he does not answer! I was the luminous flower of the gardens But a left hand extinguished me. Though I realize that every dawn carries its betrayal But I am anxious to wake up. It's something that prevents me from being silent With every inhale, I feel a dagger piercing my chest. These daggers I k now...It's my questions...and my regrets And my doubts... But why is my blood strange! The image of my fear has changed and the astonishment of the unknown is over, so that I've been afraid from my knowledge, walking to my death like someone who fills right emptiness and the same news are carried by all directions: carry the same news: wherever you turn your face away, your death will be Iraqi. And so I sow my dream in the wasteland

And I know that my name is synonymous with getting lost in the crows party, And that my life that was taken form me was not life, It was a deferred death And a date with another nil, I do not hear the call of my heart When he suffocated by a mound of the corpses of my brothers. It's all about losing my pulse and I've lost it I achieved the perfection and joy of death. I have been betrayed... And my killer's name grows on the street signs.


Above art in slideshow by Mubeen Khishany


 

Flight of the creature


It is not the lightness of a being that makes it fly But his dreams... when they traverse the plot of predation jauntily like a prey. getting the nature Impressed When she opens her amazement eyes; What makes the glimpse time longer? And a third party drowns in sigh On the emptiness of his vases and the atrophy of his imagination, He is busy translating synonyms of disappointment. Whenever the creature acknowledges the effort of the idea tears of joy shed like a Prodigal son of grief.


 

Disappointment I did not find my paradise among your promises After I crossed your traps planted for my path. Your name was heavy on my neck For his sake, my joys have changed with an uncontrollable fear And my moments became boilerplates with the evaporation of happiness and compressed in her tails the pain. Oh, the disappointment of a knife in dead meat! I could not find in your eyes the color of my bones, Lightly faded with lost lineage And my biography disappeared like secret waters so my seed dried up from your fire kindled I mixtures And I kept saying the names of Ash. Your absence wounds my senses, The hope of getting you is broken Like a moon in the river's flow, so my joy is petrified and the illusion remains drinking distances from my blood.


 

Mubeen Khishany is an Iraqi poet and artist, born in 1998, graduated at the Faculty of Engineering. He has one poetry book (Snatched from the Hand of Comfort), the book that won the Al-Rafidain Prize for the first book. One of the founders of the Maska Magazine. His poems are translated into Italian, Persian and English.






















 

The poems above are from Mubeen Kishany's poetry book:



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