I wish my mental health were a language that the world could understand and respect. I investigate the clouds and the lake up north, I feel I, somehow, belong between them.
On the other side of the world, I see myself in the sobbing misplaced children from countries like my own, where we question our humanity as if we are the only ones alive while others live joyfully.
My parents were always against my way of drinking liquor until I end up drunk and aggressive. Who cares about me anymore? I only hold a sip of a fermented hope, where I dance and sing alone.
If she ever comes back, tell her he’s not interested to walk with her or to give her what she wishes. My depression has conquered me. Congratulations, sorrows! I am now the man banned from falling in love again.
I cannot say I did not miss staring at women near me. I cannot say I did not feel some healing in my wounds. I cannot say I did not enjoy speaking to a woman like you. I wish to know that I am truly yours, but if not,
let me fall asleep with a bullet…
Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian poet and writer. His poetry has been translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and online magazines abroad. He resides in Montreal.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
When I write a poem about you, I imagine us together— Two roses with green leaves, You, a spark, an eternal inspiration.
My heart dissolves rapidly On the papers of my homeland. You are the pain I recognise, The ink for my pens, the colour of my pencils.
Lovers erase their agonies with ease, But my imagination is no fleeting illusion. You are the brightness on every canvas, My poem, the brush; my homeland, the water.
Small clouds of cigarette smoke rise above. I respond to the locked doors of Montreal. Baghdad throws me a bouquet of wildflowers, As my pen trembles with nervous hands.
You are the day that will always smile upon me— A laugh from you, a kiss from your lips, a privilege. I admire you in the moment you ask me to pause, To stop running into the night, swallowing poison.
Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian writer. His work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2024 by Mad Swirl and Best of the Net 2019. His poetry has been translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and online magazines. He resides in Montreal, Canada, with his spouse.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
At thirty-four years old, I'm still experiencing psychic illness. Why are my grief warmed gates sealed, I wonder? Who made me miserable because I missed you, brother? I weep thirsty, but the clouds and the rain do not seem to be satisfied.
From my depressed expression, the candle learns to cry. Your perfume teaches my depressed face to read poetry. Your fragrance learns to fade without getting in my way. My habits of smoking and consuming alcohol have caused damage to my throat.
Using brutal chains of no mercy, accept me for who I am. I don't have the right to wish for dreams like the previous children that passed away. They passed away without leaving a name, having learned the meaning of both love and war. As though angels of God.
GRADUATION PARTY
Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad were three of my most powerful pals. They each had a flower in the vase and our enemy destroyed all the vases and stole all their flowers.
I recall their parents having inscribed. their names on their two arms and legs. Just to be able to track them down after graduation party. We often forget about our assignments because of armed troops.
"Evacuate, damn it!" they yelled at our door. Ignoring the agony of an empty stomach, Ignoring the stillness, Ignoring the absence of our grandfathers, who taught us to live and die for the soil and air of free Palestine.
We buried our hopes behind the fig and olive. trees because we wanted to live, to love, and to be free of the vocabulary of callous conflicts that neglected mankind. Nonetheless, we are still magnificent bare trees.
Together in the moonless night, we prayed then slept in peace until the graduation began to draw closer and closer with daggers in our hearts, bullets screeching towards our chests, missiles burst at the conclusion of the party.
We were picked up by one of our parents. many hours later. Whether you believe it or not! We're all in the same bloody coffin. We wonder. whether when the people of the globe cease turning our reality the other way, they want to deafen both ears and blind both eyes.
UNTOLD HABITS
During the present genocide, we learn of untold habits. My father comes home sad with an empty grocery bag, which is more than a routine.
My mother often tells us to wash our hands and occasionally our bodies. She pretends to prepare, places our empty and shattered dishes, and then sobs alongside my father.
Then we all say bismillah before we eat and Alhamdulillah's after we’ve finished licking our empty fingers. We then listen to my parents' prayers as we elevate to the skies.
Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian poet and writer. His poetry has been translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and online magazines abroad. He resides in Montreal, Canada, now with his spouse.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL