Poems written by Fareed K. Ghanem

Fareed K. Ghanem

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.

Pygmalion

Pygmalion prose poem

She gathers her flying hair into a rocky braid, her eyes blow away into fire, soil and air. Her heart bangs drop, one by one, on the road. Her eyelashes melt into wax covering caves floors. Her stony dress waves

Windows

Windows prose poem

(1) Tents are crowded by windows, but missing walls and a jasmine flower. (2) A window is a border between consciousness and sub-consciousness, between Ego and its annihilation. (3) A home without a window is a blind man with no

Insanity

Insanity prose poem

(1) It is insane that while your heart jumps at evening on the strings of a harp, while your beloved lady’s hair flies with every breeze of jazz, while you wash up at morning under showers of gardens sounds, but

Democracy

Democracy prose poem

Along the way to Washington, a red Indian is still holding in his hands his scalp and a quiver filled with stock exchange, while not comprehending why European prisoners carried old Athens on the ship of Columbus and settled at

Southern Snow

Southern Snow prose poem

I know him since he surprisingly visited us at our infanthood quarter. At that auburn day, we’d just filled up our pockets by our fists, snatched warm embers from the fireplace and from a dragon dwelling inside the tale, then

A Colored Moon

A Colored Moon short poem

A Colored Moon// By: Fareed Ghanem (1) A moon is red in three moods: When the ladies of high society kiss windows and walk out without lipstick, or; When white color is called red, or; When roses bloom in your

War

War prose poem

The whiteness in a black-spotted dove flies away from my head, each time war wakes up; A voice falls down from a window staring into emptiness, which is jammed with fragileness and trivialities, and crashes on the cracked street. Rust

The Cave

The Cave prose poem

Along the road to an old city, within the wrinkles of mountains hanged by their heads, spiders are still spreading their webs at caves’ doors. Tales come out off embers, waiting for those who pass by. Canes which are forgetful

Kingdom

Kingdom prose poem

It is, first and last, my small kingdom. It has a ceiling closing off on me the gates of sun, stars and curses; it has walls ornamented by my dreams, and a mirror which sleeps whenever darkness passes by. At

The Salt Tree

The Salt Tree prose poem

In the road to the South, which hasn’t ended yet, from the yet not finished North, at the ball’s surface which had lost its center and produced sacred shrines fighting each other all along the road, there, that white tree