Ahmed Raffa’a (Iraq)
Ahmed Raffa’a -Born in Iraq in 1996.
-Got Bachelor’s degree in Law from the University of Kufa.
-Member of Iraqi Bar As-sociation.
-Deputy Editor-in-Chief of Wateriat Magazine.
-Writes regularly in Iraqi and Arab newspapers and magazines.
-Has poetry collections such as (Apollo, Dance Fragments, Seasons of Dimeter and Blown Your Voice to Me, I Will Fly) which were published in the House of Taweel in Sweden-Orbro.
-One of his poetry collec- tions was translated into Persian and published in Tehran.
-Has many poetry manu-scripts that have not yet been printed.
-Participated in Ishtar Gate Festival, the round of the poct Ibrahim al-Khayat under the auspices of the Union of Babylon Writers and Authors.
-Got Al-Jawahery Trophy from the General Union of Iraqi Writers and a certifi-cate of appreciation
from the same Union.
-Translating his poems into several languages, including English, Spanish, French and Persian, and published in well-known magazines that speak their language
-A book of poetry translated into French was issued to him in France. She carried a collection of his poetic selections, which were translated and presented to her by the poet Ayman Hassan
-A poetry evening in London for the poets of the uprising was prepared and translated by Jawi News and presented by Catherine Davidson, professor of creative writing at Regent’s University.
– Literary interview on Radio SIC University in Santiago – Chile prepared by journalist Angels Barrera and translated by Dr. Abdelhadi Saadoun, Professor of Philology at Autonama University
The tree will not wear beachwear
The boats are gone
And the waves are torn apart as if they are the fabric of the sad captain
And the tree won’t recognize my face
Because the birds died
On the first morning of the escape of the rose
The morning dress will not change
I do not know
That the skin of the snake was dry dawn
You little hut
Not used to snow
I was drinking hot night
And let the remnants of the morning eat me
Away from the spring
And close to the fall of my life
The train did not come
Bags sticking out of my tongue
As if it says:
No travel . . . No travel
The stations are not candles in your fingers
Light passed from here
of all the lonely evenings
And all the many times
I did not
catch the distant moon ,
spider webs hinder me
I like to be a turtle so I don’t chew and bump
the road in one go,
why is it here heaping like debris ?
The frost did not come,
the garden did not rise,
the star did not dance,
why am I so bound by the cuffs of autumn ?
I wish I would spike a smart farmer’s hand ،
Or I walk with the wind
and do not smile like leaves carrying the emptiness
My long hands curl around my neck
and don’t embrace the sky
Unsuccessful, unsuccessful, my hand everything
I did not wish to be a frog,
but why is my face
like the miserable swamp talk