The Syrian poet residing in Sweden, Faraj Bayrakdar, has recently released a new collection of poetry entitled “A buttonhole in the question shirt”, published by Sameh Publishing House in Sweden, and it is the ninth of his poetic works.
The publisher stated:
The poems “A buttonhole in the shirt of the question” span over twenty years in which the poet saw what he saw, believed what he was lying, and lied what he believed. Twenty years bells, drums, sirens, wars, massacres, uprisings, bombing, devastation, and migrations also sounded within and around him. And roses, hope, beauty, and the drama of nature that dramatizes mountains, valleys, forests, lakes, islands, horizons, and beyond, of more beautiful possibilities. It is a poetic collection of pain and hope, of sadness, love, reproach and forgiveness, from the ruins of Damascus, Homs, Baghdad and Beirut… And because the poet is the son of the city of Homs and its Orontes River, from which he learned the eloquence of disobedience, their presence and shadows were transmitted in many poems, without closing his eyes on rivers and other cities, nor about the Mediterranean Sea that surrounds Syria, and opens its mouths to their wideness to swallow up thousands upon thousands of Syrians fleeing on its waves from certain death to possible death. All of that and other things that you see on the surface are nothing but the tip of the iceberg of our condition, nothing but a buttonhole in the shirt of the question that our contemporary world does not want to answer, and that is what the poet tries to say in this group.
Faraj Bayrakdar is a Syrian poet and a “Swedish citizen.” He also introduces himself and signs some of his texts. Bayraktar had spent fourteen years in the prisons of the Syrian regime, during the rule of Hafez al-Assad.
From the group atmosphere:
As the brainchild of the seas
are the gulls
But I, my Sahara
And our sand
The summary of passions and religions
I only desire the meaning of the sail
I’ve been rowing in the sand
And maybe I take a minaret from history
stabbed me with it
not to sleep.
A chord on the aches of your soul, stranger
you meant me
I was ashamed of myself
I consoled the gulls
I wished that I
What did you compare to my travels?
Nor were the funerals of fancy
Aleppo and Sham.