Abdul Hadi Sadoun (Iraq/Spain) is a writer, researcher and Hispanist who lives in Madrid, Spain. He did his Bachelor in Hispanic Studies at the University of Baghdad and PhD in Philosophy and Literature at the Autonoma University of Madrid. Sadoun has written extensively both in Arabic and Spanish. A few of his many publications are the following: Writing in cuneiform (Caracas, 2006), Familiar plagiarism (Tenerife, 2008), Bird in the mouth and other poems (Habana, 2009), Always, always (Zaragoza, 2010), Fields of the stranger (Granada, 2011) and Memories of an Iraqi dog (Barcelona, 2016). He has recently published “They are not verses what I write” (Short anthology of Darmi, the Iraq’s women popular songs (ed. Olifante 2018). 













The lifeless fish in the fountain,

Perhaps they can feel the coldness that has befallen them?



Perhaps they are regarding with astonishment

my new suit, worn like a skin of cloth 

rumpled by the birds of the air?


Every day, in the bus,

I pass near them,

 the man as always


Stooped over the fountain,

Polishing their stone scales.


The lifeless fish,

What do they think about

 If they cannot swim?








 How pacifist the people here are,

Offering both cheeks,

if they had more they would offer them all

to their destiny;

 meanwhile, your lips search

for words that recollect.




people do not know evil.

It’s better for them to be cooped up in boredom

- I almost prefer their meekness -

since they have known no wars.

It is as if Spielberg had not invaded

with his dinosaurs.

They do not bleed to death over the tunics of Kubrick.

 I say to them:

- Whatever shall i do with your bits of intelligence!

And i take cover under their umbrellas.




they grin a lot, without fear,

they touch my growing beard

and burst out laughing:

- Talk to us about what you know, about your carpets.


and they draw the word out like a bale of cloth.




People, here,

mistake me for a story-teller

and they generously carry me

in their arms,

with kindness.






سمكات ميتات





السمكات الميتات قرب النافورة،
هل يشعرن بالبرد الهابط من عليائه؟
هل ينظرن إلى مئزري الجديد،

وهو يربطني كحزام،
أو يؤرجحني مع الطير في ريحه؟


وأنا أعبرهن كل يوم، في الحافلة،
بينما رجل النافورة، منحنياً

يلمع صدفاتها الحجرية .


السمكات الميتات،
بماذا يفكرن دون سباحة ؟




سرفات دبابة



هنا الناس مسالمون،
يمنحون خدهم أيسر وأيمن،
ولو بقي الأكثر لتغافلوا عن مصيره،


بينما شفتاك تتعاركان عن لفظ يُذكِّر بالأحمر.


الناس ،هنا، لا يدركون الشر
يتقفصون بالملل أقصد طيبتهم
هم لم يسمعوا بحرب،


وكأن سبيلبرغ لم يغزهم بديناصوراته
ولا تمرغوا بستر كوبريك الحديدية،
أقول لهم يا لفطنتكم،
وأحتمي بمظلتهم.


الناس هنا، يضحكون طويلاً
بلا خوف، ويمسحون على لحيتي النامية؛
و يكركرون:
أسرد ما تعرف عن سرفات دبابتك؟
س…..ر ف…..ات
ثم يجرجرون الكلمات كطَولِ قماش،


الناس هنا
يظنوني حكواتياً
و برفقٍ يضمونني إلى أحضانهم .



Translated from Arabic in English by Alycia M. Rivard