Goran Rahim

Absolutely. My journey to America began in Kurdistan, but it took a long and uncertain path through Pakistan, where I lived as a refugee under the protection of UNHCR. I was just a child then, but even at that age, I understood that we were in between worlds—displaced, waiting, surviving.

One memory that has never left me is the Basant festival in Pakistan—a celebration of spring when the skies would fill with thousands of colorful kites. For me, those kites weren’t just a beautiful sight—they became symbols of freedom. Watching them soar in a sky not restricted by fences, bullets, or checkpoints was one of the first times I understood what liberation could look like, even if only metaphorically.

That image has stayed with me and continues to shape my poetry. Much of what I write now carries the imprint of that tension—between fear and freedom, exile and home, silence and expression. Poetry became my way of claiming space in a world that had, for a long time, made me feel invisible.

Coming to America gave me stability, but it didn’t erase the weight of displacement. Instead, it gave me the tools—and the language—to explore it. My identity as a poet is deeply rooted in that journey. I try to write from a place of emotional truth, so that even someone who hasn’t lived through war or exile can still understand what it means to long for safety, or to find hope in a sky full of kites.

started writing poetry as a way to deal with emotions I couldn’t explain, especially as a refugee and immigrant. I often felt stuck between languages and cultures, and writing helped me express what I was going through.

At first, it was just personal — a way to process things. But over time, I saw how others connected with my poems. That’s when I realized it was something bigger. It wasn’t just about me anymore — it was about giving a voice to shared feelings. That’s when poetry became a vital part of my life.

Faded Love was the beginning of my journey as a poet. I was still inexperienced when I wrote it, but there was something real in those emotions — and thankfully, my mentors saw that. They believed I had a voice worth sharing.

Being both Kurdish and American influenced how I wrote it. The Kurdish side brought a deep sense of loss and emotional intensity. The American side gave me the language and freedom to explore love, grief, and identity in a way that felt open and vulnerable. That mix helped shape the voice I’m still developing today.

For me, home is no longer just a place — it’s a feeling. It’s where I feel safe to be myself, where my memories and hopes can live together. As someone who’s experienced exile, I’ve learned that home can exist in people, in language, and even in poetry.

In Your Dimples Are the Reason, I tried to capture that sense of longing — not just for a physical place, but for a sense of belonging. Writing those poems helped me realize that sometimes, we build home out of the pieces we carry with us.

It’s not always easy to balance vulnerability and restraint , but for me, it comes down to honesty. I try to be emotionally open without overwhelming the reader. I want the poem to feel intimate, but also leave space for others to see their own story in it.

In Your Dimples Are the Reason, I focused on writing with feeling, but also with clarity. Sometimes what’s left unsaid is just as powerful as what’s written. That balance helps me stay true to the moment, while still inviting others in.

The title Your Dimples Are the Reason highlights how it’s the small, everyday things—or people—we notice in a world that often feels so large and overwhelming. Those little moments and details carry deep meaning and remind us of tenderness, even when everything else feels distant.

The collection explores how these small touches create connection and keep love alive, no matter the challenges.

Memory plays a central role in my work. it’s the thread that connects love, loss, and displacement. Memories hold both pain and beauty, and they shape how we understand ourselves and our relationships.

In my poems, I explore how memory preserves moments of love but also reminds us of what’s been lost or left behind. Especially with displacement, memory becomes a way to hold onto identity and belonging, even when the world around you has changed.

My writing process is fluid and multilingual. I write mostly in English now, but Kurdish is always with me. I have written poems in Kurdish and kurdish is in my thoughts and emotions. Urdu has also influenced how I think about poetry, adding another layer to my creative expression.

Sometimes a feeling or image starts in Kurdish and I search for the right words in English to bring it to life. Translation isn’t always literal; it’s about capturing the emotion and spirit across all languages. This blend helps me create poems that feel genuine and connect with diverse readers.

Yes, I’ve been deeply influenced by several poets and traditions. In Kurdish literature, Sherko Bekas and Goran have had a major impact, Goran especially, as I was named after him. Their work taught me the power of poetry to carry history, emotion, and resistance.

In Urdu, poets like Ahmad Faraz and Parveen Shakir shaped how I think about love, language, and beauty. And in English, Maya Angelou’s honesty and strength really inspired my voice—she showed me that poetry can be both personal and universal.

These influences helped me shape a style that’s emotional, lyrical, and grounded in multiple cultural worlds.

While I often write in free verse, I also enjoy working with structure. I’ve written ghazals and tanka, and I’m especially drawn to the lyrical flow of the ABCB rhyme scheme. Rhyme, when it feels natural, adds a beautiful rhythm and emotional weight to the poem.

I don’t limit myself to one style. I let the emotion guide the form. Sometimes a piece needs the freedom of free verse, and other times the structure of rhyme brings clarity and depth. I enjoy exploring both.

In the beginning, my poetry came from a place of quiet isolation. I wrote not for others, but simply to release what I couldn’t say out loud, to give shape to feelings I was carrying alone. It was personal, almost like speaking to myself in a language only I understood.

But that changed when I began sharing my poems on online platforms. I still remember the moment I saw a young reader post one of my poems for someone he loved, saying, “If she can’t understand how I feel through this poem, then I don’t know how else to tell her.” That moment moved me deeply. It was the first time I truly saw my words living in someone else’s emotions.

From there, a small poetry community began to grow around me; people who connected with the same feelings of love, loss, and longing. That connection helped pull my poetry out of isolation and gave it a new purpose. Now, when I write, I still start from a personal place, but I’m always aware that someone out there might need those words as much as I once did.

I see my poetry as both resistance and healing. It’s resistance because it gives voice to experiences that are often overlooked; displacement, longing, survival. Just existing as a Kurdish poet, sharing stories shaped by exile and memory, is a quiet act of defiance.

At the same time, it’s healing. Writing helps me process pain, and it creates space for others to feel seen in their own struggles. Each poem is a way to reclaim something, whether it’s a lost place, a forgotten feeling, or a silenced voice.

So yes, for me, poetry is both a shield and a wound, protecting and exposing at the same time.

I hope readers feel seen when they read my work. Whether it’s love, loss, longing, or hope. I want them to recognize a part of themselves in my words. Even if their story is different, the emotions are often shared.

More than anything, I hope my poems offer comfort and connection. If someone reads a line and thinks, “I’ve felt that, but never knew how to say it,” then I’ve done something meaningful. That moment of emotional recognition! that’s what I write for.

My readers are still exploring my latest collection, Every Sunset Will Remind Me of You, which came out this January. I put a lot of emotion and effort into that work, inspired by life’s moments and feelings that came naturally.

As for what’s next, I don’t usually plan ahead, I trust that new poems will come when life inspires them. For now, I’m focused on letting this collection find its place with readers.

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My experience with AllAuthor has been very positive. It’s not just a promotional tool, it’s a platform that builds real connections between authors and keeps us engaged with real-time content. I’ve discovered other writers through it and appreciated how it brings visibility to our work in a supportive way. I would definitely recommend it to fellow authors looking for both exposure and community.