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Mark Parker Sep 21
Georges Seurat paints my vision,
my eyes see through his art,
but that's the nice way of saying
you are closer if I shut my right eye
and farther if I shut my left.

Somedays, I read "O" as "Q",
and occasionally, you aren't you.
You are that person whose face,
hair, and build are similar
to that other person I know.
Your voice will give it away,
unless you walk close
on a cloudless sunny day.
Glasses.
bloodKl0tz Sep 2
Im standing in front of a forest that is on fire
Rose colored glasses
The same tint as the flames
Theres deer fleeing, raccoon skittering into backyards
Growing red moss advancing on the trees
Blisters form on the pads of my hands and fingers
Something much bigger than the deer, is advancing
Its getting hard to breathe, my throat feels like it is on fire
Squirrels pair off, try to find their fleeing mates
Burning hair
Burning paws
Encumbered with fears
My home is charred and I cant go back
Only forward, fleeing forward with the shadowy unknown advancing in the forest behind me
Poetic T Jul 3
For some may think it of ******
                    but to protect the innocence
some blood may fall.

But when one is only bending
                            a knee to show,
that they may partly descend,
           but will always stand up taller.

We must see that some times the glasses,
               are tinted and we are in fact the extension
                                             of not our ideals
but ones who only see no further than there power.
Dante Rocío Jun 14
Do you see, grasp in the nowhere and nowhen
the whole picture?
Register the tedious highs, lows, widths and breadths
before your private, iridologic rainbows?
Like grasping the rims of “allness” on the path of a forest,
letting yourself grow a vertigo, fragile and docile.
Every, every time you meet up with a person,
do you encompass in your grasp, mind’s eye, all they are, all they are,
at that one very time?
My vision dims out into dependence, when glasses leave, when the forest my attendance seeks
in utter loneliness without my harmony with it weaved.
I no longer have in survival advantage
but it feels more than right to fall, give over,
I give myself fragile, more just, and fit.
In that vulnerability I can see more than
a healthy eye can: Van Gogh’s work on my trees’ leaves.
That is what all presences, forms and life’s skies are for:
fragileness, undoneness, nothingness, reasonlessness
Bo widzę i bez okularów.
Mniej, a jednak więcej.
Moth May 18
slipping down a *****
pushed in place again
hair tucked behind an ear

soft light sparkles on glass
eyelashes press to the window
that you look through
A girl with spects,
Her innocence and her acts..

What she hide behind the spects,
I have a zeal for find the facts..

Is there the brightest shine??
Which is beyond the thinking of mine..

I think there is the deep calm lake??
Its the natural beauty, rest of world are fake..

I wanna look into her eyes,
Two drowsy cups which are so nice..

Is these more intoxicate than wine??
I’m in fuddle or i’m fine??

Glasses..don’t put off it,
It’s drive me crazy little bit..

Stand against the mirror and see,
the pearls are present originally under a transparent sea.....
Speechless at Auschwitz
by Ko Un
translation by Michael R. Burch

At Auschwitz
piles of glasses
mountains of shoes
returning, we stared out different windows.

Published by Brief Poems

Original text:

Ad Auschwitz
pile di occhiali
montagne di scarpe
sulla via del ritorno
ognuno fissava fuori dal finestrino in direzione diversa.

(da Fiori di un istante, 2001)

Keywords/Tags: Ko Un, Holocaust, translation, speechless, Auschwitz, glasses, shoes, windows, silent, tongue-tied, wordless



“Was gesagt werden muss” (“What must be said”)
by Günter Grass
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why have I remained silent, so long,
failing to mention something openly practiced
in war games which now threaten to leave us
merely meaningless footnotes?

Someone’s alleged “right” to strike first
might annihilate a beleaguered nation
whose people march to a martinet’s tune,
compelled to pageants of orchestrated obedience.
Why? Merely because of the suspicion
that a bomb might be built by Iranians.

But why do I hesitate, forbidding myself
to name that other nation, where, for years
―shrouded in secrecy―
a formidable nuclear capability has existed
beyond all control, simply because
no inspections were ever allowed?

The universal concealment of this fact
abetted by my own incriminating silence
now feels like a heavy, enforced lie,
an oppressive inhibition, a vice,
a strong constraint, which, if dismissed,
immediately incurs the verdict “anti-Semitism.”

But now my own country,
guilty of its unprecedented crimes
which continually demand remembrance,
once again seeking financial gain
(although with glib lips we call it “reparations”)
has delivered yet another submarine to Israel―
this one designed to deliver annihilating warheads
capable of exterminating all life
where the existence of even a single nuclear weapon remains unproven,
but where suspicion now serves as a substitute for evidence.
So now I will say what must be said.

Why did I remain silent so long?
Because I thought my origins,
tarred by an ineradicable stain,
forbade me to declare the truth to Israel,
a country to which I am and will always remain attached.

Why is it only now that I say,
in my advancing age,
and with my last drop of ink
on the final page
that Israel’s nuclear weapons endanger
an already fragile world peace?

Because tomorrow might be too late,
and so the truth must be heard today.
And because we Germans,
already burdened with many weighty crimes,
could become enablers of yet another,
one easily foreseen,
and thus no excuse could ever erase our complicity.

Furthermore, I’ve broken my silence
because I’m sick of the West’s hypocrisy
and because I hope many others too
will free themselves from the shackles of silence,
and speak out to renounce violence
by insisting on permanent supervision
of Israel’s atomic power and Iran’s
by an international agency
accepted by both governments.

Only thus can we find the path to peace
for Israelis and Palestinians and everyone else
living in a region currently consumed by madness
―and ultimately, for ourselves.

Published in Süddeutschen Zeitung (April 4, 2012). Günter Wilhelm Grass (1927-) is a German-Kashubian novelist, poet, playwright, illustrator, graphic artist, sculptor and recipient of the 1999 Nobel Prize in Literature. He is widely regarded as Germany's most famous living writer. Grass is best known for his first novel, The Tin Drum (1959), a key text in European magic realism. The Tin Drum was adapted into a film that won both the Palme d'Or and the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. The Swedish Academy, upon awarding Grass the Nobel Prize in Literature, noted him as a writer "whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history."
Carlo C Gomez Mar 14
She had eyes
like Mississippi

...all four of them
Kalarav Feb 6
If this sobriety, plainness and
feeling of contentedness
Isn't enough
for your ever-hungry eyes
for the bottomless greed
of your mind
Go ahead
and split paths
Try to look
for something better
Meanwhile, I will keep insisting
that the grass under me
is greener.
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