I am from inky cities,
From steaming street pancakes and cold noodles.
I am from lonely alleys beyond that dark turn.
(shadowy, quiet,
filled with whispers of cats wild and shabby)
I am from square, paint-dried courtyards,
A secret hideout to breathe in the murmurs of ancient trees,
Only shared with shadow thieves,
Whose yellow eyes glow and ***** tails curl.  

I am from the mountain beyond the choking greyness,
From the spot atop the hills where city lights could be seen
In stealthy nights through rain and frost.
I am from candied haws and stinky bean curds,
From chalky evenings
Spent high inside a climbing gym
Wearied, exhausted, inside-out.

I am from the toxic city,
Swarming with masked humans and silenced voices.
I’m from albuterol and Ipratropium bromide,
Sick from the cupboard of budesonide;
Saved again by the sky-blue machine feeding marshmallow clouds
Into my heavy, wheezy lungs.

Upon winter, I travelled far, said farewell to the city
Where ten years of memories lie dusted, submerged.
Thus I am from the serene seal cove and clear turquoise waters,
Where maple drips sweetly and pine needles rain,
From matted red-forest trails like a padded trampoline.
From the realm of black bears, red berries, and duck-duck-goose.

I said goodbye to the Chinese cats and Canadian bears,
And seized my pen to write the rest of my poem–
Because life, as they say,
“Is the art of drawing without an eraser”

My gaze flickering across this landscape divine -

a whirlwind of sentiments unfolds.

Yet a single word echoes across my mind:

mine, mine, mine.


These hills, these trees, the distant shore,

as sure as the breeze caressing the steeple:

they are part of me, and more -

I am at home, safe, with my people.


I feel it, I know it, the comfort it sings -

whispers of safety, a lullaby to my broken wings:

familiar and gentle, deep in my bones,

the ancestry calling from ancient white stones.


Rosemary, lavender, olives, and fig trees,

they tell me of history, of proud victories;

of battles, of sadness, of stories untold,

the generations with lingering spirits of old.


This is my land, I belong here;

the soft hum of time; a smile and a tear.

It is me - Azerbaijan!
The hero of the history
On the shore of The Caspian
living manfully and free!

Many times enemies tried
to destruct and divide
Among three aggressors
we defended our pride

And the 'world community',
full of all shames and pity,
Just tell me a rotten lie
that support my integrity!

Let me hear your cry
for Karabakh, everyone!
Respect the real history!
Will we hear anyone?!

For centuries we were wronged
Will you wait for another?!
The son of my father's killer
Is beating my brother!

We faced through the history
Armenian hypocrisy
Put your hands on your conscience,
just show your democracy!

We condemn the historical aggressive policy of Armenia and the insensitive attitude of the world community.

Karabakh is Azerbaijan.
Stop believing provocative and fictitious history.
Research, respect and support the real history!

Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge for their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.

And because Kajal mentioned Rumi, here are my translations of Rumi:

Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!

Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurdish, translation, Kurds, birds, nomads, caravans, refuge, homeland, fly, land, flying, landing, colony, nest, nesting, Rumi, Nali

On a swivel chair, I look around
the time capsule of my head
flies and devises stories

of memories and images
that pass, I travel
to my birth country

It does not exist, never
it has existed, it is a soup

of ingredients picked life-
long at my feet, cooked
in the pan of my skull

.....The fresh soup now
.....from my birth country
.... tastes different, really

.....I see it
.....at the plants and the varieties

I.
In the land far away,
where the feared knight
still roams night and day,
forgetful of his steed and might,
I lay in forgotten stones.
In this ancient coffin, my abode,
I listen to whispered tones,
from ages and times, about
to lose their pale.
The scratched tapestries unveil.

II.
When this tragedy is tangled no more,
I will sleep my rest,
closed eyes with sore,
and a hounding pest
at my feet that plucks me apart.
If without a scream I shall lose,
my sense of being, my heart ****
with the anguish of my dearest Muse.
The chivalrous soul of mine,
would disappear in time.

III.
A fatal blow would prove to be,
the sorrows of my people, my love,
for they hold out candles out for me
when sways in wind a pale dove.
Without this lighthouse,
just like a corsair without his men,
- my fires ***** and douse
quick as they darken -
Foreigner of the people that once were.
Stranger of his neighbors, fellow pair.

IV.
All this I uncover in our misty
and dying chronicles,
that seep from the attic, a dusty
worm-filled hole with obstacles
thrown all around.
Somehow, the sulfuric hand
guided and bound
me to this newfound land.
Now, I leave my diary to rot
with the rest of this abysmal lot

V.
and see for my self I will,
through the eyes
of great delight, that still
thank the Lord for the rise
of my homeland, my dear Spain.
So speak to me, not through whispers,
but thunderous march. In vain,
I've called out to you, disperse
my puny efforts and become real
or my crust, my shell you'll peel.

VI.
Forever, for forever engravings
shall burn with lushness,
the tint and stings
on my canvas. Redness
eaten away by heroic equals.
Forever, for forever I wear
this cloak unwrapped. Rumples
or smiles come up. I spare
them of their rugged hatred.
Here I come, my love, forever sacred.

VII.
While birds have sung
their heart's quaver,
from threads, I hung
not to waver.
The one leading, guiding,
and scheming my escape,
the one who brought me to the brink
of death, as Zeus tried to ****
Europa so did Mother Nature.
Her vivid corpse cold as a glacier

VIII.
I've kissed countless times.
She brought the beast back to life,
like a beggar awarded with dimes.
Now I've caught up to the strife,
the woe that plagues me I've seduced
with frisky moments, and pedant
efforts to capture the spruced
scene that grows around. Hesitant,
my chimera has become.
I await the return of the lost one.

IX.
En Plein air, that's how they call
my unhinged creations,
when behind the marble wall
a mess of colors invokes sensation.
While my dreams still lure
me to believe far voices,
some have caught here for sure
and my attention poses
openly to these claims.
So I have taken a few new names.

X.
Heat shines
among the littered bricks,
that shape these cheerful chimes
and clouds puff and huff. Cheeks
of young and fertile women
reflect the solar flare
that forecasts a prosperous omen
about to arrive and meet my stare.
Beautiful, sweet, and sunny. See
them exit my breast free.

XI.
Smite me almost did Saint Peter
when into his otherworldly
palace naive and eager
I walked boldly
on thin ice for a silhouette,
****** Mary, I thought at first
I saw. Godly choral, a duet,
with a phantom throat, full of thirst,
I couldn't quench
and closed shut, the hinge

XII.
wouldn't move.
Truth be told, I was in heaven.
Bliss and sooth
fell on my shoulders. Raven
of doubt, nowhere near.
This is it, come here, my angel.
A single tear
drowned in a bust stable
with years. But the second
briskly happened.

XIII.
No more could I look at her
with these sinful hopes.
Bind her figure and tear
that coal habit. Robes
of pure essence
defend from ***** folk.
They shine of transcendence
that God willed to stalk
their highness.
Look could I look no more, no less.

XIV.
Steps turned to miles
from wings, I stole.
Once church's tiles
now are a single pole.
Like a chess piece
without the restrains
of playful dynasties.
Still, it pains
me when I escaped
and the way I paved.

XV.
Here I notice
your toppled towers.
Giants left this
as a reminder. Showers
of needles deep in your skin
I enter and cry.
Where did it begin?
I ask while I sigh.
My lips against yours
where attack did sores.

XVI.
Final light
shines through your veins
as I uncover what's right
while stains
of buckets of blood
collide with my
own sacrifice. Flood
hardens my tie
to you, dear Barcelona.
I become one with your persona.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019

My homeland - dear land,
where for the first time I saw the sun  
and where I came to know God;
Where my father, brothers and mother kind
taught me prayers in my maternal tongue.

My homeland - villages and cities,
planted from the times of Piasts among Lechic fields;
Rivers, forests, flowery leas and meadows,
where larks sing their sweet songs of hope.

My homeland - our forefathers' glory,
Chrobry's Notched Sword and Cecora Mace,
Knightly Spirit, noble and brave,
bitter defeats and victories great.

My homeland - quiet green fields
for centuries trampled by hostile armies,
burial mounds and sad graves
that have covered our freedom defenders.

My homeland - heroic spirit of the Polish people,
that by miracle lives amid hunger and cold;
- hope that always blooms in hearts,
with work for the fathers, and song for the young!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/2/2019

Paint me such a village in the valley,
sad with dark green firs and cheerful with crops...
Let she all in red rowanberries be,
and let gray linen lay on her meadows;
let colorful rainbows throw themselves across the silent pond,
dispersed by air that spurts out of the waters deep.
Let the cloud of pigeons flutter overhead,
and dandelions' soft fluff and spiders' silk threads...

And paint pastures and fertile fields,
and in their black soil let wheat and barley shine with gold,
and let fiery red of poppies ridges beautifully adorn,
and poplars over the road make into a string,
and throw the silvery mist on the meadows...

And let they walk so, loudly, through the field
heifers' bells and clapping of whips.
Let the willows ponder by the murmuring stream,
casting shadow pre-sunset and long,
and quiet calming blue give around,
and fill the air with birds' happy babbling.
And put such a cloud on the mountains' brow...
And only people make ours, so dear to my heart.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

* The original name of the poem is "In a foreign land", as
the poem was written in Karlsbad in Germany.