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you are the history of my literature. and as much as I want this story of ours to transcend generations after us. I can't. we both can't.

but you will stay to me. as the first phrases I wanna utter in all the mornings of my lifetime. as the poetry I wanna write permanently on my skin. and as the lyrics of the song I wanna spend my whole life singing.

you are the prayer I wanna shout to the universe. you are exactly the elegy I want people to give me on my death day.

you are the history of my literature. and letting you go is a painful thing I can never fully endure.
no one is subscribing
to the universal affection
draining subconscious ailment
that needs no treatment
quaking with fear
shaking with revulsion
looking to prolong
an hour, a minute
stretching one seconds
into ten seconds
where are we going
past the streetlights,
the crossroad
the commotion
inside the canalboat
that surrounds and accompanies
this road -
will it ends one day,
sometimes, somewhere
and brings an end
to the entire's generation
guilt and disease?
“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a bloody wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018
Obviously, Teanga is the Irish word for language. "Cad é mar atá tú" is a basic phrase every Irish child would remember from the limited experience of the language that we had then - "how are you?".  I did visit Coole House around 1980 (when I was 10)  but had no idea at the time of its significance as the 'petri dish' of modern Irish culture - the home of Lady Gregory whose influence on many of our great writers was fundamental to their survival & their continuing importance today. "The Children of Lir" is an old fantastical Irish myth that was often read to very  young children during their  "story time".
Hadiy Syakir Sep 11
comb
your hair
everyday
after shower
before you head
outside.

irrelevant.
Hadiy Syakir Sep 11
there were
shadows
that fought
for the right to
exist
descended off
the stairwell
fell into
the frostlake

and it continues.

before
they struggle
in the dark
then,

everything's gone.
Joey fonseca Sep 9
A man sits alone
In a booth accompanied by
his own lonesome
But although ther is no one there
He is not alone
His nose is buried
In his book
Keeping him the company
That he really wants
Lily Flower Sep 1
In the beginning, there was skin
fresh, soft, unblemished, unnamed
bound to be clad by blooming blue rose
baby bud bearing but thorns in its heart
Drifting along to kiss every inch
of that virgin beauty with grace
And there came the first scratch
Thirteen drops of blood
A drop of tear
And a full stop!
Congealed blood! Evaporated tear!
In the beginning there was no scar
but a tender rose to teach pain
pain with all its notoriety
and calamitious cloud of nothingness.
scars tiptoed towards the chest of skin
Now nourishing, naming each narrow path
No blood, no tear.
Thus, as a woman's womb gives birth
to hold up this tipsy life,
pain is a must.
I tried to protect you by not remembering when the rabbis were teachers
and preachers we're on the beaches
Wishes were had in between sheets
Catfish spoken riddles but truthfully
Beautiful ripples in nipples

So I was going to invite you over for txgiving but all pathology from the dsm-5 was represented.  When I say over, I mean to KFC-
cousin Larry had to work but all the coleslaw and breadcrumbs you can swallow. How bout you did you get stuffed by the poultry-geist?
kk Aug 23
A pencil is of dreams,
the Sandman sings sweetly on graphite.
Unlearn your rules,
unleash your light.
Dance on rhythms of pentameter
and sing melodies that twinkle
on the tip of your tongue,
alliterative opera and assonance
played among the bass that is literature.
Sometimes you must ignore the pain
in your hands,
let callouses build and relish
in blood filling your blisters.
Pain here means progress.
Sweep agony away for the sake of day then sink into the ink of night.
Float on clouds of fantasy and write.
Every wall has that story
Every picture has that story
Every story has that something
A moment of,
Glory
Vulnerability, and
The truth

The facts reside somewhere
Within,
The more we live,
The more we fear to die
The more we love,
The more risk we get hurt
The more we think
The more we stay silent

Though,
This too will pass

If I’m a writer,
I’ll not dare to end the story,
At the middle of the laugh, or
At the middle of the cry

Story never ends
We try to end the story
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Writing is being, story never ends
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