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Dante Rocío Jan 20
Zegar popuszczony. Drewno w deski popękane.
Twoje dziecię po raz enty leży w sofie, jakby nieznane.
Czy widziałeś jakże gołębice są dziś rozszlajałe?
Białe a wyprute, jakbyś coś z żeber z alabastru na wióry mi
pasem skórzanym przerobił.
Pogardą jakże ci koniak a nie me oczy ambulansem!
Wargi sąsiada jak posąg dawidowy a nie me wyżebrane!
A sen nas dwojga na strychu już tylko we krwi coś znaczy?
Mętny widok asów, pików czy trefli bez serca twej „królowej” spił cię
i na wiersz w popielniczce przerobił?

- Ty co stoisz dumna, niby poharatana,
nie wiem jak siebie samego odpędzić.
Jakiś ból liliowy, jakiś pieniądz w twarz córce rzucony,
ekstaza z barw i szkarłatu przed oczyma już tylko
do anestezji się sprowadza.
Bo, powiedz, czymże trzask twych żeber, o potomku zapomnienie,
jak nie chwilą gorzką małego goździka
co zaraz nagle w przełyku zaniknie?
Po cóż pierścień zaręczynowy, czesne, ognisko Hestii,
śmiech twój platynowy
jeśli stoi przyszłość jak twój posag stracona?
Ten salon, ten pas, ten orgazm, każda sprawa lichwy ci warta.

- Bez wykładania ci na ławę „przynajmniej ja nie...”,
chociaż stanę ci wyzwaniem i ostatnim tchem
jaki marmur mych kości coś jeszcze się broni
i spytam, nie wycofam:
Ten ból, ten skowyt co mówisz, jak czyn schowany Nazarejczyka,
u stóp w wodzie twych pracujący,
czy znać ci dać co przekazał przez wsze narody?

- Naprzód, wypatruję

- Co na Ziemi związałeś, w niebie się nie odstanie,

                jak puls w żyle ci zostanę

                     choćbyś martwy i go wydrapał

                                na pozór.
A prompt for the lesson of Polish language on describing current tribulations a married couple is prone to facing and falling to in modern times. On physical intercourses, betrayal, alcoholism, hasard, life after death, doves that go berserk from wife’s pain by the hands of husband’s violence and how it all might have no sense at all when one would look at humanity’s life and goals maybe
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
Odczucie zaparcia tchu w piersiach
jakoby przy chłodzie,
szoku w oszołomionej
czułości czy penetracji
przez ukochanego po raz pierwszy
podczas aktu cielesnego

odczuwam jako to uczucie
w klatce
ściśniętej
jakbym miał w dłoniach
właśnie
tak samo kruchą rybkę...

ledwo dyszy, cmoka,
jak niemowlę się miota...
i widzę siebie jako lęk,
że ona to ze szkła jest
i płacze prawie z niepokoju
o to
co
z nią

zrobię

że trzymam mięsień sercowy wyjęty
prosto z czyjejś żywotności.

I wiem, iż jeśli tylko zrobię
nieostrożny ruch, to ten cały
cud Życia którego
w oniemieniu i własnych łzach
nie mogę pojąć,
że mi położono między palce...

pęknie nagle jedna arteria przez ściśnięcie...

I pójdzie krew.

I pójdą jej wargi w dół.

I pójdą płetwy wzdłuż ciała.

A tygrysie paski bielu i różu będą już tylko tą gęstą czerwienią co nie zmyjesz z ramion tylko się wedrą jak zabrudzona skóra bez zrzucania naskórka.

Tą czerwienią w papce jak ta podczas okresu menstruacyjnego gdy ją badasz z bliska na opuszkach.

A Cardio będzie nieme.
Przeze mnie.
Zgwałcone takowo więc.

Lub każde inne dłonie, w które powierzyłem tą rybkę.

Dlatego takim łkającym lękiem jest dawanie tego w inne dłonie.
A oni nie wiedzą jak karpika się trzyma tak, by chodziło o niego i tylko niego.
Nie jego paski barwne,
powietrze wokół
czy inne tyczące się treści.
O niego.

Oto Słowo.

Osoba.

Język.

My.

„A Słowo ciałem się stało.”
Many consider my Poetry verbalised as utterly abstract metaphors I take straight out of imagination. Drawings of Mind.
Yet those elaborates are purely elected wordings to images, elations, with senses and clips that come to choose me themselves. Overlifely.
The image of Koi Fish is one of those allegories of any tries to show you what “body” is that of my Poetry.
Hereby the text.
So that it can be seen these are more than metaphors or the rationale.
(Translation coming provided soon)
Naveen Malhotra Aug 2020
Wanderers in ochre robes
Wander across hills and mountains bare foot
In their quest for truth
Thorns prickling their feet
Heat and frost burning their skin
They are often ridiculed
What makes them so crazy
That they find beauty of life out of sync
May be they have seen life rife with so much strife
That they have nothing to whine
Or may be it is their spiritual might
Which is difficult to attain otherwise
Or may be they tillage the essence of life by pillaging self pride
Or may be they polish the unpolished side of life and make bright the dark inside
Who verily knows
What is right
Let them live their lives
Let us live our lives
Michael R Burch Jun 2020
Sonnet: The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.
Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.
The ancient Greeks set shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.
Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.

Adam Bernard Mickiewicz (1798-1855) is widely regarded as Poland’s greatest poet and as the national poet of Poland, Lithuania and Belarus. He was also a dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, professor and political activist. As a principal figure in Polish Romanticism, Mickiewicz has been compared to Byron and Goethe. Keywords/Tags: Mickiewicz, Poland, Polish, Balaclava, Crimea, war, warfare, castle, castles, knight, knights, armor, Greeks, Rome, Romans, Mongols, Mussulman, Muslims, death, destruction, ruin, ruins, romantic, romanticism, sonnet, depression, sorrow, grave, violence, mrbtr
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Polish
by Michael R. Burch

Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.

Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.

You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.

I thought about titling or subtitling this one “A mini-ode to manicure” but thought better of it. Please note that this poem is not about female predators but the way the human race “glosses over” its predatory nature. We may appear to be “civilized” but what are we doing to the planet and its other inhabitants? Keywords/Tags: polish, nails, talons, claws, predator, gloss, loss, red, tooth, claw, pollution, climate change, global warming, mass extinction, genocide
Every morning while it was dark
He'd wake and pack his boards
With plastic men, his soldiers
To do battle with no swords

He'd put them in his basket
Load them all into the cart
He'd have a tea and bagel
And then, his day would start

He would walk from his apartment
To the park, before the sun
Two miles and a quarter
Just past highway eighty one

There, inside the complex
In the middle of the park
He'd play chess, against all comers
And he'd stay 'till after dark


A prodigy at ten years old
He would beat men three times his age
He would sit there in stunned silence
As they stormed around in rage

A master by his eighteenth year
He hadn't lost on his home ground
He would play and play and nothing else
To the chess board he was bound

Although he had his title
He couldn't leave to play
If he left the country
Then, back home is where'd he stay

He played some competitions
Made his points to climb the list
But, still he kept on thinking
Of the games that he had missed

I saw him in Toronto
Playing for a buck a game
He played against  all comers
The result, always the same

His accent was a harsh one
His beard was slightly rough
With some he'd be a softie
With others, he was gruff

Each day he'd make the journey
Pull his boards down and set off
He'd joke about while playing
And at bad moves he would scoff

"In Russia, they would shoot you"
"If you made a move like that"
Was he lying in the bushes
Should you move or just stand pat?

He moved on down to Yonge Street
When the park land all was sold
No one knew just why it happened
He went there, and it was closed

On a small street down by Eatons
He moved his boards so he could play
He didn't need to walk there now
He could now go by subway

There was more room here for players
To learn at this man's feet
They would line up with their dollars
Knowing full well, they'd be beat

The crowd that came from Yonge street
To see this rock star of the board
Were much different from the park folk
But to this street they poured

College players, bankers
Strippers from the Zanzibar
would come and drop their dollar
Then lose and find a bar

As time went on, his game it changed
He'd take more time for his moves
He would talk more as distraction
And once I saw him lose

His brain was getting fuzzy
Age was now taking a toll
Time, it owned his body
But the board still owned his soul

He'd flirt with the young maidens
Showing cleavage in the sun
One girl even flashed him
Because she thought she'd won

He joked about her actions
Told the crowd that it was nice
He joked that if she showed some more
He'd let her come close twice

As time went on the master
Didn't come downtown each day
He'd stay at home in silence
Downtown was far away

He dreamed of heading home again
But, he knew that couldn't be
Then we saw him on the news one night
On the local CBC

He played downtown for seven years
He last played in 85
He took sick and nearly passed on
Thankfully, the master did survive

His name was Josef Smolij
He was Polish, but we thought
He was Russian from his comments
Made when our bad moves were caught

His absence still is felt there
Gould street it was his space
The area he used to play
Is now called Hacksell Place

He left and went to Europe
Germany became his home
But still down there off Yonge street
The old chess ghosts still roam

I remember playing Smolij
I remember it was hot
I lost and then he told me
"Back in Russia...you'd be shot"

He was 60 when I played him
He'd be 99 or so
I'm glad I got to meet him
The Master known as Joe
based on Josef Smolij, chess player extraordinaire who played first at Allan Park then Gould street in Toronto. He played from 1978 to 1985 downtown. He was a fixture in downtown Toronto. I played him three times, and got beat like a drum each time. The first part is fictional based on fact, then fact at the end.
how can i see?
how can i let you
away

you told me
you hate me
and be away

but i love you
i will not as spider
who ate the gift
then her beloved
what does he get?
he became the martyr of love

the scorpion did the same
so every man must kiss his beloved
leg and hand
as she loves him, and let him love
her
, let him in life sustain
what a gift!

i am not selfish
i will let you at finish
but i will push
any one will hurt or tend to polish
your honor and makes it *******

i will be as the great fish
who will face every worst fish
and may **** myself and you live
long happy , you deserve
love is the spirit that deals between two hearts
Phoenix Jun 2019
Whatever I write
can be dipped in inquiry,
sprinkled in spirit,
and polished with potential.

I don't write solely to impress
nor to be the best.
I write to explore.
And not so that the world can see me,
but so I can see the world.
A short explanation of what I put into my writing and why I do it. Originally written to be an Instagram caption.
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