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annh Oct 13
My tongue is tethered to the words which have failed me.
‘There's really no such thing as the 'voiceless'. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.’
- Arundhati Roy
RainyWriter Oct 6
To me,
My words,
Are my thoughts.
Milk in a pan drifting,
Lazily in mexican waves,
On tiptoes with fingertips,
Stroking the three litre line.

To you
My words are
The time you blinked
And clots of milk swelled into pregnant pufferfishes
And a siren hissed incessant incantions you swore fate birthed to hex your mind
And a trident foamed at the mouth relishing the theft of nature's permission to shapeshift  into a lightening bolt and to zap your stove a blistering white in three times ten to the eight metres per second
I logged into Hello Poetry today after 5 years. Found a whole heap of very bad teenage poetry (only left the better ones public so trust me they were awful). Maybe my poetry is still bad but I'm almost not a teenager anymore.
R Sep 26
Why did you let go?
Someone asked me
I told him i did it for the memories,
To keep the picture of him safe in my mind,
To safeguard those misty dreary eyes,
Which carried innocence he thought he had long lost,
For the piousness in his speech,
Which i had once heard.
I had let go for the memories,
And those turbulent emotions
Which i had once felt,
For those ear to ear smiles which i had witnessed,
And for those arguments which no one ever lost.

Maybe someday I’ll learn to talk to him effortlessly again,
But till then he is tucked safely in my memories..
Some sweet and some savory.
That’s what poets do i told him,
They let go for the memories,
Before the happiness they once felt is overpowered by regrets and misery.
Letting go for the memories is the one thing which i have learnt...stubbornness and want just brings more grief and disfigures all the happy memories and the person you know. When i was younger i use to think i could never let go of anything, i use to think if i love, like, appreciate or want anything or anybody they ought to be with me forever. Not saying that attachment is evil but attaching yourself to emotions and good times and safeguarding them is wiser than being at war with what is happening in your right now or caging yourself in want and stubbornness. you never know maybe things might turn around with it’s own organic course and even if they don’t try not to  **** the memories or images  that have been created.Let them be.
now hear these nonsenses
words spilled on the pale page
words wasted on the wind
and strewn in media
to cry over and again

nonsenses generous
as poverty, as sickness:
plenty to go around
hear how more nonsenses
(as if in fear of being late)

arrive crowding the platform
but always as words
woven barbed and twisted
beyond boundaries of truth
these nonsenses of hope and hate
Mark Wanless Sep 9
pain don't matter now
breath and blood all important
sound the speech of war
Fiery tongues
Mysterious places
I pray my lord finds it
Within his good graces
To spare him the rod
And sever the tongue
No longer will truth
From this mouth be wrung
Of this matter here
Will he no longer shout
Nor speak, nor whisper
To people of doubt
We would steal his power
His talent to sway
And then turn the menfolk
To our cause today
And he will not speak
Of our place of no name
Here where we meet
And make men our game
Then when victory is nigh
Bring him out for display
As the crowd cheers
Have him slain where he lay
This is the price
A man such as he faces
For a fiery tongue
In mysterious places
Dante Rocío Aug 12
I was born robbed of my maternal language,
That crucial bundle of Heart’s pillars
and ribs.

The one that makes you forget
What even words or images are
worth for,
The one that shaped what sense I hold,
And the one who built me
from mere ashes
When I couldn’t even have my eyes
for God, before the first of times.

I’ve searched through more than a dozen
of them so far,
those which humans throw and throw,
force, upon me,
and each time one comes
when the victory seems at last
only for me to find
I have nothing else in my hand
than the smell of footsteps long gone
in the sand and dirt.
Though a half of my plucked out
ribs remain,
which is Poetry that ever wants me,
tongue carries,
that which cannot be
undermined nor explained,
I limp, maimed, without my own tongue
to claim.

And from that search my love though
for the language made its birth.
Possibly the yearning turned into arousal
of wonder catching, affection lapping.

I went back to the Language,
a veritable person I make of it,
I gave it the right of a name,
And I am all those questions
directed towards it.

By the script of E.J. Koh’s letters of mother,

How to express in Korean, English,
or any other language
how we miss one dearly
or how the distance shapes itself?

How does language create us
and makes us become
what we are truly deep inside?

How does it decompose us
at our lowest and the highest,
of the state and one’s expressing?

Especially when the Word, at times,
though so futile unreliable,
is the only thing we have left,
like Dreams?

And if you ask me now,
with so much tongue inheritance
already making my stance in “To Be”,
which mortal speech the most beautiful is?
You can’t. for how can I choose?
French, the violet whisper?
Spanish, flaming blades in Llorona’s tears?
English, a parting ship in eloquent observance?
Italian, a cigarette night in a local conversation in lush green?
I cannot. For, what choice?
You could also ask me which of the stars
I love the most: I can’t say.
Each is so similar to other yet not,
though the brightest might not
be the dearest,
the middle one might not be the further one and the intimate arousal for all
that abstract and ungraspable
makes your feelings so confused
and beautifully mad
as if you had polyamory
with many persons at once,
couldn’t get rid of any of them,
choose only one,
yet each one of them has something
the other does not.

Every exchange of a language in mind
is that of our person,
even more of Poetry
I derive myself from in feelings & images,
an exchange of puzzles, schemes,
as if going through a ballroom
full of diversely dancing people
and once you have to step through them dancing waltz to pass
and then dancing tango.

The fall of the Babel was the moment
when that maternality of Speech
shattered into alien yet same
breaths, sacrifices, work of hands
and transit,
and ended up so rich
yet so lacking in its “magna carta”

So, if it all ends always as the same,
If it always leaves heart ripped,
If I can have it all yet none I want,
If it’s the same mortal thing
in codes shrouded...

If in this realm, the story ends
and starts alas,
tell me:

What choice of speak
do you even think
I still have?
A great praise, ode, heart’s shredding
I give in an ode to the language.
As a glossophile, a true priest of the Language
I came to bear and die,
My revealance of the elation and painful trail
I endure each day, each learning
And each time Polish is forced
Upon my lips.
When a mother tongue is your
“stepmother” one
and you feel constant reject
any time using it.
This is another Intimacy
of mine I share.
Mark Wanless Aug 8
actions of body
speech and mind arising soft
facebook karma peace
Bard Aug 6
Freedom of speech is only ever true
If no one is listening to you
Watch what you say you can disappear too
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