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Max Neumann Dec 2019
belongingness: what does this word mean?

i would explain to my son that belongingness is something you can't touch but feel.
eden, my daughter, would get a kiss.

for many years i was looking for people i could belong to; i was on a quest. and this quest went along with fears and doubts. this quest was ******* the energy out of my mind and out of my soul...

how did this quest began, though? on a strange day, i was asked a very intimate question by a professor; a professor whose background i'm aware of; she asked me:

"do you have a religious or a political past?"

her question came out of nowhere. she blindsided me.
therefore, i wasn't prepared for an answer that could have satisfied her; regardless what my past really is about.

at this point of my life i wasn't aware about my ancestors; but the professor's questions caused me to become it.

"do you have a religious or a political past?"

i do know about my past now; but the answer i gave this lady was not sufficient for her. by the end of our conversation she said:

"i am sorry. can't shake your hand now. have to go toilet."

that was it. oh my, was i disappointed and frustrated; because this certain lady would have opened many doors for me; doors for which she administrated the keys.

you know, there are days in your life that want to you to be desperate. and yes: i was desperate. about being rejected. and that i wasn't able to have access to dorrs that lead to important conferences, meetings and to important people.

but you know what? it doesn't matter anymore.

because here, on hellopoetry, i have found a place of belogningness.
and what my real past is will remain hid: a secret in a purple-colored casket i have the key to.

hellopoetry is a place of belongingness. not just for me but for many many kind-hearted people. and i am not stating this from an opportunist's view: i can feel you guys here and sometimes i sense kindred spirits.
I am very grateful to all of you.

Thank you, Eliot York.
Thank you, poets and thank you readers.

YouTube: "Mogwai - Guns Down"

Today is a good day.
wanjiwanji May 2015
Typing furiously
The websites you administrated
The cool stuff you created

Dancing graciously
The pictures you enhanced
The movies you edited

Plucking gentle
The guitar strings
The songs you sing

Moving delicately
The way you put your chopstick
The way you stroke your joystick

Approach hungrily
Touching the sacred spots
Knead, caress, massage, pinch, rub, enter.
“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously”
Zbigniew Herbert

(Adam Lux – Meditations)

Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.

Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.

The original:

Протест (ретроспективно)

„Госпожица Корде нощем четяла Плутарх
книгите тогава били вземани насериозно“
Збигнев Херберт

( Адам Люкс-Размишления)


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

Госпожица ( или вече , защо не, госпожа) чете.
Така е чела и преди да се омъжи. Минала е
революцията на 60 -те. “ Всичко е любов“
Спала е в палатките. Защо пък не?
Свободата трябва да се брани.
Барабани, пожари, виковете:
“ Долу! Кой не скача е“
Тътен зад стените. Марат е. Жив? Мъртъв? Живял?
Пътува времето. Короната е фина шапка.
Косата къса. С всички цветове.
„С рокля като синя скала.“
Обелиск? Да! на преминаване от необходимостта в
необходимост( за преживяване).
Госпожа Корде, чете. Играта на…
Мечтае. “ Всичко е любов“.
Денят е най-обикновен.

Шарлот?
Въздаде справедливост.
Звездите падащи сияят.
Democratic changes in Bulgaria started after the Berlin Wall in 1989. Jean Paul Marat, a prominent French Revolution. Charlotte Conde is his murderer.
Tom McCone Oct 2014
got caught in this small, fine-crafted world:

with half-moon indents below flittering
eyelids, with new rotation about iris,
embers under cloud sprawl, bloodshot from
  later
on in the night. with reveries hung out,
with sharp fog covering the evening: i
misplaced most sensibilities, i
clambered down from
this ridgeline, hope,
for god knows
whatever
reason. i
stood still, continually incapable of translation,
scrambling for word-count, the inside of my chest.

with new broken bones,
some impossible heaviness,
some insurmountable hopelessness:
soft poison, self-administrated;
i'll still climb back up, though,
given any fractional semblance of luck.

we've all been burnt, yeah,
but if you'd take this
half-exhausted charcoal splintering
heart in flax-woven basket up,
i will do my best, to
nurture your own back to
meadowlark wings your
breath takes flight upon, in
interstitial moments, as
your quiet lips
  turn to smile& glow.
written to the tune of [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pp0sS0sFEJo]
Jessica Golich Sep 2014
Infinite possibilities; plant a seed and proceed to exceed your earthly capabilities
What can you do to overcome procrastination?
Climb out of the hole of succumbing to disoriented stagnation administrated by sedation and manifest elevation through innate stimulation
Is the illusionary persona led by hallucination budding an equation or a manic invasion?
Are you willing to face the music or are you choosing to pollute your mind, body and soul to keep it muted?
Cliché, but you choose your reality; excuse the brutality, but are you going to mope in your theatrical triviality or come to terms with your present irrationality?
Is your ego getting in the way? Are you allowing yourself to truly cherish the day by running astray and subconsciously dwindling away?
Time to slow down and ground, it is fine to go through a deep-seated breakdown
The deity of your life, you are; spontaneity can exploit your heterogeneity; you are bathing diurnally in unbounded creativity
While climbing ladders, you may experience some chutes; but will you sulk in repugnance or rise from the ashes and turn gashes into a story full of abundance?
Àŧùl Sep 2019
The BJP has impressed me,
Welfare is their priority,
They have improved as a political party.

They used to be the capitalist kind,
Completely rightwinger it used to be,
They used to be crony capitalists.

But they have improved,
Their worth they proved,
India administrated by them will be happy.

They have made sacrifices,
Who can forget Shyama Prasad Mukherjee?
Once they know him - they can't.

Who can forget Atal Bihari Vajpayee ji,
Or the living legend, Lal Krishna Advani ji,
Or the fallen soldiers, Sushma ji or Arun ji?

We have many more leaders,
All distinguished in their spirit of Indianness,
Narendra Damodardas Modi, their scion.

They used to be plain capitalists, yes,
But now they are very different,
They are the Left of Right.
India, as a majority, is very happy and positive.

My HP Poem #1773
©Atul Kaushal
Steph Portuguez Jan 2020
A minimal interaction merely coincidental took her to the sentimental, yet quiet lightly, semi-permanent fire, the affection for the imperishable. A minimal corporal translation, a dance towards a portal, a fervor to pair and properly resurrect.

The compost has been added, the fecundation has begun, the methodical development goes against the unfolding and beyond. The maturing is inconceivable, an initiation determined to dilate, jag and stain. A gamma of sentiments, a commotion with skills to afflict, an opening with a phantasmagoric impatient and tone deaf.

A parallel black hole, a wooly, scruffy, disheveled globe. With absentia of her specific use she'll roam. A drowsy critter, greater for its sluggishness and loneliness, unquiet for the incubation, the heat and the certainty of your motherly protection.

Medically oppressed to the obligation of live on, welcomed by a sublime lukewarm. A unique lullaby from the impecable chanter and so on.

That's how you nourish and exalt the delicacy, the consciousness slightly expands to the magnificence. This universe with billions of new galaxies, it expands with minor steps of your new innocence.

This apprentice with exceptional obtuseness, her leader replete with sageness and discreetness. The trail scatters its roots towards the rude plot. The captain aims with firmness to a rational outlet.

An enduring labyrinth you must traverse, a map with invisible lines and a myopic with no sanity nor quandary to march. Her compass does not fatigue with the disdain of the repugnant, unawared, insolent vagrant with no prosperity.


The pink portrait lays in an imaginary castle once dreamed by a dragon. This enclosed a precious legend, her bravery prevails and the growth of a rotten embryo, this **** with no significant phases, with dull patience. An ancient savant donkey, engendered with tender.

That tenderness was not her only role, her exuberant potencial to vastness and to the raw venture she accustomed herself. To the darkest and unimaginable brutes she dared to conquer, a non-existent God, she dedicated to redeem and master.

Her royalty and infinitude, this benevolence administrated my chemical sensitivity, always in me will entail. A kingdom without entrance to those venturesome to tumble. The iconicity of the most notorious infinity and empress, in the pink portrait will forever rest.
Downfall  of a humble man

Once he wore a uniform he had reached
the apex of his profession had staffs supplied
the ship did the books and administrated.
It was the best of times and too tired to read
to relax and to think about life meet chandlers
and customs official who had stories to tell.
Seen from above his position was modest but
coming from poverty it was an achievement
he and his family were proud of.
The downfall came quickly crews on ships were
drastically reduced soon he was the only on
left in the catering line, he hung up his uniform
back to the galley, cleaning mess halls and toilets
the days became endlessly long, no time to read
only waiting for his stint to be over.
A heart attack caused by the loss of dignity and
long ours his education had come to nothing yet
the illness was the beginning of something better.

— The End —