"belarus" poems - Hello Poetry

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0

Dec 21, 2019

Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC

maxneumann

The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)

196

It's not even romantic But I'm going to write a poem of every boy I met.Not romantic, It's not that I had met a lot of men. On that morning you played ukulele, I sang along with the lyrics Creep, Blur,anything The morning light shined through your squinted eyes I can still see the dust swirling, dancing in front of the sun-bathed face of yours. Naive,friendly,happily We were singing to each other The other two are non-existence. You are so warm, comfortable to be around with A Belarusian boy ,aspiring to speak good Chinese. You paint, you cooked and made desserts Always at ease at hitchhiking through Kazakhstan and China I felt that you secretly want to try to escape from what you had from Belarus to Czech, then to this mysterious Eastern world, a bit communist. And then to Taiwan. This is for you Ilya, a friend for only a day and night. You're too delicate for me to handle as you have skin like milk and heart of seven seas Smile like a 5 year old in a swing.

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Apr 22, 2015

Apr 22, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC

maggieYCW

Skin of Milk and Heart of Seven Seas

It's not even romantic But I'm going to write a poem of every boy I met.Not romantic, It's not that I had met a lot of men. On that morning you played ukulele, I sang along with the lyrics Creep, Blur,anything The morning light shined through your squinted eyes I can still see the dust swirling, dancing in front of the sun-bathed face of yours. Naive,friendly,happily We were singing to each other The other two are non-existence. You are so warm, comfortable to be around with A Belarusian boy ,aspiring to speak good Chinese. You paint, you cooked and made desserts Always at ease at hitchhiking through Kazakhstan and China I felt that you secretly want to try to escape from what you had from Belarus to Czech, then to this mysterious Eastern world, a bit communist. And then to Taiwan. This is for you Ilya, a friend for only a day and night. You're too delicate for me to handle as you have skin like milk and heart of seven seas Smile like a 5 year old in a swing.

24

Her fingernails were painted with little yellow suns That’s ridiculous I thought Some stupid forty –five years old Housewife with ambitions Or even worse—divorced ***** With her too high self confident Ego Who thinks that men just adore her? For who what she is We were in dogfish head or big fish grill I always get lost in names She was sitting opposite me and C And was sending him strange playful looks You could notice that she was definitely fake Her ***** were too big and face Her face saw a surgical scalpel How we say in Belarus About women who love plastic surgery I was jealous I thought something was going on between her and C How old are you she asked me And everyone looked at me 26 I said A baby she stated I was surprised I considered myself too old Among my acquaintances And how old is she I whispered to C’s ear Over 50 I think—he said --Doesn’t matter—he said --She is fake. Her ***** are fake, her Face is fake. Her soul is fake. We went to play pool later But this X disturbed me They live in the same hotel I thought They work at the same work She is tall She used to look like a model when she was young My paranoid jealousy started Invading me slowly From my toes to my scalp. I saw in his phone He was texting her—Love you Stupid phrase Without the I word You never know whether he loves or he is just polite I still don’t know whether or not. She probably wasn’t that fake. He probably lied again.

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Jan 19, 2014

Jan 19, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC

mara-kennet

Her fingernails were painted with little yellow suns

Her fingernails were painted with little yellow suns That’s ridiculous I thought Some stupid forty –five years old Housewife with ambitions Or even worse—divorced ***** With her too high self confident Ego Who thinks that men just adore her? For who what she is We were in dogfish head or big fish grill I always get lost in names She was sitting opposite me and C And was sending him strange playful looks You could notice that she was definitely fake Her ***** were too big and face Her face saw a surgical scalpel How we say in Belarus About women who love plastic surgery I was jealous I thought something was going on between her and C How old are you she asked me And everyone looked at me 26 I said A baby she stated I was surprised I considered myself too old Among my acquaintances And how old is she I whispered to C’s ear Over 50 I think—he said --Doesn’t matter—he said --She is fake. Her ***** are fake, her Face is fake. Her soul is fake. We went to play pool later But this X disturbed me They live in the same hotel I thought They work at the same work She is tall She used to look like a model when she was young My paranoid jealousy started Invading me slowly From my toes to my scalp. I saw in his phone He was texting her—Love you Stupid phrase Without the I word You never know whether he loves or he is just polite I still don’t know whether or not. She probably wasn’t that fake. He probably lied again.

49

Five March, Березень, пятый, these clouds, butterflies, this old anger and this rotten coffee *** Mold and clouds. The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes (mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say I will not be a prime squared again for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all disappointed dogs, life after love.

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Mar 5, 2013

Mar 5, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC

mickey-rat

next stop Belarus, believe:

Five March, Березень, пятый, these clouds, butterflies, this old anger and this rotten coffee *** Mold and clouds. The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes (mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say I will not be a prime squared again for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all disappointed dogs, life after love.

11

I WAS! DESIGNED! IN CALIFORNIA! MANUFACTURED IN CHINA! I WAS! DESIGNED IN CALIFORNIA! MANUFACTURED IN CHINA... that's all the U.S.A. seems to be, an advertising conglomerate, oink oink it's like three blind men and Donald Trump: one touched his egoistic ******* impression and said it was the Mississippi mud-hole Riviera, another touched his overweight cheeks and started to chuckle while calling ************ a bulldog salivating with the cheeks choke on chuckles you chimpanzee: chuck chuck, whatever onomatopoeia five cents spare... and the last blind mind touched the over-comb quiff... and he said: by god! the wind hairstyling grass! while the Russians sold off Alaska historically, and are selling bits of ******** Siberia bit by bit to the Chinese, evolutionary implementation of Pan-Eskimo... you need eyes like slits akin with excess camel eye-lashes to survive the cold... like i told you, Russia will end up shrinking into a border enclosure limited to starting between Belarus (the ******* Tsarist **** bags) the Baltic states and Ukraine and ending at the Urals.

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May 5, 2016

May 5, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

a bruce springsteen song

I WAS! DESIGNED! IN CALIFORNIA! MANUFACTURED IN CHINA! I WAS! DESIGNED IN CALIFORNIA! MANUFACTURED IN CHINA... that's all the U.S.A. seems to be, an advertising conglomerate, oink oink it's like three blind men and Donald Trump: one touched his egoistic ******* impression and said it was the Mississippi mud-hole Riviera, another touched his overweight cheeks and started to chuckle while calling ************ a bulldog salivating with the cheeks choke on chuckles you chimpanzee: chuck chuck, whatever onomatopoeia five cents spare... and the last blind mind touched the over-comb quiff... and he said: by god! the wind hairstyling grass! while the Russians sold off Alaska historically, and are selling bits of ******** Siberia bit by bit to the Chinese, evolutionary implementation of Pan-Eskimo... you need eyes like slits akin with excess camel eye-lashes to survive the cold... like i told you, Russia will end up shrinking into a border enclosure limited to starting between Belarus (the ******* Tsarist **** bags) the Baltic states and Ukraine and ending at the Urals.

31

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

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Jun 13, 2020

Jun 13, 2020 at 8:56 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Adam Mickiewicz "The Ruins of Balaclava" translation

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

18

I suffered with You, Belarus, my beloved, When a police baton ***** You at the police station, In full drill. I was there when they fired at You, When they killed the helpless On the street without mercy, In envy, in anger. I was when they beat with a baton, When they hit the eyes with a baton In the police torture Or in the yard by the wall. I was when they beat uncontrollably, When the lying, despite wanting to Prove his innocence, Got the fifth stick in the bone. I was when they took off the woman’s ******* and were pushing a baton there, And in the man’s **** It was being inserted - until the whine. I was when they beat one in the forest, The spirit still carries me there, I saw hundreds lying in the alps, I saw the dead in the halls. Hospitals ... It was the baton of Łuka, Which ***** Which killed, Which beat, Which knocked out teeth, Which bruised, It was the baton of Łuka. The bullets were Łuka’s, The hands were Łuka’s, I give the large double doors back to Łuka: Let you be rotten in a bad way. The baton was Łuka’s. It was the baton of Łuka. The baton was Łuka’s. It was the baton of Łuka. You wronged a simple man, And the walls will collapse anyway, It's not balderdash, Oh, you ignoramuses, Oh, you ... stupid. Oh you the bows! ... Oh, you, Łuka (the Bow)!

0

Apr 8, 2021

Apr 8, 2021 at 3:24 PM UTC

dawid-butryn-neubauer

I suffered with You, Belarus

I suffered with You, Belarus, my beloved, When a police baton ***** You at the police station, In full drill. I was there when they fired at You, When they killed the helpless On the street without mercy, In envy, in anger. I was when they beat with a baton, When they hit the eyes with a baton In the police torture Or in the yard by the wall. I was when they beat uncontrollably, When the lying, despite wanting to Prove his innocence, Got the fifth stick in the bone. I was when they took off the woman’s ******* and were pushing a baton there, And in the man’s **** It was being inserted - until the whine. I was when they beat one in the forest, The spirit still carries me there, I saw hundreds lying in the alps, I saw the dead in the halls. Hospitals ... It was the baton of Łuka, Which ***** Which killed, Which beat, Which knocked out teeth, Which bruised, It was the baton of Łuka. The bullets were Łuka’s, The hands were Łuka’s, I give the large double doors back to Łuka: Let you be rotten in a bad way. The baton was Łuka’s. It was the baton of Łuka. The baton was Łuka’s. It was the baton of Łuka. You wronged a simple man, And the walls will collapse anyway, It's not balderdash, Oh, you ignoramuses, Oh, you ... stupid. Oh you the bows! ... Oh, you, Łuka (the Bow)!

47

“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.” – Allama Iqbal In September, the harvest moon, named by the Algonquin people. A gift to the earth; endowed for corn, beans, squash, sunflowers, and received in bright thankfulness. When, finally, the time arrives for an autumn moon to take its place between the earth and sun, swooping as close to earth as bright fireflies filling the sky. Lunar scheduling; a time to deliver scoops of light to the shadowy earth. Human faces staring upward at the inky sky. Stars dimmed by the golden moon that shines on prairies, sand, on city streets; glowing its song of moonlight; offering a nocturne to the silent ground. Each upturned face, waiting to be christened with moonlight; a conduit of heavenly fire that moves from face to face circling in contra dance around the rocky earth. And each up tilted face in Calgary and Cairo, Belarus and Brazil, rhymes with golden light. As the moon glow wanes above, it waxes here below; endowing our faces with moonlight, a celestial loan, leaving the moon with only orange and red, while September yellow clings to us on earth. The sound of light brushing our faces, settling into place, with sweetness of chamomile, fragrant with the end of summer. Whispers of the autumn equinox, and the earth keeping promises. Soon we must return the borrowed lightening, the buttery splash, to the orange-red moon. And we pay. Not with regret, but gladly. All we who have seen the hushing of the moon; we hold forever in the particles that make ourselves, the seeds of moonlight. Pieces of the moon.

0

Mar 9, 2017

Mar 9, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC

diane-woodward-dorff

Pieces of the Moon

“I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky, And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.” – Allama Iqbal In September, the harvest moon, named by the Algonquin people. A gift to the earth; endowed for corn, beans, squash, sunflowers, and received in bright thankfulness. When, finally, the time arrives for an autumn moon to take its place between the earth and sun, swooping as close to earth as bright fireflies filling the sky. Lunar scheduling; a time to deliver scoops of light to the shadowy earth. Human faces staring upward at the inky sky. Stars dimmed by the golden moon that shines on prairies, sand, on city streets; glowing its song of moonlight; offering a nocturne to the silent ground. Each upturned face, waiting to be christened with moonlight; a conduit of heavenly fire that moves from face to face circling in contra dance around the rocky earth. And each up tilted face in Calgary and Cairo, Belarus and Brazil, rhymes with golden light. As the moon glow wanes above, it waxes here below; endowing our faces with moonlight, a celestial loan, leaving the moon with only orange and red, while September yellow clings to us on earth. The sound of light brushing our faces, settling into place, with sweetness of chamomile, fragrant with the end of summer. Whispers of the autumn equinox, and the earth keeping promises. Soon we must return the borrowed lightening, the buttery splash, to the orange-red moon. And we pay. Not with regret, but gladly. All we who have seen the hushing of the moon; we hold forever in the particles that make ourselves, the seeds of moonlight. Pieces of the moon.

52

You say it is humane to make a person stand with their hands up against a concrete wall for nine hours in November cold You say it is humane to put thirty people in a cell built for four and make them share one loaf of bread on the third day of their arrest You say it is humane to make a person sing the national anthem, and beat them with batons if they don't know the second verse You say it is humane to build concentration camps for political prisoners Because you’re only protecting your country.

0

Jan 28, 2021

Jan 28, 2021 at 5:14 PM UTC

dinaratengri

Humane (Belarus 2020)

You say it is humane to make a person stand with their hands up against a concrete wall for nine hours in November cold You say it is humane to put thirty people in a cell built for four and make them share one loaf of bread on the third day of their arrest You say it is humane to make a person sing the national anthem, and beat them with batons if they don't know the second verse You say it is humane to build concentration camps for political prisoners Because you’re only protecting your country.

12

My world has come crashing down on top of me like the Eastern front of Belarus where the Nazis took so much where they massacred my family I've worked so hard all these years just for fate to decide that I'm unworthy of any type of love or safety I am now being burned inside my own home I can hear laughing outside My family always told me how scared they were that I would be alone in this world that they would never see me happy Unfortunately the oracle was right

0

Mar 2, 2023

Mar 2, 2023 at 3:40 PM UTC

234234

Prophecy Fufilled

My world has come crashing down on top of me like the Eastern front of Belarus where the Nazis took so much where they massacred my family I've worked so hard all these years just for fate to decide that I'm unworthy of any type of love or safety I am now being burned inside my own home I can hear laughing outside My family always told me how scared they were that I would be alone in this world that they would never see me happy Unfortunately the oracle was right

13

My friend's mother is from Belarus. Recently, she got on a plane to visit him in DC, and sat next to another Belarus woman who had never flown before. After several hours flying, they hit turbulence. The plane dropped and tumbled in pockets of dead air. The woman turned to my friend's Mom and asked, "Have you prayed?" "Yes" was the reply. She nodded and then continued her stare at the vast Atlantic Ocean out the window below. After a few moments, she turned and asked, "Do you know how to swim?" My friend's Mom replied, "Yes... but I'm not sure in which direction"

0

Dec 2, 2013

Dec 2, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC

jojo-nguyen

Flying from Belarus

My friend's mother is from Belarus. Recently, she got on a plane to visit him in DC, and sat next to another Belarus woman who had never flown before. After several hours flying, they hit turbulence. The plane dropped and tumbled in pockets of dead air. The woman turned to my friend's Mom and asked, "Have you prayed?" "Yes" was the reply. She nodded and then continued her stare at the vast Atlantic Ocean out the window below. After a few moments, she turned and asked, "Do you know how to swim?" My friend's Mom replied, "Yes... but I'm not sure in which direction"

7