"borneo" poems
Dear grandpa,
Borneo has been just too far aside from me,
The sea is just too heavy for me,
How I wish I could be with you and Naomi.
I miss you.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
Dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
So I dream under the sun
I dream ultraviolet
But then to the human race, I seem to lose the keys
And the rabbits always lead me to gardens of lust
And they’re kidnapping angels on capitol hill
Thought me and the universe had an agreement
But still I’m building spaceships the size of a pill
If you let out your monkey, a butterfly gets framed
Where goes all those who have lost their graces
This tattoo of you is a curse-
a Borneo from the bottom of a bottle
And dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
From here, there's a whole sky spread like
blueberries and jam, like
fields of stars and I'm sprinting
across them, east, each a little posy
on the palms of my feet.
or some angel, thighs apart, grape lips,
her shoulders tossed,
wan and against a pool of clouds
babbling nonsense like a child, or
an oil painting of the sun
over Rio, or over Borneo or Milan.
She's lifting my face
eyes not even meeting mine because
they're so far off and lost
soft and lazy
about them the reflection of
turquoise is earth brown.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
[After Flanders Fields, by Major John McCrae, 1915]
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields,
the beaches of France,
Palestine groves,
Malaya's tropics,
Korean mountains,
Egypt's deserts,
Cyprus' beaches,
Borneo's forests,
Aden's marshes,
Falkland's heaths,
Balkan's tundra,
Afganistan bush,
Iraqi highlands,
[Keep list open....]
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
Juego mi vida, cambio mi vida,
de todos modos
la llevo perdida...
Y la juego o la cambio por el más infantil espejismo,
la dono en usufructo, o la regalo...
La juego contra uno o contra todos,
la juego contra el cero o contra el infinito,
la juego en una alcoba, en el ágora, en un garito,
en una encrucijada, en una barricada, en un motín;
la juego definitivamente, desde el principio hasta el fin,
a todo lo ancho y a todo lo hondo
-en la periferia, en el medio,
y en el sub-fondo...-
Juego mi vida, cambio mi vida,
la llevo perdida
sin remedio.
Y la juego, o la cambio por el más infantil espejismo,
la dono en usufructo, o la regalo...:
o la trueco por una sonrisa y cuatro besos:
todo, todo me da lo mismo:
lo eximio y lo rüin, lo trivial, lo perfecto, lo malo...
Todo, todo me da lo mismo:
todo me cabe en el diminuto, hórrido abismo
donde se anudan serpentinos mis sesos.
Cambio mi vida por lámparas viejas
o por los dados con los que se jugó la túnica inconsútil:
-por lo más anodino, por lo más obvio, por lo más fútil:
por los colgajos que se guinda en las orejas
la simiesca mulata,
la terracota rubia;
la pálida morena, la amarilla oriental, o la hiperbórea rubia:
cambio mi vida por una anilla de hojalata
o por la espada de Sigmundo,
o por el mundo
que tenía en los dedos Carlomagno: -para echar a rodar la bola...
Cambio mi vida por la cándida aureola
del idiota o del santo;
la cambio por el collar
que le pintaron al gordo Capeto;
o por la ducha rígida que llovió en la nuca
a Carlos de Inglaterra;
la cambio por un romance, la cambio por un soneto;
por once gatos de Angora,
por una copla, por una saeta,
por un cantar;
por una baraja incompleta;
por una faca, por una pipa, por una sambuca...
o por esa muñeca que llora
como cualquier poeta.
Cambio mi vida -al fiado- por una fábrica de crepúsculos
(con arreboles);
por un gorila de Borneo;
por dos panteras de Sumatra;
por las perlas que se bebió la cetrina Cleopatra-
o por su naricilla que está en algún Museo;
cambio mi vida por lámparas viejas,
o por la escala de Jacob, o por su plato de lentejas...
¡o por dos huequecillos minúsculos
-en las sienes- por donde se me fugue, en grises podres,
la hartura, todo el fastidio, todo el horror que almaceno en mis odres...!
Juego mi vida, cambio mi vida.
De todos modos
la llevo perdida...
1.6k
the world over has many stands of trees
they are homes for birds and an assortment of other creatures
we need those trees as they are the lungs of the earth
plant one in your yard or in a public park
isn't it so nice to have a tree for shade
in the Borneo jungles there are many fine specimens
so too in Canada those beautiful maples
and a favorite tree in Australia is a gumtree
there are too many to list here
but please give the trees around you
a little thought to-day
for in this part of the world
it has been declared as Arbor day
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
You were beautiful in Borneo
Like a song I’d been expecting
To start playing on the stereo
I was fragile when you found me
A lifetime’s worth of sorrow
And disappointment built around me
But you gave me a standing ovation
A merry-go-round of applause
And cut through my curt conversation
With your musical mixed metaphors
You asked me why I was waiting
For something already long gone
And suddenly all of that aching
Disappeared in the song of a swan
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
Met a girl from Ipoh,
Met a boy from Borneo,
Met a lady from Japan
and she's flying back home at 1.23 am to make it in time for work tomorrow.
Met another girl from Jakarta
and she helped me to take some pictures,
And then there were these 3 ladies from Thailand.
Did you guess where i was yet?
I was at a Mew concert alone but not lonely.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
Metempsychosis
Some stories last many centuries,
others only a moment.
All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass,
grow distant and more beautiful with salt.
Yet even today, to look at a tree
and ask the story Who are you? is to be transformed.
There is a stage in us where each being, each thing, is a mirror.
Then the bees of self pour from the hive-door,
ravenous to enter the sweetness of flowering nettles and thistle.
Next comes the ringing a stone or violin or empty bucket
gives off -
the immeasurable's continuous singing,
before it goes back into story and feeling.
In Borneo, there are palm trees that walk on their high roots.
Slowly, with effort, they lift one leg then another.
I would like to join that stilted transmigration,
to feel my own skin vertical as theirs:
an ant-road, a highway for beetles.
I would like not minding, whatever travels my heart.
To follow it all the way into leaf-form, bark-furl, root-touch,
and then keep walking, unimaginably further.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Stop this.
I’m still a child.
I’m still five, and the memory of splashing in the despairing rain with my green raincoat and Dad is not a lifelong treasured memory; it was just Dad trying to occupy my yesterday when the rain wouldn’t let up.
I’m still seven, and we had to put Oscar down last night. He was my first best friend with a thousand untold secrets and a million shedding hairs. I don’t understand what being put to sleep means.
I’m still nine, and my best friend and I decide to start a dog walking business. We constantly complain because we are too young to get any serious customers who didn’t patronize us. We can’t wait until we’re older.
I’m still eleven, and my brother and I are learning to surf. We have a constant rivalry, despite us both being as unbalanced as two upright sloths on a hamster wheel.
I’m still twelve, and we talk about what we’ll do when we finish school. We decide that we’ll go to Borneo together, and then come back home and study to become vets, my best friend and me. We can’t wait to finish school.
I’m still thirteen, and my first crush told my best friend he likes her. He asks me for help in asking her out. I help; she doesn’t know I like him. She says yes.
I’m still fourteen, and I’ve left my best friend and moved away. A new school, new city, new life, and it terrifies me.
I’m still fifteen, and this time it’s my turn. My first date, first kiss, first boyfriend. It’s a new world for me.
I’m still fifteen, and it’s my first heartbreak. He left; my second dog was put down; Pa was diagnosed with Leukemia. Three heartbreaks rolled into one.
But I’m sixteen now. I’m not a child. I can drive and have *** I can travel without permission, I’m trusted to deal with peer pressure and drugs and alcohol. This isn’t child’s play anymore.
I’m not sixteen. I’m still a child.
Where did it all go? Why did I want to grow up?
I don’t want to grow up.
> a.t.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
la gran mujer que era esa tarde metida en su dulzura cómo se doblegaba
tierna de sí por las calles más últimas los árboles los patios
rostros como entregados a escándalos de olvido
la puta la bellísima llena de súbitas mujeres
como arrepentimientos como culpas las repartidas por el aire
llamando a la tormenta las soñaban los hombres de la mar
las inventaban por los camarotes de espaldas al océano mecidos
mujeres altas bellas negras madres disparos de su carne
tetísimas muslísimas las sufridoras de hijos pasaban por Dakar
era Dakar exactamente
los sargentos de l'armée coloniale y los estibadores cubriéndose la rabia con el cuerpo
yvonne envuelta en llamas perseguida por jabalíes de oro
la puta la bellísima
con apenas su cuerpo mulato contra el mundo su cuerpo celebrado
conversado en borneo acariciado amado yvonne la capital de diversas
catástrofes y olvidos
escrita en las paredes de todos los alcoles
yvonne que odiaba a los franceses
por sus ojos pasaban los ciegos del mercado
las pústulas del barrio de medinnah las pústulas mundiales
caían furias tristes clausura de sus senos
510
On the off chance this
Once discarded lothario
Older than a mud pie
In Borneo
Longing like rain in a desert
On the corner of sixth
Avenue and emerald street
Nearer the brothels than any temple long time met a cake
Of soap just clinging
To a sliver of one might call hope
Blathering wistfully
Though
Redeyed lack of sleep not crying
Clothes ***** as Moses
In Jerusalem on the sabbath when it was Jewish
And Islam wasn't a religion
Before the slayings at
Jericho
Almost old enough to remember
But has been told about Jezebels wicked witches and fallen angels
All of that ****
Stood under a pine near a stop sign with faith hoping he'd see you again.
Reading the bible.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
it's December i say,
and i was excited to see my school ended next week,
this story isn't just about ghosts,
but a living memory that lives with me forever,
one day my teacher ms Margarete asked me to carry boxes,
"oh ron would you be a dear to carry this heavy things for me " she said,
far across the left wing of the school,
its most darkest part of the school where lights often flickering,
and you almost hear footsteps coming but no one was there to be seen,
this school was known across the continent of Borneo,
are the oldest school that pioneered the start of WW2 in Asian front,
the original residence of the school was for British soldiers,
back when the British still colonized south east Asia,
then i heard stories about people see reflection of souls of the fallen,
what sad about this story not only these spirits felt oblivious,
knowing its 2009 and not 1945 they still relived their duty,
to protect this school from invading Japanese elites,
i took small steps having my guard up for surprises,
a corner that adjacent to the storage room,
**** i say out loud to myself.
i have this strange phobias when it come to corners,
and got scared easily,
i have no friends to accompany me that time,
because everyone is busy preparing last term of the day,
its time to face my fears so i forced my self
to complete that task i was given,
then something weird happened,
i hear what sounded like people talking
but i cant make the sound,
" What the hell was that" i whispered to my self,
i ignored it the more and more ignored that voice,
creeping through my ear drum.
as if you were in their presence when they still alive,
i left the box behind the storage door and i heard this
" Oy! don't litter ****** things everywhere child!"
i ran as fast as i can and that distinct British accent,
just scared the living crap out of me,
there were no English teachers even active at the time
only local teachers that are in that building working,
still through this day hearing that class a voice manifesting
led me thinking why the hell i didn't bring my recorder.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
Sunshine speckled bright on calm water,
A white deluge of hawthorn blossoms,
Pour on to the canal.
Fields of mono colour yellow ****
Bordered by green hedgerows.
Flash metal blue swallows skim the water.
Mother duck marshals her unruly ducklings,
To disappear into the green.
The reeds on both banks lean towards each other.
Armies of spears about to engage,
Commanded by a grey coated crane.
The sandy path stretches ahead alone.
I could be school walking,
Carelessly kicking stones with new shoes.
Two swans slide past.
Sailing dhows off Borneo.
Once one crossed fine on my port bow,
A manoeuvre around his stern.
From the bridge I watched,
A friendly wave as we passed.
Mariners from different worlds.
Dragonflies spin amongst the blooming Iris,
Lilly pads have surfaced,
With little yellow periscope flowers.
And a lone red poppy stands almost out of place,
Demanding memory.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
Breaking news:
A woman in Brunei (a small monarchy on the island of Borneo, infamous for its misogynistic and barbaric punishments) was ****** last evening
She smoked two blunts and fell asleep on her couch
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 2:46 PM UTC
#*Single monks dwell alone, due to pride
but true monkeys go seeking their bride;
and a monkess (no nun)
loves some rain with her fun
on the street’s sunny simian side.*
Cohabiting the sky
suspended droplets and sunlight
cloud vapor silvered with solar illumination:
A MONKEY’S WEDDING !
We shrieked it and jumped around
along that shifting frontier
between childhood and joy
between sunshine and falling raindrops
MONKEYS !
We knew they were entering into conjugal bonds;
nuptial specifics were irrelevant
the celebration was probably far away
in Borneo or Congo or Amazonia . . . or behind the sky
but it was monkeys getting married
only there and then:
along that impermanent line
where the rain didn’t know the sun was out
and the sun did not know it was raining
that fine line: monkeyshine
shout it out (when you were 8)
negative ions in the air
distant yells of children
hopeful smell of peaceful summer neighborhoods
THE MONKEY’S WEDDING#
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 1:19 AM UTC