"classification" poems
#
*This coup
A new nation
Loyal dedication
Its classification*
‘Species procreation’
Prevents us from facing
A human cessation
selective mutation
Gestation
Creation
It may help explaining
The reasons
Behaving
*But not the foundation
Or actions
We’re basing*
A simplification
is “continuation”
A checkbox
left vacant
*Fulfillment
We’re chasing*
We sweat
Eyes are gazing
A slight
palpitation
In need of hydration
Complete excitation
Without
hesitation
Intense stimulation
**Deep urges
Heart racing**
*Driven
By sensations*
**Unbounded fixation
Pelvic
Undulations
Clothing
Perforations
Time no longer wasting**
***This capitulation
a Sanctification
****** gyrations
Hint of ***********
The bedroom
Safe haven
For what
we are craving
*Once out
and displaying*
It all had been taken
Before
Feeling vacant
Freed imagination
A resuscitation
Indulged depravation
A rhythm
we’re setting
The giving and getting
**Destroying
the bedding**
All else I’m forgetting
Entwined
with each other
Like entangled netting
*Both
on the same trip
In a unified heading*
Now comes
the summation
A true
Revelation
Final
culmination
Smash all expectations
***Volcanic
eruption***
That lasts the duration
**Loud gasp
We unlock**
Filled with gratification
#
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
Hi, below I copy a humorous hiabun, which I shared as an exercise to mentor enquiring and inspired poets to learn, so they might adopt and try different techniques and then give critique together with awesome comments... Yes, I used the words *** ****** and **** for context the rest was left to an individual imagination as in good poetry!
It included reflective commentary encompasses innocent classification terminology used in the critique, reading, examining, appreciating, understanding and writing of poetry for example: POETIC DEVICES (enjambement, duality, keriji, images, collocation, semantic, oxymoron, repetition, listing etc.), STORY (personification, characterisation, subject, context, voice etc.), IMAGERY (synaesthesia), STRUCTURE ( lineation, breaks, syntactic etc.), SOUNDS (syllables, rhyme, alliteration, pace, musicality, phrasing, beat, assonance, onomatopoeia, mouthed rhythms, patterned) and WORDS (preposition, determiner, verbs, adverbs, lexical, nouns, adjectives) used by poets, critics and academics...
And here it is :
**** tongue-in-cheek haibun - a reflective commentary on writing a popular tanka
Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile
My first inspiration was *** passionate life squeezing screaming *** the thumping wall musicality of *** exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet.
I wanted to make it a senryu but for duality the female characterisation demanded two more lines each extending to seven syllables.
Arousing images captured her moaning splashing loneliness in unusual collocation.
I was first excited by the placement of a hovering extended enjambement to give life to my final line, whilst also considering the satisfaction in using noisy mouthed rhythms.
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context with a watery semantic field, that suggested she would choke and drown.
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’ as a cutting keriji to make clear the dominating ****** context, having previously used a preposition and determiner to maintain duality!
Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite
**
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My era’s obscuring mirror
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.
Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurd, Kurdish, translation, mirror, shattered, magnified, dictators, monsters, jagged, shards, sweat, perspire, leak, bleed, extrude, protrude, glass
The Lonely Earth
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The pale celestial bodies
never bid her "Good morning! "
nor do the creative stars
kiss her.
Earth, where so many tender persuasions and roses lie interred,
might expire for the lack of a glance, or an odor.
She's a lonely dusty orb,
so very lonely! , as she observes the moon's patchwork attire
knowing the sun's an imposter
who sears with rays he has stolen for himself
and who looks down on the moon and earth like lodgers.
Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there's nowhere left to nest, no refuge from their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don't think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.
Bi Havre (“Together”)
possibly the oldest Kurdish poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want us to be together:
we would eat together,
climb the mountain together,
sing songs together, songs of love,
songs from the heart, sung from above.
I want us to have one heart, together.
Many words in this ancient poem are in doubt, so I have excerpted what I grok to be the central meaning.
And because Kajal mentioned Rumi, here are my translations of Rumi:
Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 3:00 AM UTC
This specific autumnal celebration is characterised by throbbing obscenities, where a masquerade of piety resembles the trembling jester as he performs before medieval royalty.
Oh, to witness the salmon run in Northern ecosystems where the caniform classification stands in a dominant stance at the edge of the falls.
So, my independent and competitive contemporary, let us bow with sober reflection at those anthropological schools who swim upstream in this spiritual river in the vain pursuit of unattainable freedom.
Today, on this second Monday of October, the name of the game has been brutally ***** by propagandist salesmen.
So, at this juncture of existential consumerism, we stand within the jaws of our ever-smiling aristocracy. But, if you dare to open your eyes, my friend of unfathomable denial; you will find that the tradition is called Thanksgiving.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
I feel bad for black sometimes,
It’s not a colour but a lack thereof.
Some wear it to mourn the dead,
Some wear it because they are intrigued,
Some wear it to follow the fashion head,
Some wear it out of need.
It’s the most controversial colour.
I think it’s confused,
Does it stand for impending doom?
Does it stand for ignorance?
Or,
Does it stand for the freedom of a race?
Does it stand for class?
It ***** in all the energy around,
Only taking, never giving.
Why does it do that though?
Why does it act like a sociopath?
Is it because the other colours don’t treat it right?
The others call it a colour,
Even though it’s not,
Even with the same classification,
It’s not one of them.
I wonder if it feels lonely?
Will its dilemma never end?
Will it always stand alone?
Or will it find a friend?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
I know what I am,
I know who I am,
But I am not sure who I am,
Or what I am,
They call me Black,
I do not know if I am Black,
They call me African,
But am I African,
Where these names came from,
I wonder,
Maybe they are just nicknames,
Yes,
Fom those historical enermies who were up to degrade me,
I do not know who I am,
But I know for sure I'm just a poor millionaire,
Poor in Western materialistic classification,
I know I am Umuntu,
A millionaire Umuntu,
Rich in Ubuntu,
But that's not all,
I'm in search of my identity,
I need to know who the hell I am,
For I am black and African,
But I'm neither Black
Nor African.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
Kurds are Birds
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge for their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.
And because Kajal mentioned Rumi, here are my translations of Rumi:
Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong
by Rumi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Birdsong relieves
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!
Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurdish, translation, Kurds, birds, nomads, caravans, refuge, homeland, fly, land, flying, landing, colony, nest, nesting, Rumi, Nali
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 3:24 AM UTC
On wicked things
My confidence is spent
My passions pent
Do not relent
But spew as they vent
Desire classified
As what you eyed
What we spied
Others despised
Told lies
To restrain the vain
To maintain
Their golden veins
Morality impugn
Tricks imbued
The trickster
With new power
New class and classification
For the ossification
Of our nation
And bends our wills
To theirs
And decrees shame
For what is natural
Fear of what is original
Yes they call it sin
But I call it life
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
*i.
He told her
That mathematics was too
Sombre.
Too, too
Linear
To be poetic.
She said that
He had only seen himself
In a mirror,
A reversed hologram
Of his external self
Burned into his retinas with
His subconscious filling in the gaps.
But she had seen him
The rays reflected straight off him
Into her eyes;
Not some half-assed reflection
Off some silvered surface.
ii.
She said that
His jawline was
The slope of a curve
Pencilled on a graph sheet.
His candlewax skin
A wavelength
Quantifiable on paper.
His spine
A number line with
Dashes, to show real numbers
The set of which was infinite.
She said that
A Fibonacci sketch was
A minimalist rose,
A post-modern bouquet.
And that
The reflected pale morning sun
In a half finished cup of camomile tea
Was a cardioid
With fixed coordinate values on the axes
And an algorithmic tangent.
And he
Was a negative infinity
A paradox not sorted under
Quine's classification system.
iii.
She had
Recorded his heartbeat and blood pressure;
Measured the distance between his lips with her own;
Tried so hard, so very, very hard
To put him down in a numerical form
And write him off as an equation.
But all she could say was
That he was more
Than the sum total of his meagre parts
And that she
Was his reciprocal value.*
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
It has never been my intension
nor was it ever a bone of contention
to alter or disrupt the social convention
but now is the time to pay close attention
to the decline of the human condition
Responsibility rescinded creating moral decomposition
accountability abandoned causing legal repercussion
right and wrong are muddled in a malicious juxtaposition
public opposition has festered into social imperfection
the omission of tradition by politician’s redefinition
HEED THIS ADMONITION OR ARDENT APPREHENSION
SAGACIOUS SUSPICION AND PERSISTANT PREVENTION
Of the decommission of the Physician, Pediatrician
the Technician, and the Mathematician
and give this acquisition to those with no ambition
even those under suspicion of sedition
or held in detention without fear of restitution
This is the deception of the devolution
of the middle classification
and the total destruction
of American personification
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
Walking around in the rain.
The veil is lifted.
Blindness ripped away
The colors wash through
Black, white, yellow and blue
There is no more any can do
To end all the hate
All this pain
All these tears
No one is different
The individual disappears
They are them
We are us
But we are better than them
They live their lives
We live ours
We have nothing in common
No, not one
Our goal is the top
We know we are there
Superior in every way
Destroy the others
They have no right to live
Because we are superior
That is the way it has always been
What would happen
If we were color blind
It would still continue
Never to stop
Stereotypes everywhere
Classification of the way they live
Under the microscope
Struggling to survive
History takes its course
And no one cares
Unstoppable force
Of hatred
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
I have the shape of the institution.
Each email address is a human.
They are known by their words and actions.
The whole wide world is just a fraction
of all I do not know. Expansion
and contraction, breathe in, out, meditation
on existence, non-existence, creation
and duration. I have no explanation
for fusion, fission, taxonomic relations
or artificial classification.
More I do not know: locomotion
by combustion, electron separation
and transportation via superconduction
which supports the idea of the unified nation.
What girls are like behind their eyes. ************
a useful restraint on overpopulation.
The story of a life, my life, any life, cohesion
must be rationed, conjured, a fiction
about a vexed, tenacious town, its rail station
truck stop, high school, night spots, recreations
the temporary citizens enact visions
dream-like orations, ballets, conflagrations
to in the end receive in annals honorable mention
from family, friends, neighbors, colleagues, institutions.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
In the midst of knowledge and lack of interest.
In the midst of the schizophrenic and the sane.
In the midst of a generations pulse and silence.
In the midst of rainbows and a shade of black.
In the midst of learning within walls and mistakes.
In the midst of a diamond cave and decay.
In the midst of recession and curiosity.
In the midst of ******* and beliefs.
In the midst of losing and meeting people, with in people.
In the midst of corruption and delicacy.
In the midst of holy metaphors and touches.
In the midst of scratched knees and ignorance.
In the midst where black smoke, meets clear blue skies.
In the midst of isolation and others thoughts.
In the midst of debris and empires.
In the midst of a womb and a crippled old man.
In the midst of what you saw, hear and everything to come.
In the midst of phases and judgment.
In the midst of an ultimatum and obligation.
In the midst of white sheets and brown eyes.
In the midst of fantasies and ceilings.
In the midst of sight and dreams.
In the midst of contact and illusions.
In the midst of classification and fractions.
In the midst of repetition and time.
In the midst of blame and arrogance.
In the midst of feelings and stones.
In the midst of a significant others warmth, and a stranded iceberg.
In the midst of emotions trapped under dry soil, and the season they bloom.
In the midst of walking with clothes, and sleeping naked.
In the midst of eternity and extinction of saliva.
I’m here waiting to pierce through your existence.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
You know
they say that
you should be careful
of the
things that fly out of your mouth,
because you never know
how how it might land.
Just like
how airplanes
try to land on
gusty airports,
trying to
land on the tarmac.
There are chances that it might
just instead of landing
like a kiss of a woman on
the lips of a man she loves,
their teeth and nose get in the way.
Your words,
can land improperly
the airplanes that carry the best of feelings,
turn into dynamites.
Exploding violently.
Misguided missiles
that does nothing but destroy,
just like how the army promised us,
that this will bring us happiness and safety,
but
only at the cost of the nation its bombing,
leaving its soil,
turmoiled,
disfigured,
and produces nothing
But
radioactive plants,
we have come up
with a classification for it,
we call it
insecurities.
So don't ask me if I'm ok,
if you did nothing but
toss explosives at my feelings
cause clearly
I'm destroyed.
So no,
I'm not ok.
You
cannot stitch
tofu
back together,
after being sliced into two.
That
a sorry
will not be a substitute
for superglue,
using it to stick back
broken pieces of me.
So remember this,
that
the next time
you release statements
words,
phrases,
that you have the
power
disintegrate
the person receiving them.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?
Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!
All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.
Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.
Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where
What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.
Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?
The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.
The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
Here we go,
take your pick:
which is worse?
to cry and not feel
or to hold back the tears?
in public?...
which is worse?
living in a house made of glass brick?
or a house armored thick?
so no one can ever see you...
or harm you
or your house...
which is worse?
being in a body you cannot stand?
or being the person you said you can't
are you your own?
or are you being held captive
perhaps by a former you
are you your own?
or have you turned on yourself
lied and said that it was to protect the rest of the world
rationalized
you are too clever
you are too violent
you are too... much,
or so they say.
yet its all on credit, an unregarded tab
and someone somewhere is keeping track
your words they twist and turn
they are vines and veins
whose blood they burn
you deconstruct meaning
transcending with every verse
it is a blessing, it is a blessing
it is a curse, it is a curse
oh but which is worse?
immediate classification no, judgmental interpretations?
descriptive deliberation of informative investigations
soon as the information is deliberately delivered
to the perception of my appreciation
artistic systemization
or
casting all this self manipulation aside in finalization
and choosing self mutilation
for the preservation of the rest of the nation
all the while, pleading through consideration
which is worse?
which is better?
to be everything is to be nothing
lack of identification.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
As if ornithology was the Esperanto of poets
wishing to construct a phoneme or pheromone
to extoll the details rather than build the case.
Spinning from my orbit as you, wondering
in sparse moments cleared by rain
do birds perch along the Grand Elysee in Zaatari?
And humans, uprooted, children too knowing blood:
what mode of classification, what terms to agree on
face-to-face down those dusty avenues?
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
I wonder sometimes
What it is the that people see
When they look at me
What it is that people notice first
It never ceases to amaze
Just how many seem to have
A hard time really classifying me
I think that we tend to classify people in general
Its often very easy to just
To automatically make assessment off of what we see
We almost have a harder time
Dealing with the people that are ambiguous
That we can't classify right away
Than the people that seem to fit
The stereotypes
Or are preconceived ideas
About how we think
People should behave
Or even look
And if people don't
Automatically fit
Into our neat little boxes
And into a neat little
Classification
Its almost like we repel those people
Somehow it scares us to see people
That don't fit into our ideas
Our ideals of normalcy that is based
On social constructs that we have
Built ourselves
I think we need to step
Away from putting people
In small boxes
We need to start really
Looking at people
Getting past the stigmas
And the social constructs
That we put on certain people
And seeing the person for who they are
Everyone is lost in their own ways
We all could use a little help here and there
But when you automatically
Shun someone
Or push someone aside
Based on superficial constructs
You ultimately end up alienating them
But you are ultimately alienating yourself
Living in lies and false fears
That are based on false precepts in the first place
We all want to be seen as people
We all want to have our own voices
To have our own views
Without worrying about being judged
Or classified by anyone
We are all human
We all deserve to be treated as such
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
I’m not a botanist,
or an avid gardener.
The horto I culture consists of two pots,
sits on a narrow sill
and soaks in its one-hour slit of sunshine.
This makes me unfit
to label much less
fathom the encroaching
sublime, which sprouts,
shoots, creeps, clings and endures
from far reaches beyond me.
It has spines
supple and rigid,
skins coarse, spiked, and silky,
quivering tips that are spidery,
and bunched as small dollops,
jagged teardrops and jigsaw puzzle pieces.
I’m not a botanist,
but if I were
I should still be struck dumb
by these numbing instances
a protesting tongue
insists it won’t box up
such greenery with the genial trappings
of a scientific classification,
or even the oddly
folksy catch-all ****
I can’t always tell what’s a **** what not.
l know those greedy
intruders growing at the heart
of a meticulously turned earth
to spoil the well-ordered
plots of a barely adequate vocabulary.
It gets more complicated
with the thrilling misfits
and their sturdier notions
of choking life from inhospitable beds
poured and paved
to the detriment of meeker plantings.
Yesterday I met the peeks of ten
woody red stems poking through
a patch of chunky white gravel
spread thick between two
steel rails that fled to a horizon.
I watched the breeze
shake their candelabra arms
dressed in sparse leaves
and denser seed-packed sleeves,
and they welcomed it.
I'm not a botanist
and I can’t name these plants,
but I can admit, I admired them.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
you.
me.
him.
her.
us...
and them.
classification.
an act of separation.
put the pieces together for sanity,
unaware of truth,
reality.
battles between us with no intent,
your god, my god,
he's gay...and she's not.
living beneath a blindfold.
a dark, heavy blindfold.
but, ignorance is bliss right?
well, then why do I lay awake at night
dreaming,
eyes open,
dreaming,
of the vast ocean where
creatures,
bazaar creatures of the deep
live...no,
thrive with no sleep,
in a world within a world.
I wonder if they dream of us too.
can they imagine me..or you?
or do they dream of worlds unseen?
where souls matter more than green,
where limitations do not persist,
where us and them,
do more than coexist,
where no man has a use for blow,
there,
there is where I'd like to go.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
His shoulders fascinate you;
Both mechanical and organic,
Soft, capable, broad
Like the horses of your youth and just as shy.
Invisible breaths and phantom winds caress the fine divots of your vertebrae:
Divots never loved by tangible lips.
Your skin bristles, hair rises,
Prickles come in waves down the limbs.
You wish you knew each muscle’s scientific classification
To give as a gift,
A mantra,
A prayer to whisper against his delicately whorled ear.
His eyes
Bottle green and limned with straw debris
They rest in shadow beneath sloping brows,
Lashes as long and thick as yours when you use lacquer,
Tunnels to the mind you idolize,
Panes through which you search for the pulse of his soul.
You think of his eyes open,
Think of what dreams are projected against their lids
At night, when yours struggle to escape the sheets.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC