"excerpts" poems
In case no one gets it,
i collect my excerpts
better
than i spell my prayer.
Spills my personal feelings
and trouble,
longer than i bow
on my knees.
i memorize every shame
and quote it
in a piece of paper,
the same stroke
they did to break
my bones.
Marks down
every of their tone
when i got yelled at,
being degraded.
In case no one gets it,
i use my fingertips to fight.
Being sure of my words,
but never myself.
They can take off my guts,
break down my sanity
into pieces of insecurity.
Yet i’m here to remain bold
until the last spill of ink,
and my pen
can no longer stand.
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 4:01 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein”
by Michael R. Burch
for Trump
I went to Berlin to learn wisdom
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
“Please despise me! I look like a Jew!”
So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom
from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes.
“If we lose this small square,” they informed me,
earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!”
I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom,
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!”
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)
So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I’m an Arab)
I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.
At last, done with learning, I stumbled
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American “justice.”
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.
Originally published by Café Dissensus
Keywords/Tags: Einstein, Adolph, ****** Berlin, Jew, Jews, Arab, Arabs, Palestinian, Palestinians, Vietnam, Vietnamese, American, Americans, Yankees, Domino, Theory, Dominoes, Jesus, Christ, Bible, Christian, Christianity, Slave, Slaves, Slavery, Israel, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:11 AM UTC
THE KNIGHT IN THE PANTHER’S SKIN
***** Rustaveli (c. 1160-1250), often called simply Rustaveli, was a Georgian poet who is generally considered to be the preeminent poet of the Georgian Golden Age. “The Knight in the Panther's Skin” or “The Man in the Panther’s Skin” is considered to be Georgia’s national epic poem and until the 20th century it was part of every Georgian bride’s dowry. It is believed that Rustaveli served Queen Tamar as a treasurer or finance minister and that he may have traveled widely and been involved in military campaigns. Little else is known about his life except through folk tradition and legend.
The Knight in the Panther's Skin
by ***** Rustaveli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
excerpts from the PROLOGUE
I sing of the lion whose image adorns the lances, shields and swords
of our Queen of Queens: Tamar, the ruby-throated and ebon-haired.
How dare I not sing Her Excellency’s manifold praises
when those who attend her must bring her the sweets she craves?
My tears flow profusely like blood as I extol our Queen Tamar,
whose praises I sing in these not ill-chosen words.
For ink I have employed jet-black lakes and for a pen, a flexible reed.
Whoever hears will have his heart pierced by the sharpest spears!
She bade me laud her in stately, sweet-sounding verses,
to praise her eyebrows, her hair, her lips and her teeth:
those rubies and crystals arrayed in bright, even ranks!
A leaden anvil can shatter even the strongest stone.
Kindle my mind and tongue! Fill me with skill and eloquence!
Aid my understanding for this composition!
Thus Tariel will be tenderly remembered,
one of three star-like heroes who always remained faithful.
Come, let us mourn Tariel with undrying tears
because we are men born under similar stars.
I, Rustaveli, whose heart has been pierced through by many sorrows,
have threaded this tale like a necklace of pearls.
Keywords/Tags: ***** Rustaveli, Georgia, Georgian, epic, knight, panther, skin, queen, Tamar, praise, praises, Tariel, Avtandil, Nestan-Darejan
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 1:38 AM UTC
keep the photographs
the city is overexposed again
take more walks in the nearby woods
the world we knew as children
watch out for frogs and detonators
mind the wires
new aerial boundaries at dawn
no one steps inside by choice
adapt to the proper order
and no sleeping under tables
the reflection tower is a good place to start
tourist trap, a certain approximate
bring the thing under the couch
in case of an unexpected visitor
more nightmares cut out of the newspaper
what is an Astra 600?
three different hat sizes
Hannie says yes to ménage à trois
the joy in discovery
the joy in forgetting
like God without a compass
not a lot, just forever
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC
There are butterflies
painted on the ceiling,
and moths clinging to
the light fixtures.
I pluck out my eyelashes
and make the same wish
on each one.
She holds my hand
and kisses my lips
and leaves me
gasping for air,
and I wonder if she's
just as confused as I am.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
Dear diary;
I need something
stronger than an ******
something that really rattles the bones
and shakes me to the core
of my soul.
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 7:09 AM UTC
“maybe in another life, louis,” i finally said, staring off at the distant city lights and buildings, feeling the cold creep insidiously into my bones. his name easily rolled off my tongue like a reflex — a muscle memory so deep-seated and yet so strange and unfamiliar now.
silence filled the air and yet, at the same time, it was filled with other things — defeat, heartbreak, resignation, the sounds of vehicles speeding off. the pain gnawing in my gut. the regretful yearning. the need to just be stupid and reach out for his hand. the pain of knowing i couldn’t. the finality of the ending.
and yet, here we stood, too close and too far.
he nodded and stirred lightly, as if preparing to leave. my gaze shifted into his direction. his movements, still slow and graceful, and lit by the moon. it was almost too painful, almost too delicate, almost too poetic. i could still remember what falling in love with him was like. i could still remember him breaking my heart for the first time, until the time where there are no more pieces left to break. and i would’ve done it all again.
he finally spoke, bringing me back to reality. it was almost too soft, too weak, but i heard it.
“maybe in another life.”
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 10:24 PM UTC
Who and Where in the World is Shaunna Harper?
A young poetess here at HP, a story teller, herein a Mashup, excerpts from her writings. Do not overlook her...
You hold your breath,
stagnant, absent
in the station,
trains grumbling about leaving
and about waiting,
people passing, chattering
about nothing
they are actually thinking about;
*** cheap wine, finances,
time, romances and of course,
the weather.
You stand on the platform
between two trains,
puffing fumes and
oil from its brains.
In your throat
somewhere
you mime the sounds
of a goodbye speech,
the silent, strained
words false even in
unspoken terms,
the ever-after of remorse,
the frailty of indecision.
I am somewhere either in the woods,
walking in the enormity of your shoes,
or in the water, making feeble shapes,
hoping to find you in the blue.
Not a child, ill with misfortune.
One of a kind, she dances
to her own gypsy tune,
free, enviable, fresh
to ears and eyes, not used,
like you or me,
or abused, immune to lies.
I am heading for a shock.
I am leaving home and arriving
only God knows where,
bags empty, head full,
and the place my roots took hold
is never going to look the same.
The win is not important,
only the playing of the game,
and the rules have been rewritten.
With every step covered,
I am someone else, somewhere else,
and only the disorientation remains.
I cannot make up my mind
from my dreams.
Chasing planes from buses
to cleaner places
better places
leaner places
the brittle, broken
fingernails chewed
to fray the anxiety.
America, I’m on my way.
Bury me in your deserts,
throw me to your cities
let my future do what it will
in its own sweet time.
Give me my fury.
Keep me swinging.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
Have you ever just wanted to hold someone so desperately, and hope against hope for the days that hugs used be magical and heal all that ails? It is now that a tear falls, because 1000 miles is too far, and my arms aren't long enough, and I can't change that.
**We are all depraved
You just embrace the darkness
Most choose to ignore**
All I want is to hold you and let you eat me alive so that your emptiness is filled with me and you are never alone.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
He is ancient steadfast
I am sure he was here when the world was created
I am sure he will be here when it ends
His gentle face carved with hard lines
He poured forth knowledge in his native Persian tongue
He called me Shohre
I learned it was his sister's name
He looked at me like a granddaughter and treated me just as sweet
“Ghabl az enghalab...”
Before the revolution...
After which would follow painful reminiscing of
The days before the current regime
When wine bubbled out from Shiraz
Men and women danced late into the night
And soft voices wove love songs in street cafes
“Ghabl az enghalab moalem dar daneshgah boodam.”
Before the revolution I was a university professor.
“Yeki az daneshjooyanam Ahmedinejad bood.”
One of my students was Ahmedinejad.
And in English, clear as hate,
“He was a *******
One night I stayed back for extra lessons
We ate cherries from Costco and
Read excerpts from his autobiography
Pages crafted from right to left, vignettes of
His military service in Mashhad
And consequent teaching career
“Ba'ad az enghalab...”
After the revolution...
Was always followed with war stories
Political dissidents lost to Evin prison
Sharia law imposed on moderate minds
Escaping Iran by night with a phony visa
“Ba'ad az enghalab dar ketabkhane bayad kar konam”
After the revolution I had to work in the library.
“Khoastam yad bedahm, pas man o zanam be Amrika raftim.”
I wanted to teach, so my wife and I came to America.
He has not been home since 1981.
On December third of 2009 he walked smugly into the classroom
Setting a tape player happily on a desk.
He opened a folder from right to left
Produced a well-worn cassette
And played Happy Birthday, in Persian, for me.
He smiled at me with hands folded throughout the song
As I’d imagine he had smiled at
All the other special women in his life named Shohre.
He never played Happy Birthday for any of the other students.
Or gave them cherries,
Or went to their weddings,
Or held them while they cried when their grandfather died.
I do not know what he saw in me
But in each other we found family years and miles away from home.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
My heart is racing faster than ever before,
my thoughts refuse to slow down,
everything inside of me is shaking,
all because the possibility of you and me.
I have never been this terrified in my life,
and you haven't the slightest clue,
you're causing flash floods in my veins
every time you speak my name.
When you say I'm a good man,
I start to forget how to swim,
but if this is what you call drowning,
I don't ever want to breathe again.
I want to tell you how I feel,
but I'm trapped beneath the waves,
forming syllables is walking on water,
and I'm still caught in the storm.
~ Matthew Walker ~
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
I woke up this morning at nine am
and traveled through all of Switzerland,
it was breathtaking.
Snow painted the mountains white while the trees tops colored the hills
with speckles of gold.
Ground level,
the grass glistened in neon green hues. Everything was stunning,
everything was chilled.
I thought of you again today.
I saw the color of your eyes
Flickering through the sunlit trees.
I'm exhausted.
But the colors of maroon and umber
Dance by my vessel.
Unaware of their angles and curves.
Be weary of those who adore
The spirit of Autumn.
The frosted noses,
Or hot cinnamon flavored wine.
I climbed the astrological clock.
I spray painted the Lennon Wall.
I fell in love with you,
Actually I always was.
Pieces of me are ripped
And scattered across the globe.
I'm a paper plane,
Calculated to the pressure point.
I miss the feel of the cold air,
And the skin on your stomach.
Move forward free spirit,
**** the dysphoria,
And learn to be alive for once.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
When I was in the thick of it,
struggling with that depression and all it's horrors,
if I was having a really bad day,
I would climb out my bedroom window
and put a blanket on my roof
and lie there until the sun went down.
It's my favorite part of the day.
It just makes you feel good,
seeing something so beautiful, you know?
That's how I feel when I look at you.
There's a million sunsets in your eyes
and everything feels okay when they meet mine.
You are my favorite part of the day.
~ Matthew Walker ~
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Excerpts from the Journal of Dorian Gray
by Michael R. Burch
It was not so much dream, as error;
I lay and felt the creeping terror
of what I had become take hold . . .
The moon watched, silent, palest gold;
the picture by the mantle watched;
the clock upon the mantle talked,
in halting voice, of minute things . . .
Twelve strokes like lashes and their stings
scored anthems to my loneliness,
but I have dreamed of what is best,
and I have promised to be good . . .
Dismembered limbs in vats of wood,
foul acids, and a strangled cry!
I did not care, I watched him die . . .
Each lovely rose has thorns we miss;
they ***** our lips, should we once kiss
their mangled limbs, or think to clasp
their violent beauty. Dream, aghast,
the flower of my loveliness,
this ageless face (for who could guess?),
and I will kiss you when I rise . . .
The patterns of our lives comprise
strange portraits. Mine, I fear,
proved dear indeed . . . Adieu!
The knife’s for you.
Keywords/Tags: Oscar Wilde, portrait, Dorian Gay, journal, ageless, face, youthful, unchanging, rose, thorns, ***** vat, acid, acids, dismembered limbs, violent beauty, knife
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:55 AM UTC
I'm being ripped at the seams, slowly shredded into a fine paper doll,
then crucified,
nailed to the peeling yellow walls with a push pin,
creased,
stained,
mocked,
graffitied,
ignored,
buried beneath a galaxy of poor paper martyrs,
then finally crumbled - -
and as I fold in on myself,
as I twist, contort, break, shatter, transform,
undergo a tragic metamorphosis,
I begin to feel alive again.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
If you are the sun, I am the ocean's waves,
we are two different poems refusing to collide,
alas, no amount of longing will strip the sun
from the skies just to make her mine.
You are gentle while I am storming,
but there's an order to my chaos,
a system to the way my waves crash,
if you would just memorize me,
you could understand my seas.
I know we're caught in separate worlds,
but I've seen the way the sun embraces
the edge of the sea before it goes to sleep,
maybe it's not time for the sun to set,
yet I'm still dreaming to be your horizon.
~ Matthew Walker ~
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 1:23 AM UTC
Oh Lord, nourish me not with love but with the desire
for love. IBN ‘ARABÎ
Not only the thirsty seek the water,
the water as well seeks the thirsty. RÛMÎ
Ecstasy is a flame which springs up in the secret heart,
and appears out of longing. PAUL NWYIA
Open your hidden eyes and return to the root of the root
of your own self. RÛMÎ
The inner truth of desire is that it is a restive motion in
the heart in search of God. AL-QUSHAYRÎ
excerpts from "Travelling the Path Of Love Sayings of Sufi Masters"
Apr 5, 2023
Apr 5, 2023 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dear diary;
Why is it that my
misery craves company
the more my morale
continues to fade?
Too many times have I
known flesh that was
not my own
this year and it has
taken me too long to realize
that it isn't the cure.
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 12:51 AM UTC
.... it's normal...maybe it's not,
maybe, i overdo it....yet, i still do it...
i always think of things to come
...at day time....even late nights,
thinking too much of my children
my children's children...i must always
be there...for when they need help...
i worry too about my siblings
i even think of my siblings' brood
my dear friends and their worries
...thinking how i can help them...
later, i get weary....fed up at times,
exhausted from worrying, wondering
how i could offer even a bit of a remedy
especially when they are too far to be
touched warmly...or, my hands are tied,
....or, not that long to reach out...
i realize before long...i am not alone
decidedly, i refuse to be solaced
by the thought, that my worries
could just be pebbles...not rocks...
i musn't compare at all....
(excerpts from an old posted poem...edited)
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
Two excerpts, for the full article, see the notes
"It occurred to me that there were two sets of virtues, the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace. The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?
We all know that the eulogy virtues are more important than the résumé ones. But our culture and our educational systems spend more time teaching the skills and strategies you need for career success than the qualities you need to radiate that sort of inner light. Many of us are clearer on how to build an external career than on how to build inner character.
But if you live for external achievement, years pass and the deepest parts of you go unexplored and unstructured. You lack a moral vocabulary. It is easy to slip into a self-satisfied moral mediocrity. You grade yourself on a forgiving curve. You figure as long as you are not obviously hurting anybody and people seem to like you, you must be O.K. But you live with an unconscious boredom, separated from the deepest meaning of life and the highest moral joys. Gradually, a humiliating gap opens between your actual self and your desired self, between you and those incandescent souls you sometimes meet."
"External ambitions are never satisfied because there’s always something more to achieve. But the stumblers occasionally experience moments of joy. There’s joy in freely chosen obedience to organizations, ideas and people. There’s joy in mutual stumbling. There’s an aesthetic joy we feel when we see morally good action, when we run across someone who is quiet and humble and good, when we see that however old we are, there’s lots to do ahead.
The stumbler doesn’t build her life by being better than others, but by being better than she used to be. Unexpectedly, there are transcendent moments of deep tranquillity. For most of their lives their inner and outer ambitions are strong and in balance. But eventually, at moments of rare joy, career ambitions pause, the ego rests, the stumbler looks out at a picnic or dinner or a valley and is overwhelmed by a feeling of limitless gratitude, and an acceptance of the fact that life has treated her much better than she deserves.
Those are the people we want to be."
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
I used to be hidden in my room
choking at my mouth's roof
as if stuck within a stutter,
exhausted from existing, hinging
like a wind-chime battered by a hurricane.
Then a troubadour with honey hair
had me humming to his ear-worm
of a melody, depicting a choreography
that jolted my legs into frenetic mania
like an early talkie starlet's.
For years, I have memorized
this intricate chord structure,
immersed myself in its crescendos
until I could belt it backwards.
It's the only song I know by heart.
There is this one tune, though,
if you can even call it that,
this atonal reverberation that alerts
the darkest corners of my mind,
a slowly muttered siren song
leading to lands I never want to visit.
I can never fully decipher
the lyrics to an entire verse.
It's the excerpts, scattered
like dust mites in a concert hall,
that try to nibble at me piecemeal,
romanticizing the revolving door
of self-destruction, bruises
veiled as smudged calligraphy.
So please excuse the minor notes
that hiccup from my vocal cords
every other half moon or so.
It's just the ebb and flow
of awkward drumming
that disorients the ear,
causes me to trip up
on the patchwork of refrains
we've spent so much time weaving
into heavenly cohesion.
Above all, please remember
that no static or din
will ever shoehorn its way
into our ironclad harmony.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
let me tell you the story
of the girl who laced cigarettes
with the taste of coffee
the girl who stained tissue napkins with sappy phonetics
and the guy who knew nothing of the sort
she carved heartbreak on the surface of her wrists
and broke silence with unessential questions
she wore her wounds in a tight braid
and carried her worries on the pages of a paper-back book
she described her mind as retired
from all the wars she has won and lost
she exclaims sighs of relief
and stands by the neutrality of her hopeless idealism
on the other side of the universe, however
there exists
the personification of oblivion
he betrays his race with an unrecognized voice
and words misunderstood by his own kind
he returns to his world for temporary release
of what
he is still unsure of
and yet
he is certain of the presence of sadness
he masks his isolation with a facade of self-accompaniment
and satisfies his inner desires with empty seats
he covers up his chapters with bottles of prohibition
and mystifies the tables with ashes of past regret
he sings about tomorrow as if it holds a promise
a promise of better days to come
he has gone from mountain to mountain
in hopes of a brighter view of the sun
but amidst all his travels,
he is yet to be blinded by the brightest of flames
and so,
he appears to be void
of reason
of worth
of a sense of purpose
of plans of the future
and maybe this is where the story ends.
with both their hands shaking from an overdose
with momentary glances of unread excerpts of themselves
with the unspoken truths
and with held-back melodies of lyrics still unknown
with curses of similarities
and vows of their difference
with her,
believing she already knows too much
and with him,
thinking she is yet to know more
or maybe I was wrong.
because maybe,
just maybe,
this is where the story begins.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
we are bystanders at heart.
you always thought fools gold was beautiful
and we knew how to reach for highlighted
books in tattered low lighted bookstores
where people used to show compassion for
the little things.
old men croaked in these heavy feathered seats
but that didn't matter much.
it gave the place some history it never really had.
we would read each other excerpts that had no
significance and you would think of me as
kind of beautiful.
some nights we would drink wine, but then switch
to spiced *** to try and knock out the
thoughts that left bad tastes on our
swollen tongues.
i'd end up too drunk, and you'd find your
fingers woven in my hair that was too soft to
hold on.
sometimes you wished it was like wool,
keeping your hands from rigor mortis and
keeping me close to your bee hive body case,
busy with engulfing my bystander heart.
wool quilting to your shoulders,
you wouldn't give this up.
we may be patch work and hungover,
but at least we can keep each other warm.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
i didn't know how angry
a scar could be until i saw
one on myself it was something
like a pocket-sized chilean coast
dragged across my knee disrupting
and hills still dispersing as an acl
torn but unseen like how the many
excerpts of dreams were wiped clean
the anger is always ephemeral but
it always comes back whenever
i want to feel breeze in hair perhaps
i just miss the delaware river scene
and a long ago when my pencils
moved too quickly for my thoughts
yes indeed maybe i just miss loving
the journey not for the end like the
part where i did not know anything yet
still believed that it was all for the better
Apr 3, 2024
Apr 3, 2024 at 5:55 PM UTC