"hans" poems
Jo puraani yaadon mein zindagi dhundha kartey hai
unhe sirf do pal ki muskurahat naseeb hoti hai
aur phir umar bhar ki tanhai
ek aisi tanhai jaha hum bhari mehfil mein bhi akele ** jaate hai
aur adhura pan bhi hamein pura lagne lagta hai
ek aisi manhoosiyat dil pe cha jaati hai Jo chahe bhi mit nhi paati aur vo yaadein bhulaaye bhi bhula nhi paate reh reh k **** mein gade kaante ki tarah dard diye jaata hai
aur hum hans hans kar ise taal diya karte hai kyun ki shaayad mukaddar ko yahi manzur tha
kya shikva hum kisi aur se kare
jab manzil hi humse Ruth gayi
Jo naayab tohfa khuda se mili
haatho se yun choot gayi
vo toot k bikhri aur kinare par jaa Giri
aur kashti humari doob gayi
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Kagaz ki kashtiyon mein kai bar safar kar liya,
ab ek lambi udan bhar lene do.
Aj in bandhe hue pankhon ko khuli hava mein sans le lene do,
kyunki ab girne ka khauff nahin raha.
Daudne mein ab koi maza nahin hai,
kyunki yahan to hava jaise tham si gayi **
Ab rukne ka bilkul man nahin raha,
aj to toofanon mein sair karne lene do.
Dayron mein rehte hue adhi zindagi guzar gayi,
aj to un hadon ko par kar lene do.
Dar dar ke kab tak khamosh rahoge dost,
zameen par jeet jane mein kuch nahin rakha ,
aj to uchaiyon par jashn mana lene do.
Unke chale hue raston ko kai bar nap liya,
aj mujhe bhi apni pehchan bana lene do.
Kismat ka rona to sabhi rote hain,
aj mujhe bhi apne naseeb ka kora kagaz rang lene do.
Kabhi kabhi to man karta hai ki
un azad parindon ki tarah hava mein bas tairta hi reh jaoon.
Asan to kuch nahin par sochta *** ki
aj namumkin ko hi apna dost bana loon.
Kitabon ke panne kafi palat liye,
aj mujhe bhi do shabd likh lene do.
Hans lene do jinhe hansna hai mere in mazboot iradon par.
Kya samjhenege who is khuli udan ki masti ko,
jinhe kabhi bharosa nahin hua khud par,
aur hamesha rakha tha apne armanon ko pinjre mein kaid kar.
Khule asman mein aj ek bar ud lene do,
kya pata kal wahan bhi zaroorat se jyada bheed **
Kai dinon ke bad aj ek bar fir azad hone ka man kiya hai
Tod do in bediyon ko, kyunki aj ek lambi udaan bharne ka iraada hai
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 9:20 AM UTC
Judai
~~♥~~
Suno jaana
Mujhse kai logo ne pucha hai.
judai kaisi hoti hai.
judai kaisi hoti hai.
Me kehta hu
Zara thehro batata hu.
judai kaisi hoti hai.
judai aisi hoti hai.
bhari mehfil me bhi
kahi tanhai me kho jana.
Kirchi kirchi kanch ke
tukdo sa bikhar jana.
Or un tukdo me ek hi bas
ek hi chehere ka nazar ana.
Judai aisi hoti hai.
Simatna chah kar bhi
khud se na simat pana.
Har kisi ke samne
muskan chehre par le ana.
Dard saare chupane ki
ek nakaam si be-matlab
koshish kiye jaana.
khud apne aap se us
lamhat me nafrat si ** jana.
Judai aisi hoti hai.
Mulakato ke naam pe
milna u to kai logo se
har chehre me usi bas Usi chehre ko dhundte jaana.
Naam uska apne
lab pe saja lena.
Us ki kahi koi baat
yaad ane par rote hue thahake mar ke hans dena.
Or hans kar ke ek dam se khamosh ** jaana.
Naam uska le kar gir padna.
kai raato tak aansuo se
takiyo ko bigo dena.
Duao me usi ke liye
haatho ko failana.
khwabo or khayalo me
usi se wasta rakhna.
na mil pane ka ghum
is dil ko satana.
Or fir tut kar bikhar jaana.
Judai aisi hoti hai.
Jhukaye gardan fir kabro me apni lout aa jaana.
Jise ham ghar bhi kehte hai.
Use Suna sa dekh kar kadmo ka theher jaana.
fir na utha pana.
Ye sab kya hai
judai ki nishani hai.
Na mil pana, satana, or har kadam har moud par tut'te bas tut'te jana.
Judai aisi hoti hai.
Jaise andheri si gufao me talash roshni ki ** jaana.
jaise kisi apne ke haatho se haatho ka bichad jana.
Fir na mil pana.
kisi apne ko jata dekh kar
Dur se aawaze laga kar rokna.
Apne haatho ko jhatak na or diwaro pe patak dena.
Or bas kuch na kar pana.
bhari aankho se use
dur hote dekhte jana.
Palkey tak na jhapkana.
Fir aansuo ka jaise
sailab aa jana.
judai ki aag me
jalna,jhulasna
or zinda reh jana.
judai aisi hoti hai.
Judai aisi hoti hai.
Nk Sairam :)
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 5:20 AM UTC
Ki haar gaya tan tan man puakar kar tumhe
Kitne ekaki hai pyar kar tumhe
Ki jis pal haldi lepi hogi tan par maa
Jis pal sakhio ne saupi hongi saugaate
Dholak ki thappo me , ghunghroo ki runjhoon me
Ghulkar faili hongi ghar me pyari baate
Uss pal meethi si dhun , sune kamre me sun
Roye man chausar par haar kar tumhe
Kitne ekaki hai pyar kar tumhe .....
Haar gya tan man ..........re haar gya re..
Kal tak jo humko , tumko milwa deti thi
Un sakhio ke pprashno ne toka to hoga
Saajan ki anjuri par anjuri kaapi hogi
Meri sudhio ne rasta roka to hoga
Uss pal socha man me aage ab jeevan main
Jee lenge hans kar bisaar kar tumhe
Kitne ekaki hai pyar kar tumhe ...
Haar gaya tan man ....re haar gya re
Kal tak jin geeto ko tum apana kahti thi
Akhbaaro me padhkar kaisa lagta hoga
Saawan ki raato me saajan ki bahoon main
Tan to sota hoga par man jagta hoga
Uss pal ke jeene me aanshu *** lene me
Marte hai man hi man maar kar tumhe
Kitne ekaki hai pyar kar tumhe
Haar gaya tan-man ...re haar gaya re..
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
Ek metro, saanp si guzar rahi hai kuch duur
Ek nabh faila hai uske upar - Neela sa kaala
Ek chaand chamak raha hai uss nabh mein
Kuch baadal sarak rahe hain paas mein uske
Usi metro ki tarah par dheere zara
Thandi hawayei hain.
Usme goonjta mera aaj khada
Kuch thandak hai inn hawaon mein
Aur bohot sara sukoon bhara
Aisi hi hoti hai wo chaand ki thandak?
Jinhen sunte, apna bachpan beet gaya
Kya sheetalta swarg ki aisi hai kahin?
Jisey suna kayion ka jeevan guzar gaya
Kya raambaan sukh yahi toh nahi
Kya kamdhenu vriksha aisa tha kabhi
Kya Ramcharitmanas mein hanumat
Ka Rambhakti amrit lagta tha yun hi?
Aisa hi amritmay bachpan mein,
yaad hai mujhko lagta tha
Zameen se shuru uss lambi khidki
Se yahi chaand chamakta dikhta tha
Mama sa ban chup shant bhav se
Kuch baatein meri sunta tha
Kyunki khud bhumi par bistar pe so
Holi mujhe khilayi thi
Khud bhookhe reh uss ke paiso
Se mere bhai ko idli chakhayi thi
Bohot pasand thi usko uski idli
Aur rangbhari mujhe holi meri
Kya kabhi unhen main unka wapas
Ye rinn chukta kar paungi
Kya kabhi unnsi balwaan main ban kar
Unke liye itna kar paungi?
Kya usi chaand ki thandak si khushiyan
Unki jholi mein bhar paungi?
Kya bhool maaf karne ki hadd
Ko paar kar kar ke thake nahi wo?
Kya raat bhar bhi jagkar subah
Hans dawa banna bhoole nahi wo
Kya insaani roop mein hain
Bhagwan, "maa baap" kehlate jo?
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 10:16 AM UTC
Aa ab laut chalein apne ghar
Aa ab laut chalein apne ghar
Bht lamba hogaya yeh safar
Jaha teri shetaniyon ka manzar tha
Jaha pyar ka samndar tha
Jaha thak kar sona ata tha
Jaha har kona muskurata tha
Jaha beeta har din yadgaar tha
Jaha ka har pal suhana khwab tha
Aa laut chalein apne ghar
ab bht taay kar liya yeh safar
jaha khul kar tu bhi hansti thi
jaha muskura mein bhi leta tha
jaha teri badmashiyo mein
bacha me bhi bann leta tha
jaha naachti tu thi aur jhumta me tha
jaha bachon si ladhai aur dil ka mehal tha
jaha na kabhi dur hone ka dar
na adhuri koi aas thi
jaha sath beshumar tha aur poori har saans thi
jaha rote rote hans dete the hum
na koi fikar ki bat thi
jaha ghanton batein karte the hum
ghadi ki sui na humare sath thi
Aa laut chalein apne ghar
Bht lamba hogaya yeh safar
Jaha tera kam se ana tha
Phr mujhko gale lagana tha
Jaha teri bematlab ki baton me
Mera kahn gum hojana tha
jaha har sapna jee rahe the hum
jaha nahi thi kisi ki koi sharam
jaha dikhawa koso tak na tha
har jagah tha bass pagal pan
Aa laut chalein apne ghar
Bht lamba hogaya yeh safar
jaha jhagde bhi suljhe se the
jaha ansun bhi uljhe se the
jaha hothon pe muskan bhi thi
jaha ankhein kuch naadan bhi thi
jaha nanhe kadmon ki awaz bhi thi
jaha lori ki chankar bhi thi
jaha ghungru si tumari payal bhi thi
jaha kangan ki awaz bhi thi
jaha hansta hua tera chehra bhi tha
jaha ghurti meri ankhein bhi thi
jaha band woh darwaze bhi the
jaha do **** ek jaan bhi the
Aa laut chalein na apne ghar
waqai bht lamba ** gaya yeh safar....
waqai bht lamba hogaya yeh safar..!!!
..
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 10:05 AM UTC
*Tazaad-e-Jazbaat Mein Ye Naazuk
Maqaam Aaya To Kya Karo Gay*
**In contradiction of these emotions if that
Delicate moment unfolded - then what would you do?**
*Main Ro Raha *** Tum Hans Rahe **
Main Muskaraya To Kya Karo Gay*
**I am weeping and yet you are jolly
But if I smiled - then what would you do?**
*Mujhe To Is Darja Vaqt-e-Rukhsat
Sukun Ki Talqeen Kar Rahe **
**To me at this time of farewell
Instructions of tranquillity you are offering**
*Magar Kuch Apne Liye Bhi Socha
Main Yaad Aaya To Kya Karo Gay*
**But have you any thoughts for yourself?
If you recalled me - then what would you do?**
*Abhi To Tanqid ** Rahi Hai
Mere Mazaq-e-Junun Pe Lekin*
**For now there is criticism
On my state of madness but**
*Tumhari Zulfon Ki Barhami Ka
Sawaal Aaya To Kya Karo Gay*
**If scattering of your tresses is
Questioned - then what would you do?**
*Tumhare Jalvon Ki Roshni Mein
Nazar Ki Hairania Musallam*
**Within the splendour of your light
Is complete amazement of sight**
*Magar Kisi Ne Nazar Ke Badle
Jo Dil Aazmaya To Kya Karo Gay*
**Nevertheless if someone in return
Tested your heart - then what would you do?**
*Utar To Sakte ** Paar Lekin
Ma Aal Par Bhi Nigah Dalo*
**You can disembark across but
Take a glance at the result too**
*Khuda Na Karda Sukun-e-Sahil
Na Raas Aaya To Kya Karo Gay*
**God has not made a peaceful shore
If nothing suitable appears - then what would you do?**
*Kuch Apne Dil Par Bhi Zakham Khao
Mere Lahoo Ki Bahar Kab Tak*
**Take some wounds on your heart also
Season of my blood until when?**
*Mujhe Sahara Banane Vaalo
Main Larkharaya To Kya Karo Gay*
**Those in need of my support
If I show hostility - then what would you do?**
*Abhi To Daman Chura Rahe **
Bigar Ke Qabil Se Ja Rahe **
**For now you are leaving my hand
And you are parting away from Qabil**
*Magar Kabhi Jo Dharkano Mein
Sharik Paya To Kya Karo Gay*
**Yet sooner or later within your heartbeats
If I became a associated - then what would you do?**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Poet Qabil Ajmeri, Sung by Sabri Brothers
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 5:48 AM UTC
TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ
( for Maureen )
She is teaching Timothy
to read
even though she
can't read herself.
Tongue firmly in cheek
she traces the words
with a tiny fingertip
that knows the story
off by heart she
could read it in the dark.
She is "pretending reading."
She has my every nuance and pause
by rote
making great efforts
to teach Timothy
the puppy
but Timothy the puppy
is more interested in
the un-thrown stick.
Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is
strictly for the humans.
"Once..." she begins
in a Fairy Tale-ish voice.
Timothy the puppy
barks in acknowledgement.
"Throwthestickthrowthestick!"
Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks.
"...upon a time
a long long time
...ago!"
Timothy the puppy looks
adoringly at his little mistress
with such an immensity of love and
licks her finger as it
travels over the words
the story's journey.
"Oh you..!" she scolds
"...are not even paying attention!"
"It's no good...I give up!"
she frowns at the unhappy creature
throwing the book away
in a prissy hissy fit.
Timothy the puppy
full of the joys of
a dog's life
( it's the only life he knows )
chases the fluttering pages
that fly like an exotic bird
brings Hans Christian Anderson back
his mouth full of words.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
I think perhaps as a writer, we seek the adventure, the unknown, the destructive, not only to know we are alive but to know what it is to live. We live fast, we love without restraint, with impulsive desire. Are we the tortured, the wounded, the broken, abused. We have lived a thousand lives, loved a million times. We dream, we idealise, we fall in love unintentionally, we make mistakes, we endure deep suffering and we fall to the hands of lust within a heartbeat. We choose to show our ******* our ***** our hearts or our souls. We refuse to sell our mind, to which we must always remain held to. Our body is a vessel, one of productivity made victim to abuse. It's such neglect, despair, that leaves us enveloped in patterns of trauma and deeply embedded psyache. Once touched, our bodies remember as an elephants mind always will. We are tainted, scarred, stained by another's love, lust, cheating, lying, crying, kissing, losing, dreaming. We are the risk takers, the ones who dare step into the unknown and often don't adhere to rules and regulations of societal ideals. We crave love. We crave endless excitement. We crave the adrenalin rush of a new lover. We don't settle. Wanderlust writes us. Each journey shapes us, choosing a new direction, experimenting with style, fiction, autobiographical tones. Landscapes colour our pages, pollute the rooms with a myriad of paints, smoking out those who don't endure, slaves to the written word, a pledge to keep reading pages of paper, dusty from step ladder high book shelves. Finding joy in limited first editions, autographed and locked behind glass doors. Fairy tales whispered by Hans Christian Andersen - The Snow Queen in a pop up book laced with glitter and scintillation. Falling into stories, Alice's rabbit hole, lost to liquor saying drink me. The young ingénue, naïve and shy, her first role acting, embodying the spoken word through the masters written script.
© Sia Jane
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
If any duck in any brook,
Fluttering the water
For your crumb,
Seemed the helpless daughter
Of a mother
Regretful that she bore her;
Or of another,
Barren, and longing for her;
What of the dove,
Or thrush, or any singing mysteries?
What of the trees
And intonations of the trees?
What of the night
That lights and dims the stars?
Do you know, Hans Christian,
Now that you see the night?
4.3k
Fingerprints and fibers,
Accumulated talk,
Whispers in the corners,
Bodies demarcated in chalk
On the marble courtroom stairs.
His misery became a pall.
With mourning signs in splattered pairs,
Red flowers on the wall.
All that he had left behind was grief
And powerless rage,
A Tansu chest in high relief,
A coiled brass clock fatigued with age.
Retreating to a white house in Simrishamn,
He’d walk his dog along the shore,
Find sterile clues amongst the sands,
And travel a ferry between two lands.
And now: An experiment! Blame Google Translate for this weird (?) Swedish translation: Please tell me if this is a bad translation!
Fingeravtryck och fibrer,
Ackumulerat samtal,
Viskar i hörnen,
Kroppar avgränsad i krita
På marmor rättssal trappor.
Hans elände blev en pall.
Med sorgsignaler i splatterade par,
Röda blommor på väggen.
Allt som han hade lämnat var sorg
Och maktlös raseri,
En Tansu bröst i hög lättnad,
En spolad mässingsklocka utmanad med åldern.
Att återvända till ett vitt hus i Simrishamn,
Han skulle gå sin hund längs stranden,
Hitta sterila ledtrådar bland sandarna,
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
First we build bridges
With Lego bricks
In primary colours
And we move on
To build bridges
From words
With tought
In many languages
Because we have to
And we build bridges
In steel and concrete
Between islands and peninsulas
Between us and them
We prioritise bridges
With our money
On our money
To showcase magnificence
And to replace expired glories
And we cross bridges
In real life and cyberspace
To seek community
In alternate relations
Outside the confines
Of Hans Christian Andersen’s quiet pond.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
I love you more than I love my Momma
And quite a lot more than Republicans love Obama
I love you more than Miley loves twerking
And probably as much as teenage boys love jerking.
I love you more than hipsters love instagram
and about the same as the turn of the century loved the telegram.
I love you more than Hans loved Anna
and just as much as monkeys love bananas
I love you more than the asdaf kid likes trains
and most likely more than Anastasia liked pain.
I love you more than pandas love extinction
and probably less than pansexuality needs distinction.
I love you more than John loved his best man
and I ship us more than any fandom can.
I love you more than beliebers love Justin
and definitely more than **** maids love dustin'
I love thee more than Shakespeare loved tragedy
and the same amount as Ann is raggedy.
I love you more than Peeta loves Katniss
and almost more than cats love catnip.
I love you more than teachers love cheaters
but probably not as much as Jesus loved Easter.
I love you to the moon and back
and there is nothing that you do lack.
<3
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
some days, his eyes are full with angst
his arms down his sides, with his fists as closed as his ears
and all I want to say is *I know how it is
to be so angry you don't know where to go
because the whole world lights you up like a dry stick of explosives,
how it is to have your feelings being so big they start to feel
like extensions of your limbs,
waving uncontrollably
and all you can do to avoid their friction from setting you on fire
is either to cut them off or keep your arms down your sides*
but I step aside, because he can no longer take in my words
his six year old eyes are filled with the nothingness of
an anger so big and unlabeled
but someday, I will tell him and he will understand
I will tell him that even though my blood is not in his veins,
I will cleanse it from soot and silt,
I will be his human shield from this world
I will tear kingdoms apart and slay every last creeper
just to help him level up
and I will uncontrollably, explosively and unconditionally
love him
//
vissa dagar är hans ögon fyllda med ångest
hans armar längs sidorna, med nävar lika hårt stängda som hans öron
och allt jag vill säga är att *jag vet hur det är
att vara så arg att du inte vet vars du ska ta vägen,
för hela världen får en att tända som en torr bunt sprängämnen,
hur det är att ha känslor så stora att de börjar kännas
som förlängningar av dina egna armar och ben,
okontrollerbart viftande
och allt du kan göra för att förhindra att deras friktion tänder eld på dig
är att antingen hugga av dem eller hålla armarna längs sidorna*
men jag går undan, för han kan inte ta in mina ord längre
hans sexåriga ögon fyllda med ingentinget
av en ilska så stor och oettikerad ilska
men någon dag ska jag berätta för honom och han ska förstå
jag ska berätta för honom att även fast mitt blod inte flyter genom hans artärer,
ska jag rensa det från smuts och sot,
jag ska vara hans mänskliga sköld från den här världen
jag ska slita kungariken itu och döda varenda creeper
bara för att hjälpa honom att levla upp
och jag ska okontrollerbart, explosivt och villkorslöst
älska honom
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Sandman, Sandman
Disallow the haunting
Of dreams so
terrifying.
Sandman, Sandman
Insomnia lives within
Of Hans Christian Anderson tales
release.
Sandman, Sandman
Gently falling asleep
Of Ole Lukøje folk
tales.
Sandman, Sandman
Mythic creature allow
Of fearlessly opened
eyes.
Sandman, Sandman
Sprinkle thy sand
Beneath the colored
umbrella.
Sandman, Sandman
Children dream deeply
Of magical stories
Goodnight.
© Sia Jane
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Hans was outside himself. Perched on the edge of a daydream, he looked below, distantly aware of his bustling dinner table. How casually they live, Hans thought; with what feigned clarity they can connect and understand. There were his brothers and sisters; his aunts, uncles, cousins and ah—there was his father. Look at him personifying repugnance, locks of hair falling clumsily on his tattered shirt. Look at him! (Hans could yell only in silence.) Look there and see him cloyingly preparing his knife to hunt, to tear, to slice yet another hunk of meat for his own gluttony. With what excitement—what vivid, forbidden ecstasy Hans would take his father’s knife and turn the hunter into the hunted.
Somewhere in the cluttered abyss there was a sound followed by a warming light. Hans was entranced. And again, a gentle thunder followed by a thread of heat connecting for a moment earth and sky, father, family, and son.
It was goodness and caring, it was a mother’s voice. It was this graceful fluttering in the medium of time that awoke a primitive yearning in Hans, grabbed his throat and stared him lustily in the eyes. What could it be? Hans wondered aloud, what could it be that she desires, for he already knew that he had to be the one to deliver any object she longed for, to slay any beast that tormented her—it had to be him, to be Hans, to be her son.
Please, she said; can someone please pour me a glass of water. Oh how Hans was enraged to find that this whim had not been made solely of a son. It was his right to quench his mother’s thirst; it was his place within the natural order to satisfy her needs. What cruelty and ice! Hans said, but also felt; and in an instant returned to himself below, tumbling violently from the high canopy of his trance to the sight of his father’s filthy hand reaching for the water jug.
In base impulse, Hans jabbed at the jug, forcibly pushing aside the carnal hand. Upon contact, Hans felt an overwhelming calm, an absolute peace. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. At once he was joyous, he was spent; he was adrenalized and gloriously dominant. He would be the one to tend to the maternal flower, supplying water for a thirst that he prayed would always be there.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ
( for Maureen )
She is teaching Timothy
to read
even though she
can't read herself.
Tongue firmly in cheek
she traces the words
with a tiny fingertip
that knows the story
off by heart she
could read it in the dark.
She is "pretending reading."
She has my every nuance and pause
by rote
making great efforts
to teach Timothy
the puppy
but Timothy the puppy
is more interested in
the un-thrown stick.
Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is
strictly for the humans.
"Once..." she begins
in a Fairy Tale-ish voice.
Timothy the puppy
barks in acknowledgement.
"Throwthestickthrowthestick!"
Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks.
"...upon a time
a long long time
...ago!"
Timothy the puppy looks
adoringly at his little mistress
with such an immensity of love and
licks her finger as it
travels over the words
the story's journey.
"Oh you..!" she scolds
"...are not even paying attention!"
"It's no good...I give up!"
she frowns at the unhappy creature
throwing the book away
in a prissy hissy fit.
Timothy the puppy
full of the joys of
a dog's life
( it's the only life he knows )
chases the fluttering pages
that fly like an exotic bird
brings Hans Christian Anderson back
his mouth full of words.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
Some 'others'
and so-and-sos
don't want to be found.
They don't want to be
solid.
They don't want to:
dematerialize or to rematerialize or to manifest.
They don't want to come into being or exist.
Some so-and-sos are vagrant and delinquent.
Truant vagaries of brush strokes
mushrooming in the tresses of dresses.
Indeed, some 'others' wish to remain anonymous.
They reckon it’s reasonable
to protect a human standard.
Their privacy a prison of unwatchfulness-
the walls closing in like they did for Hans Solo,
Chewbacca, and the princess...
like Indiana Jones or some platform pitfall romance.
The 'others' wish to remain alone.
How else would they be 'others'?
Anonymity is the preferred state of 'others'
and so-and-sos.
It is their church confessional.
Safe harbor to their ******
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
the romance section was laughable,
giving me bullet point commentaries
as to why i am doomed to never
be loved or feel loved again,
reasons why i settle for beautiful boys who
enjoy my company because i'm quirky, cute, time killer material,
not anchored, solid, strong, soulmate material.
but that's just it, i guess, no one can deny it-
(everyone knows when they are in the presence of precariousness.)
the mystery section offered me nothing but
a full buffet of questions i already had,
questions that always seemed to give clues to future answers,
delicious questions that tasted sweet at first
then turned suddenly sour,
questions that made me understand the meaning
of a deceptive cadence.
(these books made me wish i didn't leave fingerprints
on everything i touch.)
the fiction section made me feel like a child again,
these were the books that reminded me why hope
is and has always been my favourite bedtime snack.
(these were the books that reminded me that just
because i couldn't make you love me did not mean
that i couldn't make believe you love me.)
since i've stepped out of my fins every step has made me wish
for the courage to throw myself into the sea,
to dissolve in an instant,
to be a daughter of the air forevermore.
(perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was the only person in the world
who knew just how much it hurts to be a human being.)
the self help section gave the illusion of answers,
the way a fortune teller with a foreign accent
doused in flattery and jewelry might seem.
i have spent hours of my existence with these books,
laying on my stomach, furrowed brow, fingers turning white
from clutching the ballpoint pen for dear life thinking
maybe if i just keep
underliningunderliningunderlining
things will start to make sense again.
(because, don't you know? the more you underline
the parts of your life that are relevant on paper,
the closer you are to having figured out your life so perfectly
you eventually will walk by these books wondering
which unfortunate person you should donate them to.)
i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
i think maybe there are some things
that we are never meant
to know.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Med øjne lyse, store og skinnende
Prøver jeg at se ham dybt ind i sjælen.
Jeg smiler, ler og strejfer hans arme.
Nætter, som hurtigt bliver lange, mørke -
Men på lysende, klar, helt fantastisk vis.
Bruger jeg på at sende ham signaler.
Rører blidt ved hans hjerte. Selvom,
Mit greb er fast og stramt. Langsomt -
Vikler mine fingre ham ind i mit spind.
Han bliver grebet, betaget og glæden
Stråler ud af ham. Ud af mig. Tror han.
For når jeg kommer hjem, om aftenen
Er det stadigvæk ikke ham. Men DIG
Jeg tænker på. Dit navn i mine tanker -
Som små forviklede snefnug, kredser om.
Du ligger der. Aller bagerst. Om aftenen
Selvom, Du egentlig er væk og forsvundet.
For evigt. For altid. Og ikke kommer retur!?
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
*** har rodet hår
*** har spenderet natten i hans seng igen
selvom *** sidste gang sagde
at det var sidste gang
men det sagde *** også gangen før
(og gangen før det)
og *** sagde det også til ham i morges
da han gik i bad
for at vaske hende af sig
og *** tog tøjet på fra nattens strabadser
men *** ved godt
at *** siger det igen næste weekend
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen
It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together
Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other
It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them
The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write
The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
hvordan får jeg dig til at forstå
at noget kærlighed
virkelig varer evigt
når din far forlod familien
dengang du var 9
og din mor
nu skal skilles fra sin tredje mand
og ham din kollega fra brugsen
fandt en anden kollega fra brugsen
selvom det var dig
der altid tog hans vagter
og din venindes venindes veninde
fortæller historier
om undtagelser og regler
og engangsknald
hvad med engangsforelskelser
der bliver til evighedsforhold
og hvis nu jeg tror nok på os
nok for os begge to
så lov mig at du lytter
når jeg fortæller
om dine øjne
og hvorfor jeg ikke vil ses på af andre
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
so I passed by this gentleman today at the park & through his broken English came to find out he is from Germany, East Berlin to be exact...his name is Hans. I asked him how he came to Michigan & he began telling me his story, you could see him travel back in time right before your very eyes. He and his wife, Hannah, kept watch over the guards near a section of the wall that was near some summer cottages. At night the 'women' from town would 'entertain' the officers in the foliage, so they put whatever they could fit in their baby stroller, draped as much clothing on themselves as they could manage, & by the grace of God one night the baby did not cry & they were able to run to freedom to West Berlin. He went on to describe how he came first to Canada & then upon hearing of the higher wages in Detroit, came to live in Sterling Heights. It's funny when I asked him & a lady from Poland the day before where they were from, they both said "well from here" despite their obvious accents...home is indeed Michigan for them both now...& for Hans, he's never returned to East Berlin.
*when you see an older person, take the time...I assure you, you will never leave disappointed.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
After leaving port
in March disguised
as the Norwegian freighter Rena Norge,
the Leopard set sail
its mission to disrupt
Allied commerce.
On the 17 March it was stopped
in the North Sea by the cruiser
HMS Achilles and ordered to proceed
to the boarding vessel
HMS Dundee
for inspection
Heavily outgunned
Captain
the raider's commander
Hans
von
Laffert
had no option
other to proceed
to meet
the boarding vessel.
Captain
Selwyn
Day
of the Dundee
dispatched
a launch containing a boarding
party
with an officer and five men
to investigate
the mysterious ship.
Hans
von
Laffert
realizing he was about to be discovered detained the party and after about an hour opened fire on the Dundee with a salvo of two torpedoes.
The steamer manoeuvred out of the way
barely in time
and the torpedoes missed
Captain
Day's
ship by twenty feet.
Day ordered
his guncrews
to open fire and a hail of shells struck the Leopard
damaging a gun
and setting fires.
The Achilles hearing
the sound of gunfire
returned to the scene and opened fire
on the raider as the Dundee withdrew.
Shortly after
the Achilles's arrival
the Leopard sank with all 319 hands
going down
with the ship.
Damage to the British
vessels was light
and the only casualties consisted of the six boarding party members who were trapped in the Leopard when it sank.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC