"linguist" poems
Dear Math,
I wrote this letter to let you know how I feel about you. The thing is much as you love me so much, we can never be an Item when all you do is torture my brain and break my heart.
You claim to be a linguist, yet you know none of my languages. You don't know Kiswahili neither do you know English and only speak Algebra and statistics...I loathe you for all you do is play on my mind with words like Sigma and Meu, factorial and co-factor.You claim you want to be the only one but still ask me to find your X without even telling me Y.Well, grow up and solve your own problems because I'm tired of solving them for you.Just walk out of my life forever and not temporarily like the dew. You have hurt me enough with razors of matrices, pinched me simultaneously and never asked me whether I believed in your ancient beliefs like those of Pythagoras or not. We were never meant to be. I found a new one, her name is literature and she loves me so much.I won't apologize for saying I hate you because It's unfair apologizing for saying the truth.
Yours with anger
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
If I were a superhero and had any power in the world
I would have...
Super Speed, anything you need I could be there in a FLASH!
No second thought...no maybe or not, I would be there super fast.
Though, that's too obvious.
No, I would pick...
Super Hearing, that would be my choice, I would tune it ONLY to your voice
and know the moment you were in distress. That would be good I guess...
No, not that either.
I would pick...
Super Flight, so that every night I could take you to the stars (though the air might be tight)
it would be super right.
No.
I would pick...
Super Linguist, so I can speak every word, noun and verb into your ear in a feeble attempt to dry up each tear.
No, I would pick time travel and go to the moment you were first sad.
I would have super vision to see you on the days you are glad.
Telepathy to know how you feel.
Super strength to move ANY mountain... when you need healed.
Forgive me for this, it may be a bit extreme.
What you need is not a superhero by anyway shape or means ...what you need is a hug.
Yes, that's it!
If I were a superhero and had any power in the world...it would be Super Hug.
I would hug you so tight till all doubt has left your mind every night.
I would hold you in my arms till you knew your worth.
No, I can't save the Earth with a hug, I can't change everyone's life with my embrace.
But just in case ...I will start with you, I will hug you regardless.
In my arms your petite body will be cocooned till the sun turns in to the moon.
I will hold your neck while you head rests on my chest.
I will put in CHECK... every thought, pain and neglect with the only power, enchantment and medicine that I posses...
My hug.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
i took your **** and ran with it,
went miles into distance while you constantly clinged to the past
girl I'm tired of it.
How am I suppose to get in if he still has the original and I was givin the spare key,
I'm me and no where near him reason why you always keep runnin back lookin for a safe haven, but in reality sorry that ******** I ain't takin ,
must be mistaken,
I'm havin you second all the time I made you first,
like an unwelcomed tenet,
or low rank lieutenant,
I'm undermined, while hes underlined,
made into a bold figure,
but I stack real figures,
and don't make you feel bitter like this *****
Just don't mention why you quiver , I know the reason why you internally bleedin , stress in ya eyes swollen from the cries in the night, it ain't right.
but yet you fall back to him , then call me later? I gave you my words, last time was the last. So to bad if it didn't last, and both ends of the ties leave you to grieve and gravel on the gravel , yeah sit there and babble , yeah I ponder the river creeks for years
now im off the love boat, I skidattled , faught the more fishes in the sea with broken paddle promise not to commit unless it was suicide or a contract with a person I don't trust after marriage and can't truly settle with.
so the others who wanted me are shunned, and you ? Is of no concern to my conscience , my once brown poccahauntus who haunted
my nights , and Asian moon cake who left with the wrong shake wen I coulda move mountain cause I was the real earthquake to shake the floor beneath you and let you see the plummit to a deeper meaning. Thank for leavin.
Asmathic or not,
I remain breathing.
by Emmanuel Hernandez
aka
Linguist Musician aka Deep thought
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
Lennon told me Paul was strawberry
George reminded me love trumps lord
Overboard overcome overwrought
Flower child fishtailed dovelike all aboard
Come together
Get yourself together
Soldered together
Like joint dance banners painted to promote teenage ******* to youth
Tied us into our best days ahead of us
Chained to our ***** we swung like gamers
Untied to our integrity
Wrecking wreaking havoc
Ballooned on hubris
Hemorrhaging ego unlocked spewing spite
I respect good works deeds above good intentions
Road paved with broken glass
Don’t respect me when I’m gone
Tell the folks it’s OK to sing along
Let’s spend the night together
Talk all night in the altogether
Rather gather in clover and heather
Happy Ringo’s nest a featherbed
Laying lady laid cunning linguist
‘xplain to me in chiefly straight talk
Who questions whom?
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
a treatise on compatibility this is theoretically
presented
by a linguist with limited trigonometry sense
and since the heart beats and is 360 degrees
I sought out a tangent to measure her with
or sine to figure out logically
whether we were compatible
like functionally
on a straight line or tangentially
perpendicularly
in degree and cosines or measurement mathematically
similar
then found no co-efficient to portray
her smile
fell out of my array
with nothing else
to equal
her.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
In the lie
Lie all the beliefs
And in the belief
Die all the lies
From stories of "gods"
Who create the thunder
To the lies of love and kinship
Of societies and their wonder
Lied into religion
Educated about virtues and vice
Lied about a happy future
When happiness itself is a lie
When you break it down
Down to the last
Except that matter, everything else dies
So if its that we are all made up of,
From where did good and evil arise?
Where did the tales of myth come from?
How did this system surmise?
Wasn't it all supposed to make us feel happy?
Ah! But they were just plain lies
Lies to breed more further lies
And yet more to bear the older ones
Robbed of all the will in the world
Forced to believe the gods in the stars and the suns
Yet, the funniest irony about the beliefs
Was it a linguist's private joke?
An accident? Or just a plain riddle?
For does not every 'be-lie-f' we hold
Has a 'lie' right in the middle?
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
I am Jeanette
I am a mother
A redhead
A wife and a daughter
A teacher
A sister
A friend
I am a graduate
A sinner
A master
An artist
A narcissist
A debitor
I am a liar
A creator
A linguist
A learner
I am a killer
An amateur
A model
A protector
I am Jeanette
I am a dragon
I am a devil
I am a woman
I am a mystery
I am Jeanette
I am a poet
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
You
Devoted the time to
Become versed in my
vernacular.
Now
study the pages filled
With ink as I stand,
vulnerable and naked before you
In all my melanin.
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 5:40 PM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Can you feel the resonance throbbing gently through this subtle discourse?
I constantly find your lustful innuendo to be an incredibly pleasurable experience. Like your a magical lyricist.., Your words urge to create masterful penetration's through laced pages with in me you bring out the artistic'ness hidden deep with in me.
Rhymes and rhythmic vibrations build up until finally they gush forth with musical symbols, A stream of lyrics resounds in & out of my orchestra,
While we attempt to concentrate on our next feature.
You have me unable to distinguish the next verse for our repetition's, Artfully your lyrics coincide with my own causing phrases to be come literate and a **** good read, Flowing melodies,
While you impregnate my text with all your, your lyrical kiss&naughtiness.;
Filling up my syllable's,Reconstructing my vocabulary.
Our rhyme is basic element that defines the couplet, LOL Coupling as we do.
Our consistent element is the repetition of form,
As in me and you forming as one Not in-difference to you ,
Just with small changes,
in your technique
As we face off while playing out these scene,
Your persistence of our sonnet reverberates like multicultural dance,
I'm competitive while feeling in awe of you. Your sweet tunes ripple down my spine,
while our word play
brings havoc to my mind. Like a chant or a sweet harmonies.
Causing mental eruption's. Conversing about to end,
tactically you evoke emotional & sensual response, But I'm
keeping up with your lyrical flow. Rhyme for rhyme,
as each adjective courses through me, in and out while you become a
cunning linguist
master!, I'm about to overflow as you
Cause me to rhythmically fall victim to
insightful
Poems!
Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
Kind strangers cannot fill
the hole in your heart.
It doesn't matter how good they are,
how well they respond to your
match-lighting and
boundary-pushing.
Your bridge-burning
and soul desiring, unsatisfied
with the best of people.
You dont even know him.
How could you put him
through that, through you,
how could you try to
catch him in your web
and share your misery
with him. It
ain't right.
And it doesn't help
to have predicted how doomed you both were,
to have noticed right away how it
would end, before it began,
coldly. Without contact.
No hugs or kisses signing this
apology text. No x's and o's at the end
of this suicide note. It was
cold. You are cruel.
Don't ever take a kind stranger
by the hand and drag them into
your life. Don't ever hand
a sweet stranger a broken piece of yourself.
Don't tell them about that piece
of yourself.
You could have been anyone, you
could have been bold and confident
and beautiful and intelligent but
instead you talk like
a 12-year old girl
who is lonely and pathetic,
a human version of an
anxiety attack.
The next kind stranger that you meet,
don't introduce him to that girl.
She may exist, but you don't have to
force people to love her. Love
cannot be forced.
Introduce the next kind stranger to
the artist, the traveler, the linguist,
the lover and be so radiant and so positive
that even the little girl
will start to believe
it.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
‘i’m a real cunning linguist’
‘prove it’
i said
and the proof was all over her face
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 1:10 PM UTC
You aren't just gold and starlight
you are my every word
my dialect, my stanza, my every thought
you leave me tongue tied
You are my entire language,
you make my speech so clumsy
all my words are tripping over themselves
just to please you and only you
You are my linguist dream,
I love to study the poetry in your veins
the sonnets in your eyes,
the limericks in your lips
You are literature incarnate,
and I worship you
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 12:08 PM UTC
His words are fluid yet languid until
he changes tongues and becomes another
person entirely. His sounds become strong
and incomprehensible as he weaves
his way from language to language, dialect
to dialect. He is the manager
of worlds, the linguist. In his mind, his original
language is not his, for he is only
relaxed when amongst the foreign nature
of other languages. The rasping, uncommon
tongue of home is not comforting to him
anymore, so he will rapidly intake
other places until he finds another
sound that resonates within him.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue
Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
(Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.
^ ^
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
**
This message in the bottle is my sleek way of stuffin' that good ole old crow full throttle, and it's lingering swagger back into my obvious nothin'. Now I'll never be a pre-teen model.
My grip to the bottle is furious followed by a sincere pen to the paper, new headlines feature my naughty by nature, marked **** quiet styled lyricist, kickin' back with words of a dark sided linguist. I'd insist just blowing smoke up that *** but I'm dead fuckin' serious. I need to be reassured that the message in the bottle does IN FACT exist.**
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
Its like I sit and watch the world go by cruisng to oldies,
feeling new inside, but outside is a face of a man who will attack if you dont know me.
gut instinct is below me homie, piece of mind,
dont change your words if you cant cash the truth but besides that...
See im not perfect I lost ties and made knots that made me fall from my own tension with no intentions to stand even if I can, I cant, im grounded by my mistakes that relvolve around me, reminding me what I did made me what I am.
AS I stay subsiding in a position thats clearily hiding,
binding my chest compressed against my last breath , to save what little life I have left in a world where title nor status mean nothing when your an ******* to those you called your best interest I do confess im that lowlife as i cruise still music speak to my esscense releiving me for those seconds im just a person again but after that im back at it again
..I dont write for pitty so let that be known, im just here to vent this steam that once stood ablazed passion for a love that is now a shack of memories in my head of your smile and gestures a feeling I onced called home now ruins from what i ruined, foolish I am.
Clueless more than anything to let many so many slip away im the worst fisherman of love.
because I use my soul as bait, and little by little i let the big ones escape an take chunks of me away to a place I can never retrieve it, so believe it im that space
im that vessle ive became the shell of a hermit , hollow and skirmish.
Tarnished, and used,
debri left as rubble to make roads,
but none to pave my own cause I have no resources
cause im that alone....shit,
maybe I can just leave it for those who wish me back if I do something foolish like giveback the life Ive live, for a plaque and a name and a date?
or should I just lookback and keep cruisin passed the bruissin and showin scars of my mistakes as a human,
all I know is....nothing,
and thats why I stay cruissin, freedom of the road and music,
away from the world and my ruins.
-Deep Though aka
Linguist Musician
aka Emmanuel Hernandez
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
The man gets old,
as he has been told.
The woman is older still, and though looking so young,
She is in pain a lot and knows that.
The man is just an old, silly linguist, not even real
Just a computational linguist.
The woman is a sexto-grammarian and an expert and teacher,
She loves it, and still teaches people everything.
And although their love is unquestionably strong and true,
Their time together is all too short,
Their all too short "conjugal visits" are
More about "conjugation" than anything else.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
The skill of the poetic linguist
is measured by
the reaction of the reader,
how they make them feel.
The use of tender,
imaginative-words
pushed gently from one side
of the written-line to the other
can create the desired effect.
Configuring
carefully-crafted stanzas,
& placing them
strategically
up & down
can sometimes elicit
the most reading pleasure.
Finding
the secret-sensitivities
of the heart can be tricky,
the most daunting of tasks,
but the skilled poetic linguist
can always find a way
it seems,
to create those
beautiful,
sensuous,
fiery-emotions.
And if you can find one,
just ask them
how it's done.
They are more than likely
ready,
willing & able,
to pen you a verse or two.
And perhaps,
maybe more.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
to watch the fire I make my way to a hay bale.
a certain misshapen bale I first called
scarecrow’s womb
but now
jesus hill.
this is the kind of time I have.
-
my sister believes her left eye doesn’t exist.
that it is the shadow of her right.
because of her many beliefs,
my father has placed himself
inside
a pacing
man
where he curses like a censored linguist
made to collect
a tower’s
rubble.
-
in my dreams I am charged with a notch of black tape
and the sloth
agony
of a woman’s
******
-
I pass a finished tree with some color left in its leaves
and recall my uncle swallowing his ribbons
from the heyday of flame
at the height of what mother called
intake
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:27 PM UTC
i want to dance at the tip
of your tongue
and have you try pronounce
feelings you thought
did not exist.
i will make you a love linguist.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
And she reads Chekhov in the bathtub
thinking that 19th century Russia
must have been visually interesting, but literarily dull,
writing overstuffed with description and repetition.
It's pungent perfume pleasant at first, but soon overbearing.
She never made it through Anna K. either,
and only conquered Ilyich for academics sake.
Swimming in the long winded, emotional descriptions,
all she could think, was of what Northern ancestor
decided all Russians should go by three names
and what cunning linguist adored 'V' and 'Y' to such extent
that he proclaimed they should be used as much as humanly possible.
A popularized, sadistic joke
for a younger brother with a speech impediment.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
The pastures of my sanity lie between
the first kiss of my lips
and making macaroni and cheese for one.
I’m not fluent in French
but I can speak in tongues,
better than any linguist.
And lust.
My favorite word to say,
and be.
Touch my finger to my lip,
have I gotten your attention yet?
The more I pretend to love,
the more I love to hate.
A silly game,
I’m playing it,
with you.
But the more of you I kiss,
the less of you I like.
And now,
I
the object of your so called affection,
have poisoned you
with foreshortened importance,
and plead with you-
to please retreat.
Yet you still crave me,
like some ignorant child
who’s never believed in candy
until someone told them,
it’s quite sweet.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC