"multilingual" poems
Leave me alone
Your thoughts keep melting me
I am a snow man
So ,
heu me (Latin)
Leave me alone
You come like a tornado
Breaking my bones
So,
déjame en Paz (Spanish)
Leave me alone
You come in my dream
Make me a walking dead man
So,
mag-iwan ako nag-iisa (Filipino)
Leave me alone
Now your smile
Is Striking like a thunder
So,
laissez-moi tranquille (French)
Leave me alone
Your eyes are hunting
Unfortunately I am the deer
So,
mujhē akēlā chōṛa dō (Hindi)
Leave me alone
Your teeth is enough
To tear my heart
So,
Liú xià wǒ yīgè rén (Mandarin)
Leave me alone
I am going to start
My life freshly
So,
zostaw mnie w spokoju (Polish)
Leave me alone
I am no longer with you
My life took diversion
So,
me deixe em Paz (Portuguese)
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
I took a stroll down my childhood lane
These neural pathways took me back
Multilingual versions of the narrative
Warned me of imminent attack
I made it work for me my people
Bedeviled on behalf of all my greater good
I took my time in stride with sidewalks cracked
And broke my swag along a scattered beach
Came down with that viral capacity to fluctuate
According to what gut feeling feeds heart pumping
Where we intersect that jazz bebopper inhabiting art
Draw outside the lines come together in stark contrast
To the words we negotiate with each other in exchange
For favors better left unpaid yet enacted cross-purpose
To our intended lizard goal to wrap our prey entangled
Tongued in the mail entreated globally galactic guardian
I’d simply settle inside ambitious repose armed by you
Draped across our gossamer webs wet commingled faces
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
I.
Ich gehe durch die jardin des oiseaux
ya i ti v kopkane no tyebe vsye ravno
how do these things rhyme, I ask in awe
( I walk through the bird garden
you and I are in a trap but you don't care
how do these things rhyme, I ask in awe)
I.I
Ne pas les choses
die sind dies das
are long,long gone
kogda mi smotrim
v dal and pick and choose
another muse to fall.
( these aren't the things that are those that are long, long gone
when we look into the distance and pick and choose another muse to fall)
III.
Ni kliuch
non, non
die sind nur Traume
that we don
over and over
(no key, no, no these are but dreams that we don over and over.)
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
(in English)
Mummy, you were sweet
And you were a good time girl
So who was my Dad?
(auf deutsch)
Mutti, du war süss
und du bumst wie ein Teufel!
Und mein Vatti ist?
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Those who see my tattoos think they're abuse
But their views are skewed
My tattoos are my selection of bruises
Chosen by me for me
I am amused that my skin art is met with disdain
After all you didn't undergo the pain
You peruse my tattoos, but don't see the wearer of the ink
Would it surprise you ( if you bothered to ask)
That I hold a degree, am multilingual, and hold a responsible job
No, because you'll never ask
You'll avoid me
Your loss, my tattoos are suffused with a story
A story 40 years in the making.
All of us that are marked with ink are transfused and transformed
We are unique, we are inked.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
This poem is going to be a lie
He tells himself
Writhing in tantalizing filaments
The bright asphyxiation drawing him closer and closer
To this
An ideal
Of the perfect truth
Told out in unwritten song
Painfully typed words
A clever shower of meteors
Belittling the dangerous craters on the surface
The danger of tripping and dying
Not withstanding what we know to be
A falicy
My multilingual interpretation of her feelings
Old testimonies heard in the court
Of the already guilty
This poem is a complete distortion of facts
My trivial response to empowered individuals
Standing on my Adam's Apple
And beating on my lungs like drums
Rhythm meaning honor
And the attention of the onlookers meaning
The inviting glow
Of the fireplace.
She sat down next to
That night
That town
That unfamiliar castigating of a child not belonging to
You
Or her
Or the abyss
"Unbelonging"
"Inbelonging"
Not. Yours.
The wordsmith falters
Checking his math
Calculation, equation, kiss on the cheek
For luck for death
For the noose to slip, lovingly
And gently to the ground as the trap door swings open
A great, open toothed smile
Laughing at silence
BARBARIC to interrupt such delicacy
Straining to look into my eyes
She whispers low
I want to find a home...
And i tell her, with my heaviest conviction
"No home is."
Which could mean anything.
This poem is a verisimilitude
A lie about a truth
Which, again...
Could mean anything...
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
Multilingual People
are better with their Tongues.
-
Vielsprachige Leuten
nutzen besser ihre Zungen
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Come, Friend.
I'll show you around the house and tell you all the trivial things that remind me of her.
(Here in the hallway)
These stacked, empty shoeboxes,
That I now keep my poems in,
These bare walls that I suppose,
She could make a better use of,
(In the living room)
This monochrome vintage tv,
That she'd have thrown out,
My books lying haphazardly on the table,
That she'd have cleared up,
My guitar that hasn't been restrung for 7 months,
The pictures of Dutch tulip fields,
The multilingual posters on the wall behind the TV,
Like a pretentious polyglot,
(Now,the kitchen)
And this bitter fragrance of tea leaves,
This divine scent of cardamom,
Rising from a hot cup of tea,
The rattle of kettles,
These dying rose petals,
Parmesan and cheddar,
The cheesier the better,
All of that pickled food,
According to my mood,
The battle of spices,
Those gingerbread slices,
Everything-
Everything reminds me of her.
"She's but a figment of your imagination,friend."
She's but a figment of my imagination, friend?
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 6:32 AM UTC
You are my sweetest aunt
However, actually it is true, NOT
Because you are more like my cousin
For anything and everything, do you plan
Always, are you in charge
Very gracefully, do you age
You are a superb dentist
To that, can your patients certainly attest
Also, are you a very loving and caring wife and mother
So happy am I, to be your little brother!
You are my sweetest aunt
Always, do you lead from the front
Especially when it comes to family
A lot of sacrifices, do you make regularly
In fact, patience is your middle name
In order, do you always keep your home
Very mature, have you been
Right since your teens
However, still do you manage to look quite young
Which is saying something!!
You are my sweetest aunt
Rarely, do you drop hints
Always, are you direct
However, you mind not, being imperfect
Of me, have you always been very supportive
Never are you negative!!
You are my sweetest aunt
Help and support, have you always lent
To those who have badly needed it
No one, have you ever hurt
Your advice is extremely valuable
On the whole, are you thoroughly lovable!!
You are my sweetest aunt
Never do you taunt
We have had some fantastic times together
You have been boring, never
I totally love your voice
It’s even sweeter than candy floss
Also, are you multilingual
There is nothing, of which are you not capable!!
You are my sweetest aunt
Always, do you put up with my rants
Rarely, have I seen you angry
Most of the time, are you happy
Anyway, wish you the happiest birthday in advance
And may God bless you always!!
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 12:08 PM UTC
_Happy birthday to you_
my friend I haven’t seen in years
I wish I was there to hug you
and make fun of how short you are
smart, funny, and talented
are words that wouldn’t begin to describe
how wonderful you are
but are the only ones that my small mind
can think of right now.
_Happy birthday to you_
strong Texan, one of my best friends
working through a hurricane
and still dealing with my complaining
you’re assisting in a hospital now
I’d trust you with my care
_Happy birthday dear Julia_
one of the smartest people I know
multilingual, a great violinist
top of your class, rightfully so
I know you’ll go far
and I hope I’m there to see it
_Happy birthday to you_
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
———
“called alveoli, where blood and air are separated by such thin membranes that oxygen and carbon dioxide can pass into and out of the bloodstream, respectively. Between them, the lungs have somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred million alveoli.
Severe COVID-19 causes many of them to either collapse or fill with fluid. The virus attacks the cells lining the alveoli; our overactive immune systems, in trying to fight the virus, may be damaging them as well.
The result is that not enough oxygen gets into the blood.”
§§§
we forget to marvel at the finery of our bodies,
the microscopic interactions, the minute particulates intersecting,
the multiplicity of languages of each limb, each system, multilingual,
the beauty of all this communicative combinatory,
that enables the gossamer threads
that make the ordinary a repetitive miracle, understanding both the
wonder of our instinctual, our five senses, and their finite limitations
we tendency focus on the visible,
the skin, our excretions,,
accepting even normative, please go away, periodic pain,
but the exceptional,
that states loudly,
what you cannot see can ****
we ignore until the last minute
hopeful that the clues that are maybe contained,
re the tearing of the fabric of six hundred million
sacs you were unaware you possessed,
can be rewoven, the palpitations your fear be calmed,
the chest muscles quaking, the gasping for molecules
of oxygen can be ventilated, just like the truth that too,
needs a good and a proper airing, without the artifices tubular
now that you are fully conscious of the unseen beauty upon
which each depends, and the masks we wear proudly lest others
we infect, greater irony that we mustn’t pollute our atmosphere,
perhaps, will it make you question the supposed certainties
we sarcastically,
say we know for sure
and respect the uncertainties by which we live and breathe,
the poetry of the body internal,
every second an exercise in risk taking, the miracle of each moment
a blessed privilege, not being conscious that our physical subsistence
is a near thing, depending on thinnest membranes unseen,
not fooling ourselves that we are each a human god,
an Oz, great and powerful,
who hides behind a curtain.
§§§§
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 5:49 PM UTC
Those not heard
written April 13th, 2021
I write this poem
for those not heard and not hearing
long dead or not yet born
bound with chains in prison
wild children who never learned language
the feral and the afraid
the multilingual multitudes
whose language I never learned
the signs I don't recognize
those too busy or drowning in stagnation
the refugee walking alone across a barren desert
the mountaineer on the highest summit
the castaway on the island in paradise
the captive in your neighbor's house
those lost in their own minds
or lost in the country - the city - down the street
ones who took a wrong turn
we with headphones intent on our cellphones
I write this poem
thinking of all the ways we don't don't hear
reasons we don't hear
things we don't hear
people we don't hear.
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 11:33 AM UTC
You might be multilingual
Yet, your dreams always appear
in your mother tongue!
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
You might be multilingual
Yet, you always grin
in your mother tongue!
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 6:57 AM UTC