"sectors" poems
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
I don't know what you could call this exactly,
I was at a musical concert in one of the states
And a school filled with children of less than 13 years of age
Presented a song which I could call a petition.
They were praying earnestly for God to save Nigeria
From lawless people, bloodshed, assassination and a list of other wreckless things
It touched me that finally, it has gotten to this! When children start to file a petition to God against our leaders saying for their sake God should save the nation
It's a bit disturbing that even the kids know that there is a problem with this nation.
Do we have to ridicule ourselves forever? The children who were in the ***** and groins some years back have come to understand the situation and are crying out.
The educational standard is falling to pieces and the threads would have to be carefully woven together if we wanna make something out of it again.
It's embarrassing to know that there are so many sectors that has failed, absolutely nothing is working.
Our leaders still apportion blame. Roads are not good and then you get to hear one is a federal road one is state owned. Does it matter who owns the road if it is in their country?
Why aren't everyone looking beyond their noses and see what's wrong. Our youths have resolved to fraud when hard work and talents aren't appreciated.
Universities have been shut down for months now in the name of strike and the government officials could afford to eat and carry on their daily activities!
Aren't they meant to be in the hospital, complaining of one illness or the other as a result of the unrest the matter has caused? Disheartening! Even the hospitals go on strike and innocent people are left to die as a result of no medical attention.
I was moved to tears when these children sang. The nation's unrest and matters have become prayer points in all places of worship. God should indeed look down from His throne, have mercy on us and save Nigeria!
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
My recollect is of the each,
The Two
And within the Two
One is the One
Holding and using our lead and ink utensils
as if they are weapons for winning at Love,
and reasoning for our written duel
Expressing desires the voice would customarily sever into dissection
Permitting authority to the crafted scripts *********
and may it’s barrier lay
over the possibility of a broken and scattered tongues communicate
Giving our internal intent its day
the way hoped it would speak
Expecting the requited, the return
was a pesticide over wide horizon,
Where the organic surprise of rainfall kept us neutral and thankful
And apart,
our minds maintained with
and of our other
With no need for philosophical proofs only the inner felt proof
Of forwarding shards of sentiment
with compiled assurance
and a dispatched formula
the best way we could phrase
Alongside images
that came in and held tight
in sectors tucked away and reserved from the cherished
to this day are still to be amazed
Spontaneous placement of universally synchronized jewels and stones
Of not have to have
[Only the simplified, pushed down and planted fact]
Of want her to have
So when away,
You feel a personal, singled-out
appraisal of praise
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 9:07 PM 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
Place a camera upon a person.
They either act like an idiot.
Or a person with common sense.
It exposes us and the truth.
We pose.
But we can't fool.
A camera can tell a lot about you.
We act.
We pretend.
Until that visionary tool shows the real you.
The camera.
Where many people hides from?
Ask many who has been on the run?
Sooner or later.
You'll come forward.
When you are exposed.
Cause it mirror many sectors of us.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
There once was an interstate trucker
Who went by the name of Tucker
He transported illegal goods
To all sectors of the woods
Cops did a raid to shut down Tucker's trade
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Fowl floating and flapping across an ocean canopy.
Lightly squawking and ascending in a calm summer sky.
Waves shine and melt into the beachfront in a dull roar slowly thundering in diagonal collapsing sectors.
The top of the ocean. The point of a sphere. Its water that falls slowly to the bottom of..... Here!
Ripples and puddles and drinks full of life, the clearest the murky and bluest in light.
Mountains and palisades can be rocks that reach skyward. God on a gravel road walking through.
The golden purple cattails glow in the sunlight like strawberry fields that fizzle on my hands in the wind that can dance. The vinyl green stem leafs sit stagnantly silently awaiting the moon.
Hoppers crescendo in a frozen moment singing in stillness that refuses to relent.
The trees around them bask in the energetic massage from the moving sections of recently called air vapors.
The Hi- C haircuts that nature reminds me it inspired bobble from the vectors.
This climate ecology scenery breeds the moments religions were made for me.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
i lapse
in a moment of space
where you were talking
and i think about
love
and romance
there's such a difference
i understand this now
as i sink my head further into the pillow
love is dog eared
spread thin
and getting thinner by the hour
taking courage to sustain
in small doses of subtle hints of reality
pulling at your neck line
(can i have the noose already?
i swear, i've thought about dying since I was 8 years old)
romance
on the other hand
is heavy
light
everything all at the same time
a stagger
a limp
a shrug
a heavy sigh
someone giving you their favorite bracelet in a bathroom
writing your name
perfectly
in small sectors
of a bedroom
i once adored
i mourn you
tonight
a shape
is what
love and romance
has come down
to for me
a feeling
so morose
i long for it to be gone
to be known
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
You are intricate.
Tracing neurotransmissions down your spinal column,
from freckle to L4,
turning slow motor momentum.
It's my weighted moment,
my wordplay peachfuzz.
Silence, silencio, silent night,
simple sectors seething softly,
like a whistling tea kettle with
mutational falsetto (puberphonia).
Words are flowing,
just tripping their way around my e lin- sheath.
If I had to guess,
I would assume that neurochemical firings occur to the beat of softspoken dubstep.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
Hey pretty girl,
Who asked you
To take on the world?
They don't know what you've been through
That you had a child
When you were one yourself
You grew up so seamlessly
Even when you got little help.
You work two jobs
Care for the homeless
In the most extreme way.
I have learned more from you
Than I can ever repay.
Still, you never consider yourself
Unlucky or unfortunate.
Just because we are different
Does not mean a thing
People seem to think
That you're beer and I'm champagne
That isn't how it works at all.
My parents say
You've made questionable choices
Like they haven't?
I don't understand
Why money is so important
Just because we come from
Separate sectors of the financial latter
Does not mean
We lack a friendship that matters
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
In the age of prophylactics,
we build skyscrapers out of plastic
Agents of terror trade their bombs in for germs
So we make ourselves prisoners to serve out life terms
Unscalable walls that circle each axis
Hemispherical gates in which they have stored us
Intersecting steel Orobouros
With plenty the yeast farm to serve as our food,
and trend setting deities that change with our mood
A quarter united, we sing out a chorus
Hyper-interactive nonsense to entertain
Connected by a network direct to the brain
With war buried deep, next to monarchs and castles
Their drones target individuals to save them the hassle
While we sleep in our bubbles, ignorant of pain
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
Overwrite moments w/ 1s and 0s,
in binary mood,
until love is gone for good.
Do you remember when we
were 1 amongst many 0s?
What was once the sound
of a smile in your laughter,
tied together by sine waves,
will become empty 1s, empty 0s
after we press ‘Y’.
And the machine will
wipe the sectors for days,
until the cycles become unreadable,
and that’s when
our love will truly be gone for good.
Like a puzzle you try to solve
with the wrong pieces.
And now smashes the hammer.
Only the hit will tell
how gone for good our love will be.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
Just a few thoughts.
Whilst colonialism by waring nations have steadily decreased across the globe.
(((Or until the next euro-war kicks off)))
Corporate colonialism has steadily increased, seizing power in society, using it's social and economic influence to extract resources; with little or no concern for the worlds fellow inhabitants.
That's because corporate colonial power has no stake, or little compassion for the welfare of indigenous populations or local economy's; over resources.
The super elite are so detached from reality, that they literally live in Alyssum; requiring just a small workforce and an army to realise production or the acquisition of global assets.
Our worlds leaders seemingly avoid all the negative consequences of their complicity in return for there compliance.
The welfare of the surplus population, especially those too young, or too old to work is unprofitable; and as such, is poorly funded, just enough to pacify the masses and stave off civil-unrest.
Globally there is a constant and gradual increase in funding pharmaceutical, mining and military sectors, with the support of the media machine; and a gradual decline in funding environmental schemes, health, and education.

(There may be big trouble ahead)
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 9:14 AM UTC
Come.
Come to one of the greatest country on earth.
Italians came.
English came.
Irish came.
Africans came.
Spanish came.
Hispanics came.
Japaneses and Chinese and host of others came
We an open invitation to others to come.
Immigrates, we all are.
History has pointed out that certain power sectors complains.
Mainly because they can't continue on with their selfish ways.
Certain percentages was started by this group.
Way back in in the decades.
We accept them doing times of wars.
To join our forces and fight our wars.
That's life.
We seen the worst of America, at certain times.
Segregation, is a great case that comes to mind.
We place Asians groups within concentration camps.
And they was legal Americans.
No one group made this country great.
All races has something they know they contributed.
Some of our best scientists came from all races.
Some we read about within the papers.
And it was because of immigration.
As long as their live and dreams.
Let that soul seek America's to achieve those dreams.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
convincing consumers that “v” is for vineyard
not *****
no quick or easy choices
gin, tonic and a dash of restraint
mom’s advice to quit got Tumblr started
we must get rid of inefficient economic sectors
learning to give one item at a time reviving the soviet tradition
Sharing the siege mentality
cheekily hopscotching across genres
tell me how this ends
prison time was dreadful, but he sure likes the video
pain can make them feel alive
in 1949
he imagined an age of robots
at 94, still charting memory’s depths
imagining a grim past that isn't his own
semi-invisible sources of strength
milewide tornado strikes Oklahoma
2 FBI hostage rescue agents die in training exercise in sea
a genre, old and Irish,is renewed
but wait
didn't yahoo try a deal like this before
How about slow play, drugs and Phrankenwoods
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Where's my daughter?
She's by the lake
Smoking cigarettes and
Reading poetry.
She's watching a little
black and blue bird
with a tongue-depressor tail
hop and squeak
through the dry
southern grass.
She's listening to
the salt-shaker wind
and sexed-up cicadas
looking for an insectual mate,
or a quick bug ****
Where's my daughter?
She's looking at the night sky
breaking it into
sectors of
astrological wonders
and making amazement for
herself,
with zodiacal confirmation.
and kissing like a serpent,
talking about
theories of relativity
and mass
and the speed of the light
and making love on
the boot of a car.
Where's my daughter?
She's lying naked
dreaming about whiskey
she can't have
and writing poetry
on the internet.
she's listening to
foreign music
and wishing other
people would do
that too,
with her.
she's wishing boys
wanted to hear her
crude poetry
or talk about
writers with crippling alcoholism
or ****** addictions,
and appreciate art
in a way that isn't
just to get in her pants
after.
Where's my daughter?
The clouds.
The ******* sky.
That's where she is.
But she's not on a plane.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Sectors of time
I walk this road each mile is a section is it me or is the timber changing to beams that strut up on both
Sides and close over the top my vision my reality now cube like I see the vistas beyond the crown of
The mountains they are contrary cusses to the sky poking making holes in the blue then they gather the
Clouds about in a mist of garland do I not hunger for your heights of wonder break out of this square
Feel and know the free liberation of exhilaration from drawing breath from clean boisterous air you
Have plenty to spare I would rise from the ashes as the phoenix to new life whatever it takes I must
Break free my blood burns with passion for new experiences I have accepted this square I have seen
Others in similar shapes the familiar the comfortable all too often becomes a trap when just beyond
Their limitations boundless borders exist your masterful game awaits your participation you hold the
Keys that can unlock doors that have been tightly shut a burgeoning knowing has been the cause of
Much restlessness a different and true angle of vision gives you the impetuous to strike out at your
Confinement the old saying comes to mind a square peg in a round hole the freeing the running
That never tires only brings you to the finest quality of life you have ever known it takes you to question
The norm draw truth by astuteness when it reveals itself even if it is just small glimpses this is the crack
That works unseen by each impulse and strain you have made the inner knowing never accepts second
Best you were a divine dream created in perfection then through small thinking lack of courage and faith
That wavered instead of pressing on you end up in a wilderness instead of your part of paradise its not
To late pick up the pieces now wiser place the pieces together from the joy they release take the stand
that will break the remaining restraints your ideal life awaits your choice will decide you have the proof
now win the test go out from all restrictions and fill the world with your particular freedom and blessing
so many are still enslaved they need your voice
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:46 AM UTC
Booting Up with or with out you . . .
Retrieving my Life . . .
Relinquish Bad Sectors . . .
Formatting Hatred . . .
Partitioning Space and Time . . .
Installing New System . . .
Restarting System failures . . .
Loading my Pieces together. . .
Starting new Stupidity . . .
Waiting for another Connection . . .
Synchronize with another System. . .
Error Starting to Fail System . . .
SYSTEM INFECTED . . .
SYSTEM CORRUPTION . . .
. . .
THEN THE CYCLE REPEATS . . .
Until Found a SYSTEM Called...
L.O.V.E...
------------------------------------------
Norfhel V. Ramirez
February 21 2011 / 4:42PM
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
When I am thrown from a cliff
how will I address the spirits ?
With my limbs crashing in our wooden room ?
the primitive sectors of my mind in flames ?
When my tongue pushes sacred air I
invoke silent destruction
Every impure atom flounders
My blood will remain
Puking with ****** revelation
Giving lethal sanction to pure hearts
Creation is the mad bird that never sleeps
with its head beneath the blade
Our murderers will turn like surprised doves
but our oldest comrades will declare war
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
I always wonder about certain sectors that has harem of women,
at their beck and call.
Solely reserved for them.
Not willing to share them.
Like a slave girl in waiting.
Simply waiting for a invitation.
While the allege number one harem holds the rank.
This one man holding himself out as leader.
All because certain rules dictates this logic.
Sometimes make wonder.
Do they feel love?
Or simply need to be wanted?
Obvious, once selected they must submit.
Any reject of him.
Might means she will be killed.
Sometimes make wonder.
If it's worthy the trouble for the women.
Being apart of a harem.
Some say, it's a culture thing.
But we see this in many regions of countries.
Where women let the man dictate their life?
Oh, what a life?
You can't move without his permission.
You can't be independant in anyway.
Your ways are dictated from day to day.
This ia all apart of being a harem.
Oh, yes.
Stupidity in the making.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
spiritual burglary
delicious minutes
unlovely products of a puritanical conscience
alcohol taken as a club with which to bludgeon into a state of insensibility
words seemed to clothe genuine honesty , they prove to be the veriest nonsense
epiphanic amorphous mind and its stream of consciousness
I imagine a neural interface that could record dreams
not brainwaves, but images
phantasmagoric films beset by the florid mind
sorry echoes in the verbosity
Too bad love has fallen out of style
now that squares rule the world
I can't express "why" in words
so unrealistic a view of themselves and the world that they become most difficult to live with
little wonder I dwell alone
everything is really fragmentary
analyzing the analyst
tripping over my words
instantaneous administration
mesmerized by the minutiae of sensations
tangles of terminology writhe in his brain
collating and sorting
assigning vectors
in hopeful sectors
where heart and love abides
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
Just fractured textures
Excerpts of memories,
Forgotten conjectures
Trapped in space and time;
Just figments of rendered sectors
that I’ve assembled to fabricate
my reality beyond measure
I’m tethered but the pressure
Never lessens whatsoever
Forever endeavoring to sever my essence
Or consciousness altogether
The splendor of the Nether
Whether it’s my pleasure to ever enter
Or remain a lonely specter
destined to beg the question,
but plagued to always remember
I invent scenarios in my head
And fantasize how I long to be dead
While conceptualizing my grave end
Though I dread the inevitable attempt
The hand I’m dealt lost in the shuffle
My walls crumble deciphering life’s puzzles
Disillusioned with the hustle and bustle
Solutions come full circle at the bottom of a bottle
Mental status: unstable
Cerebral stasis turns tables
Visibly miserable and unable
To cope without the love of my chemical savior
From the apex, I’m ready to sail
While failing to grasp what all it entails
I steadily hide intent in my tales
In my dreams I’m haunted
since leaving the cradle
Life is beautifully frail
I see myself dancing in the portrayal
with the reaper as the main feature
veiled together in a cerebral theater
Patterns intertwine
In fashioned structures
I slumber and suffer
Painting caricatures
Of a perfect life
I yearn to capture
In lustrous colors
That fail to convert
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
..
.
A few bad sectors failed to boot
the operating system smoothly
when doctoring the optimizing process on the disk,
sector by sector
cluster by cluster
it's running but not too well as before
several files could not run properly,
might be corrupt
or missing a few chains,
garbage data have shown
yet could not backed up the entire files successfully
even the several programs also
when running the machine abnormally
the old hard drive is sounding a little,
seeming to crush the physical memory anytime
There is only an operational way
to rescue the hard drive by the low level format
which 'll erase all the random memories
those bad clusters will be fixed permanently,
though yet a chance of fatal error
.
..
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
.When I finally holdthat mountain in my hands,after traveling to all of these wild distant lands--paradise will become mine to unfold.Always running from the cold city's temptation,as subdivided sectors seem to sink in frustration.Yet, tame in comparison to the lands I once knew,black diamonds surfaced in the rock garden I grew.What you get on your canvasis what you hold in your mind.Don't give up your brush,let's see what we will find.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC