"translating" poems
Contentment is for people who are satisfied to stop thinking.
To turn off all those parts of your head
That constantly generate questions
And continuously probe the accepted.
To hush the cells jumping up and down
To show you a new way to approach a topic,
Begging you to acknowledge the incredible plans
That could be birthed from the impossible way
You see the ordinary.
But I have an obligation to my mind.
Yes, sometimes it feels more like shackles than duty,
And yes, sometimes I want to abandon my notepad and paper
On the bedside table to have a "me day"-
Whatever that's supposed to mean -
Or halt the carousel of whirling thoughts for a nap,
But I can't.
I will always be curious, at my roots.
I grow from the dedication to my thoughts, upward.
A tree straining towards the light of innovation.
Why would I forsake the places my thoughts can take me,
Or the adventures my pen can take in translating them.
For the gifts this head gives me,
I must always be on call, on edge, on fire.
Contentment: unattainable.
Even if it weren't it would interfere with the very process
That would allow me to derive what meaning lies in contentment.
So that's my secret.
The Hulk was always angry, which is how he controlled and dominated.
I'm always searching, which is how I find and thrive.
I can't drown out my thoughts just to soak up the sun.
That's not contentment: that's complacency.
And complacency is not in my vocabulary.
How funny-
I am content with losing that one word
For the chance to be brilliant.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Writing this poem
Is as difficult as
Translating my thoughts into accurate words.
Even though I'm not good,
I admit that I try.
I can't say the same about you.
We talk about
The same
Things
Every
*******
Day.
You don't trust me enough to just let me in.
"Friend"
If that is what you are.
Or is that just a title I have,
So that you don't feel so alone?
You are a puzzle.
Yes.
You.
This stupid little game is making me sick.
Every **** day
I find out
I'm missing another piece
Of the bigger picture.
Of you.
I can barely even put the pieces together.
And I'm just wondering if I should leave you
Unfinished.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:16 AM UTC
will little squiggles
of pixels organised in blocks
of "words" and "sentences" ever
come close to translating
a nuclear blast
in the
brain?
eye
thinks
not.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
/ innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
prōven innocent...
ah!
so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...
innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...
no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...
innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
with 18 years lost...
and then the tears of relief!
Tomasz Komenda...
an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
en masse...
an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
a count de monte cristo
allowance...
but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
succumbing to old age,
and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...
there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
schizophrenia?
the latter overshadows
the former...
because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
but with the former?
bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
to jimmy savile...
guilty until prōven innocent
has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
has? not much,
just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
be left intact in its the momentum...
honestly... the study of law -
is probably the ********* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.
p.s.
because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions
translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw
crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression
drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille
depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols
making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe
relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?
increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation
lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
A strange kind of intrusive ambiance; voices in several languages, forced laughter, technological functioning; human activity intermarried with machines. The volume rising perfectly in sync with my cortisol levels, I interrogate my past for signs of the path that led me here; it remains blurred. I did not dream of working in customer service; but here I am regardless, moments of my life that I will never ponder again; a cascade of the present moment repeating as long as my employment contract exists. An event-less horizon, memories are stillborn here and true ingenuity stifled. There is much and nothing that has led me here. It is hard not to feel like a horse bred for performance in this place; everything is monitored, quantified, reviewed and collaborated. Performance reports produced with the fervor of medieval scholars translating the bible. I look to the sky, what else is there to do; only to see smoke alarms and aesthetically neutral lighting arrangements. There is art work on the walls, but is generic, created to defy analysis. The colouring of the walls is chosen to exude a neutral sort of trendiness; on brand for the overarching corporate image.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
*Butterfly Desires & Fictional Highs,
Magnetic Spells In Her Emerald Eyes,
Bleeding Perpetual Fire & Toxic Cries.
Lucid Screams Of Her Plastic Love,
Paper Towns & Serenity Above,
Refracting Into An Apocalyptic Dove.
Postcards Of Her Estranged Serenity,
Diffusing Into Polaroids Across Infinity,
Rhythms Of Lusts Erupting Obscenity.
Bluest Shade Of Her Misguided Confessions,
Uncharted Fragments Amplifying Obsessions,
Profane Prodigies Detonating Desecrations,
Digital Dreams & Fictional Desires,
3D Symphonies Inside Her Crystal Wires,
Purple Streams Translating Fires.
Tunnel Visions Transmitting Reality,
Suicidal Trance & Static Eternity,
Molotov Solution Is Her Lighthouse Of Ecstasy.
- 04:19AM -*
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 6:56 PM UTC
I don’t know what I’m reading.
I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.
What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.
“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.
How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.
“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?
“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.
It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
"There's nothing you can do that I haven't already done to myself."
I can dance naked to MSI if I really want to.
I really do want to.
That song awakens my inner stripper.
I'm making a tattoo appointment for this week.
Going to get a semicolon on my suicide scar so I never forget,
That I was once a dumb teenager
Who had more courage than I do right this second.
It makes me panic to think that they don't call english muffins
English muffins in England.
Two types of muffins?
Who would've thought?
It gives me anxiety.
My computer keeps translating all my pages into Polish.
Nie wiem nic.
Strange thing, but I don't mind.
I need more coffee,
Possibly *****
But most likely coffee.
Jacob is going through a new phase,
And I will wonder if it'll last a few more months,
Till he turns four.
"You can't do that"
"Aaaaactually..... I can."
Aaaaaactually you can't munchkin.
But you keep reminding me you're not a munchkin,
You're a boy.
Silly boy.
Silly me.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
keep me close
it’s been seattle in my head
and i can’t quite find my way
back to a sunny coast
i need you to hold my hand
and pretend i’m not crying
when you can feel my tears
soaking the sleeve of your sweater
i know i’m a writer
but i’m not always good
at translating the language of my head
into words you’ll understand
sometimes
i just need you to keep me close
and hold my hand
even when you don’t understand
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
why keep people in prison
for their whole life wasting away
when they could be going through
mandatory flight training
for a one-way trip to deep space
who wouldn't want to do that?
people would commit felonies
just to be chosen; & everyone
would understand: like, why did
he **** his whole family? -
he wanted to go into space; oh..
no volunteers will be accepted:
[I've been trying to get into solitary
for years, but they won't let me;
seems u can't just walk up to a cop & say,
I'd like to go to jail please; doesn't work;
u might get into the nut house,
which is okay for bed rest, narcotics & casual ***
but if u want to relax & just read,
it's annoyingly rigid;
solitary confinement would be more spiritual;
isolation, darkness, light, self, emptiness;
living inside a stone cube, just meditating;
day in day out night after night of pure consciousness -
one-way space travel would certainly build character;
if u want to live;
& not self-destruct;
the longer u're out there
the more advanced earth technology becomes
until one day when u're so far out
u can't see the Milky Way, a Space Agent arrives
to check up on u & bring much desired supplies;
"What's **** look like now?"
"What?"
"How much time has passed on earth?"
Temporal equation: the mechanical man speaking
in computer code replies: translating light
into quanta, distorting time so the curious prisoner
can see in virtual 3D artificial reality; so much time
elapsed he can't understand a thing; language purely
visual, people silent;
moving & not moving
but drifting in & out, coming
& going; transient shadows
indistinguishable from the
advertising background;
back in the comfort of cramped life-support,
wide electronic-data screen
windows, mechanical man implants
the virtual reality device all creatures
have now; download completely liberating
the body from mind functioning in its own
sphere; ****** functions taken over by
nanocurcuitry imparting semblance
of spacial autonomy, electrified zombies;
as one after another pulls his plug.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
submerged in a life with no todays
a submarine dive in dank water
a muck and a murk that can’t be shaken
awakening to a déjà vu
unviewed in an era or two or ten or when or
then but not now and never next
electrical fences building themselves
unyielding as we scale
flailingly failingly toward
a date and time and place indeterminable
subliminal signposts spray-painted by
anarchists railing against awareness
obscuring and obfuscating
translating into languages undocumented
concocted from alien metals and foreign shrieks
weaknesses in the armor show like
rusting bruises on the intangible
cruising through an imaginable maze
while memory like a rabid wolf bays
submerged in a life with no todays
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
I brought him more than a book
more than words on a page
I brought him
My heart story
An epic series
I brought him the stories of my life
Before, up to, and including him
And he read it all
Each volume
Understanding and translating clearly
The tragedies
the comedies
the sheer terror and beauty of it all
And in the romance section
Our saga
He read of my
Deep and abiding attraction
Ease of being with him
My devotion to caring for his heart
This soulmate connection
Written so clearly
And dearly
Indelibly inked love
On the pages of my heart
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 12:32 PM UTC
How far can we fall
from the edge of a whisper
suspended above molten desires
dangling from a single breath
escaping through fragile fingers
pressed against
a reflection of lips
piercing the swollen silence
in words that belong to you
I am paused in patient syllables,
a hum on the tip of your tongue
searing the wings of uncaged secrets
spilled from your eyes upon my skin
sliding in the hush of immaculate worship,
in this ritual of discovery
an unyielding hunger,
your hands unravel passages
confessed in intimate testaments,
stained in your fingerprints,
translating the map of my body
in minutes that pass too soon.
Cradle my thighs in an estrus of dreams,
bathe my release in the burning hours,
drenched in the silk of lilac orchids
soft petals from your eyes,
leave a trail from flesh to soul
for lips to taste the jasmine-laced crave
softly veiling the naked lust
caged behind these sapphire windows
gazing into the depths of your reign,
I am stranded in exile
awaiting the guidance of moonlight
translated in the stroke of your fingertips
that brand my flesh yours
And, in that place,
Ours..
I reveal every sacred secret,
exposed and shivering
beneath your body ascending
upon the ****** truth of me,
beneath these sheets of midnight silk,
tangled in translucent urgencies
unfolding into a delicate intimacy
that preludes this savage awakening
so restless to adorn your primal sting
in a deluge of my body to your parchment,
scribe me spent in the ink of your resonant whispers
how far can we fall....from the edge
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Through the darkness I part the Veil,
And walk the hidden paths,
In the brightness beyond the pale,
I see what none have seen.
There's danger here in the world beyond,
In the gleam beyond the gloom.
And all my days it waits for me,
The calling in my blood,
And through the years I walk the paths,
That very few have seen,
The Veil grows thin as years go by,
In the gleam beyond the gloom.
Through the darkness I return again,
From those fair hidden paths,
And as I walk I learn to talk,
Like I once knew I could,
For few have been beyond the veil,
In the gleam beyond the gloom.
~In the Gleam Beyond the Gloom by Bethany "Lorekeeper" Davis, March 5, 2015
My attempt at translating it into Latin:
Velum parte post umbram,
Et ambulate per semitae occultae,
In splendóribus supra pallidus,
Non video quid viderim.
Non est hic mundus extra periculum,
In splendóribus post umbram.
Et omnibus diebus meis memet maneat
Vocatio in sanguine meo,
Et per annos ambulate semitae,
Valde pauci, quas vidi,
Velum crescit tenuis quod eunt anni,
In splendóribus post umbram.
Per tenebras revertentur
Ex his latet semitas occultae,
Et ego ambulo illis loquela,
Scientes semel ego potui,
Pauci abierunt trans velum,
In splendóribus post umbram.
And a translation of that Latin from an academic translation site:
And the hanging for the part after the shadow,
And walk by the ways of the hidden God,
In the brightness of beyond the pale,
I do not see what I saw,
He is not here the world is out of danger,
In the brightness after the shadow.
The call waits for me,
In my blood, and all my days,
And I will walk you through the years, the highways,
Very few men, that I have seen,
As the years go by the thin veil of the increases,
In the brightness after the shadow.
From these things it is hidden by the darkness,
They shall come again the paths of the hidden God,
And I, I walk the angels have speech,
Yet knowing that once I was able to,
They went to the other side of the veil of the few,
In the brightness after the shadow.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
In a room full of emptiness I was sitting on my bed with my back resting against the wall. All my routine work was completed before time as usual and there I was sitting doing nothing, staring straight ahead on the wall which was colored blue. I had asked them to do so because I loved this color since it always exuded the stress in me, drained off the disturbing thoughts and opened gates for blissful ones. But they never came.
What came to conquer me was lostness. This lostness maybe is productive if one is lost in a good thought, or, in a world of the past or the future, or, in his own created world, creative or perhaps destructive or perhaps peaceful. But I was always lost in a blank world. A world, where nothing existed. A world where no one walked on the streets. A world where no music was played and due to that I couldn't imagine myself dance because of which I couldn't make new dance steps. A world where I couldn't see faces smiling, where colors existed in their pure mixed form, that is White.
But if I give a second thought, I am thinking all this, about what it feels to be blank.! So it shows I just used to think ******* when this beautiful world of blankness came to me where I can create whatever I want and whatever I like, where miracles can happen. Or maybe a world will take birth to be cradled in my thoughts showing me my desires, aims or maybe those facts that are necessary for me. All I needed was Concentration. But I didn't know how to do so. My brain was now an expert, a trained and professional one in being frivolous. And then I felt a pen fidgeting with my hand. Then my hand, with the help of the reflex sent by the brain who, this time, obeyed the conscience inside it, started translating the thoughts into words. Words, they always betrayed me before when I took their shelter. But that was my fault. I only took shelter widout any hint of giving them respect. But now as the two best friends, my hand and pen, were trending together to make history, these words had the tone of pride while residing themselves on paper, and their look was inspiring when read successively. A guilt always resides in me for the precious time I wasted being lost, but the content of overcoming that lag progressively always consoles the insides. Concentration is all you need for anything you want to do or have in your life. Beginner I am, but, I dont want to see the end. I would just like to enhance it as much as possible.
MH
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Turmoil.
The epic adventure begins.
Dead trees surround the sadness within.
Beauty is free.
Beauty is ******* free.
I'll never fall in love again, so you're just wasting your time.
Give up before you begin.
I am nothing.
I am flesh, and bone, and skin covered with scars.
My body is just a body
Use me, abuse me.
**** me, **** me up. **** me hard.
Make me ******* feel.
Make me numb.
Make me give up.
I already have.
Searching for a way out without the inevitable let down.
**** all of you.
**** you all.
I don't give a **** about any one of you *****
People are meaningless and forgettable, as are words and motions and ******* time.
Time.
Time is ******* precious and I've spent enough of it.
I'm spent.
I'm fading.
All I will ever be is a memory, if ever you even remember.
Will you remember me?
As time moves forward, memories get lost in translation.
Translating the name.
Translating sanity,
I am not sane.
I give up.
I'm pulling away, pushing closer to plan A.
I'm a fleeting thought.
I am human after all.
All those born will someday die, and die alone.
Nobody really gets anyone, nobody ******* understands.
I mean, they say they do, like they have you all figured out, but lying has come as second nature.
The ultimate lie being "I'm fine."
I'm fine, I'm ok, I'm breathing today.
I'm breathing today and I guess that's ok.
Conforming my inner self to live outwardly for others.
****
Just give me hope.
A change of scenary.
A better thought process.
All I've ever known is dependency.
It's a shame. I preach peace, and clarity.
But really that's not me.
I am a distraught thought of past tragedy.
A tape on replay.
Half the time I'm naked, it's not you who's ******* me.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.
In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.
In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.
In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.
In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.
1.7k
I like to call it blowing on the harp. Or wailing.
Like how helpless my mouth is
in the throes of translating wind, how I forget to
unfurl into the hot pleasures
of bath, pearling on around me,
that I had previously spent several dimes of
anticipation on,
even the mounds
of afternoon-special bubbles,
even the pleasure of seeing my own
flushed and perfect skin, mermaided
beneath this tideless sea.
When the urge to blow upon the slim silver box finds me
I almost don’t. Issues of noise and also
whatever it is when you think “I don’t
know how”. I am surprised to see such
reasonable concerns after all these years
of exacting unreasonable responses
from myself in those silvering and hightide
moments that you never see coming.
As if there were more to
the how of it than lips and hands
and steam and breath and the now weary bubbles
done tired of waiting
and laid down instead, across the water
in flat white whorls,
in a type of peculiar obedience, to the music above.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
u
l
t
i
p
l
y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and **** painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
A walk back home,
Mother, older in number,
but perfection and love retained.
Father, his usual stringent posture
arched to form a hug.
Sister, her voice resounding happiness,
Translating into dancing, singing, yelling.
Me? Teary eyed. Tears of happiness.
A walk back alone,
Into my cerulean room,
The azure curtains still hang,
Wrinkled from THE night’s frustration.
On the cobalt coverlet still lay,
Tear stains which narrate me a forgotten story.
Hidden inside my teal cupboard,
I find lost love’s fake promises.
Me? Teary eyed. Tears of blues.
A walk in dreams,
At crossroads, I meet an angel.
He asks me to make a wish.
I ask for his heart, in exchange for mine,
He grants my wish with powers divine.
He falls, I catch but the world’s serpentine.
Yet he loves and like a star I shine,
Me? Teary eyed, Tears of rejoice.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
A thin film of air quarantines the words,
And toggles them into reverse,
Settling them back under the tongues.
The eardrums condensed by a deep warble,
Nothing heard, nothing said,
The pupils swelling like planets through a telescope lens,
Tired eyes gazing, as time flings itself in sepia and grain,
Planting memories of twilights on a park bench after a rusty Monday,
As you looked over a five year old dressed as a ballerina,
Of subtle brushes of the fingertips,
While you walk into the grocery shop in your robe,
The throat starts to build a lump,
And translating it into a warm feeling,
You stay rooted,
As,
The eyes,
Watch,
Un-love,
Wait,
Listen,
Surrender,
And love again,
In Radio silence.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
Asleep in math class, not me, the matrices
Nobody cares about them it seems,
They lie, tucked in, drowsy between the textbook pages of more important chapters
But today, I finally saw the magic in them
The numbers dance
You can take two matrices, written in powdery chalk,
On the smooth, green ballroom floor on the wall
And watch, as if underwater, all is murmurs, all music
Comprehension of a different sort than paying attention
As the entries shift and multiply and add
Moving, sliding, locking into place like Tetris
And only some partners are compatible, and only under certain circumstances
2X3 and 3X5 meet in the middle, merge and mutate into 2X5
Two become one, each bringing their differences to the ball
New dimensions
Translating, the rows become columns and the whole constellation
Spins, twirling, kaleidoscope
Square matrices waltz
Others salsa and tango
Slowing, slowing, sinking into the final dip
Finding identity
1 0 0
0 1 0
0 0 1
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
3 Paces North
from the old
moss grove
lies a magik
mystery tome!
Translating,
stories past,
secrets of
never told.
The transcendent
orb you hold,
more real
than any
gold.
Trans·for·ma·tion is possible.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC