"translations" poems
incorrect
something that should have
never been
incorrect
a being of disillusioned
experiences and truths
inaccurate
proportions and measurements which
define me as a logical fallacy
inaccurate
colors and hues which
do not correspond with my inner being
imprecise
ideas and beliefs spilled onto a canvas
with little to no direction
imprecise
translations of my true self
with no attempt to fix it
mistake
didn't think it through
because I didn't think I had to
mistake
didn't predict the real outcome
because I thought they'd understand
failure
with nothing more than a swift brush stroke
and some applied use of sense of self
failure
was the only thing I could think of
as I opened my eyes by the burning candle light
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
-- Basho
Literal Translation
Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)
The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
sound of water.
Translated by Robert Hass
Old pond...
a frog jumps in
water's sound.
Translated by William J. Higginson
An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.
Translated by Harry Behn
There is the old pond!
Lo, into it jumps a frog:
hark, water's music!
Translated by John Bryan
The silent old pond
a mirror of ancient calm,
a frog-leaps-in splash.
Translated by Dion O'Donnol
old pond
frog leaping
splash
Translated by Cid Corman
Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.
Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond
MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL
OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!!
'Dere wasa dis frogg
Gone jumpa offa da logg
Now he inna bogg.'
-- Anonymous
Translated by George M. Young, Jr.
Old pond
leap -- splash
a frog.
Translated by Lucien Stryck
The old pond,
A frog jumps in:.
Plop!
Translated by Allan Watts
The old pond, yes, and
A frog is jumping into
The water, and splash.
Translated by G.S. Fraser
11.2k
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
Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...
Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...
Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.
My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!
Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!
Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!
Keywords/Tags: Perveen Shakir, Urdu, translation, Pakistan, love, passion, picnic, beach, vision, confession, rain, rainbow, hues, forbidden fruit, body, *** orchid, mrburdu
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC
Pretend piety,
Of the temporary variety,
Placed in a shine of "I am better than you high society".
Your words are intelligent,
Your words hold weigh,
But my sentiment makes your feeble words tremble and shake.
It has taken years of mental ************
To develop the concentration,
To compose these compilations of rhythmic translations!
You think you are the victor,
You feel you have won,
But this is no mere battle, it's a ******* war...son...your pain has just begun.
Because we don't need five minutes alone,
To crush any poem,
But reaching the masses and in between is where, I, call home.
Love and pain are parts of the game, but so are other emotions,
So merely beware, your pen must dip a little deeper into far vaster oceans,
If you think you can contend to my level or quotient...
My friend....
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
4.9k
For translational
invariant functions
The Lebesgue measure is an example of such a function;
In geometry, a translation "slides"
a thing by a: Ta(p) = p + a.
In physics and mathematics,
continuous translational symmetry
is the invariance of a system of
equations under any translation.
Discrete translational symmetry
is invariant under discrete translation;
Analogously an operator A on functions
is said to be translationally invariant
with respect to a translation operator
{\display style T_{\delta }} T_{\delta }
if the result after applying A doesn't change
if the argument function is translated.
More precisely it must hold that:
{\display style \for all \delta \
Af=A(T_{\delta }f).\,}
\for all \delta \ Af=A(T_{\delta
}f).\,
Laws of physics are translationally invariant
under a spatial translation
if they do not distinguish
different points in space.
According to Noether's theorem,
space translational symmetry of a physical system
is equivalent to the momentum conservation law.
Translational symmetry of any woman
means that a particular translation does not change her.
For a given woman, the translations
for which this applies form a group,
the symmetry group, or, if the women
have more kinds of symmetry, a subgroup of the symmetry group.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion
Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency
Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams
Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions
Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled
In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
********** with the intangible essence
To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance
Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
Translations of Urdu couplets by Mir Taqi Mir
Sharpen the barbs of every thorn, O lunatic desert!
Perhaps another hobbler, also limping by on blistered feet, follows me!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My life is a bubble,
this world an illusion.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Selflessness has gotten me nowhere:
I neglected myself far too long.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I know now that I know nothing,
and it only took me a lifetime to learn!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Love's just beginning, so why do you whine?
Why not wait and watch how things unwind!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Translation, Urdu, couplets, Mir Taqi Mir, Meer Taqi Meer, desert, feet, life, world, illusion, selflessness, neglect, knowledge, learn, learning, love, India, Indian, mrburdu
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
Mayan Poetry Translations
The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******
Why?
Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
###
The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—
virgins!
###
Prelude to **********
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!
Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...
Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!
###
The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...
Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,
virgins, maidens!
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, *** marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ****** nakedness
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 4:54 AM 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
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.
We both know
you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
I am tangled in your breath
exhaling the need
to hide in the corners of your touch
enslaved in lashes moistened in tears
tracing the compass of my face,
I swallow this saline-tainted want of us
upon my thirsty tongue
Enya-laced candlelight
soothing my soul,
the flavour of your gaze
seeping into the hunger of my veins....
You are a predestined addiction,
my inevitable attraction
I worship you in moonlight
in redemption beyond the fragments
of stained glass translations
a blindfolded religion
bound in all the words
we've tasted behind
the veil of unspoken confessions,
now dangling from the tip of your tongue;
You adorn me in a blushed haze,
a heaven unleashed in the colours
of your touch;
There is sanctuary in the curve
of this beautiful weakness,
I awaken on the edge
of wishes falling from your smile,
holding on to words that are
now and always
ours, alone....
The map into this omen awaits
scribed upon dog-eared pages
of this prophecy of life;
Love is a verse faded
beneath the trace of fingertips
longing to unwrap the secrets of infinity
hiding between desolate leather binders
forgotten in the shadows
tossed beneath an altar of unanswered prayers
bleeding before the sacrifice,
an intimate revelation
smeared upon a ruby-stained dagger
extracted from the heart of a dying dream
a pardoned demise delivered
in the verdict
of this reign of reality...
all I ever needed,
all I ever needed
was you...
I navigate through the cirrus of your sighs
in delicate echoes
fragments of your breath
wrap around me like the sun
invading the impending storm
in the last minutes of calm
seducing the sapphire-kissed stillness
in an azure rage
a liquid euphoria
racing through my body,
piercing into this drought of me;
thunder invades the tranquil horizons
of my inhibitions
exposed and lost,
so lost
in the rush
of your fragile rain...
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
In the darkness,
I become tangled in your fingertips,
legs,
and sweat soaked sheets.
Your body rocks and moves against mine
in perfect motion
As you whisper how you want
to "make love to me."
That’s what you called it.
But I’d never done that before,
I didn’t even think people still called it that.
But once you said it,
all I wanted to do was...
make love...
to you too..
Now,
baby,
I'm not saying I love you,
or anything like that.
Don’t smile that smile like you’ve enchanted me.
Because I refuse to make that commitment
or give you that much.
Cause see,
I've got things to see
and people to do
and I can't be in love right now.
it's not a good time..
Is it for you...?
..cause if you say it first
I'll jump at the chance to tell you
that when I'm with you,
I soar.
Your fingertips send sparks from my skin
and the sweat dripping
down your caramel complexion
leaves me hungry.
Hungry for your lips on my lips
and your body on mine,
and lord oh lordy,
I might need a minute
excuse me..
Baby see,
when I'm with you
I can smell the scent of your country
taste the exotic taste on your tongue.
and it sends me to far away places and distant lands.
sends me to other planets.
I'm so high off the scent of us,
I'm lightheaded just thinking about you.
****
And you laugh at me
because I breath a little harder
when you whisper in your native tongue.
"¿Te gusta eso?"
you ask.
And I'm not sure what you're saying
so I just say yes..
and you keep on going with your secret words
losing me in your translations
to the point where I don't wanna be found.
So let's stay in this limbo forever..
because you got me so high baby,
so high,
I never wanna come down.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
Oh, oh Oreo
Oreo the cat
Who makes of ripped up paper towels
Very fancy hats
Oh, oh Oreo
My silly little friend
Who through ridiculous antics
Amuses to no end
Oh, oh Oreo
Sniffer of all shoes
Faced with the choice of sniffing strangers
It's their footwear that you choose.
Oh, oh Oreo
Speaker of cat tongue
I pretend to understand your words
But my translations are far-flung
Oh, oh Oreo
Warmer of my lap and heart
I promise now as I did before
We will never be apart.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Can you determine the Cause of this Spite
By Twin Connections of Mistakes long past?
That which must be Forgiven; And Enlight
To soothe those Swollen Muscles at long last
I think there was a Page which left unread
Caused many Translations to poison us
That Philosophy: If Thoughts can be dead
Then reinstate that Puppet in a Bus
Who knew all his Movements were Concepts formed
And those Ring-Joints dictate his every Move
But this: Illusion and Concept conformed
Thinking these are actual Gifts from Above.
My Point, is that all these Frictions we had
Were Real Illusions; And Concepts bad.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
you
in perfect transparent
translations
6 dimensional shapes
rolling, falling, flying
away.
i have no idea who or what
you are.
remember that chinese place
off old 66?
i had no idea who i was then
but i would do it a million times over
again and again.
schizophrenic eyes
telephone conversations
alternate zodiacs, tigers and sheep.
piscean planning
and piscean demise.
dolores haze,
her very essence left
trampled on the page.
she was such a beauty in those days.
do you remember those
san franciscan lies?
they say it never rains
but i see that it does
all the time.
i’m still staying there
for all my life.
sweet, sick little complexities
there’s never a cycle you break.
you were in a room rull of people
who would meet your same fate.
three before thirty
you had no clue you’d lead the way.
socially starved, you say?
i guess i can’t deny it,
but i’ll fight it.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
I'm seeking to amass a Collection
of the World's spiritual, mythic and philosophical codices.
I want to collect them out of veneration
for those who came before who have tried to illuminate the Paths:
The following is my library of such books of yet.
Entries in bold are my recommendations;
entries italicized are strongly recommended.
-Old Works:
**Egyptian Book of the Dead
Tibetan Book of the Dead
The Bhagavad Gita
Euclid's Elements**
Tao te Ching (I have 3 translations)
I Ching (2 translations and a workbook)
The Qur'an
The Bible
-Newer Works:
Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar: Philosophy explained through Jokes
*Quadrivium: Number, Geometry, Music, & Cosmology*
The Pulse of Wisdom - College Eastern Philosophy Book
*Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna*
The Elements of Reason - College Logic Book
1001 Perls of Buddhist Wisdom
*Net of Being by Alex Grey*
*Art Psalms by Alex Grey*
**The Portable Nietzsche
*The Red Book of Jung
The Portable Jung***
The Subtle Body - Encyclopedia of chakras, auras and other personal energy systems.
Who are you? - 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself
--
I seek to compile this Collection
not to have a nice looking bookshelf;
nor do I seek to find which one is right.
I seek to learn from each of these
the lessons that are intrinsic in our Lives;
they're all matters of perspectives.
I want to compile the aspects of each philosophy with which I resonate
and integrate them into my own,
forging a dynamic and holistic individual philosophy.
All of these books are Mystical masterpieces.
All of these books provide insights to the nature of our Holy Reality.
All of these books ultimately attempt to express the same ineffability.
All of these books are interpreted then translated and interpreted again.
The way I see it,
I may as well do it for myself; draw my own conclusions:
Think for myself.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
Hence, also in another place, I am naked;
naked; In Latvia, sometimes
from the other way around the adjective; narrow
understanding of the bald;
On the rising piece of alt girl's feet
Do not listen to her empty bare feet, of nature's own *****
again; twelve same & the walls of the square
is the work that they were naked; Glory to you w/ sackcloth,
to buy a few have sprouted sacks; End of all things is taken
the form of; The naked lens of Lebanon
& one simple; simple, the pictures
by the end, simple surface is rough; & more
matter of his dreams; He saw poor; till
naked & welcome, his mind open that
It is clear that there is a plan & having
as deniers of their own to his person
naked, his clothes, stripped them of their private citizens,
out of labor in vain: he was naked;
naked; that which was evil flavorless,
unarmed, have left us; All naked & w/out
any armor protection who exposes himself
to be above; You can not be secured in some,
I was already catered for; depopulated in the man,
of course, that he set out he was uncovered
within the field, naked, in a few words;
Translations
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
~
*I work in the clouds
Building a world out of hype
I could be a beekeeper
A prison guard
Reverse pop idol
Extinguishers, all
Hackers ferry contemporaries
Around the diseased city
Merchants of transference
Polymorphing
Paths and angles
Pieces of eight
They could be brutal war fantasies
White noise translations of the snow
Cathedral nights in the deli
Ghost recordings from an opera house
Each with its own price tag
All the pretty girls
Thick with mascara
Go to plasticity
Drink chloroform
100 aspects of subterranea
So long as they come home
With a credit problem
Money devotion
It's what transferred us
Into numbered silhouettes
Slavishly pouring our blood into the sea*
~
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 5:12 PM UTC
Prised from your mouth
I am fully risen
to the ache that pours
nectar in peach sin,
so slippery to your lip
as your smile splays
across my skin
I am folded taut,
revealed in curves
in the suckling of night
as translations
of words unspoken
list the weave
between swollen moments
succumbing to your fire
held above to
shatter the mines of need,
each shaft stains
against heaving breath
as I strain
to grasp the boiling
of your drenching
surges with teeth and nail
where my voice blends
to the ache and growl
of your tongue,
sedition is slain on this precipice
stroked into a blaze
your raging
is my primal victory
as is our tempest to race,
lost in naked textures...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought. What? You say you bet you could
rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?
I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé. I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.
I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod. And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
I heard there was a secret metric foot
that David knew was favoured by the Lord,
and when he penned the psalms he'd often put
this pattern the Almighty best adored
amongst the endless praise and imprecations;
unstressed, plus stressed, suffuses through his pages,
though hidden by the English of translations;
pentameters still echo down the ages.
The spondee's spurned, and has been from the start;
an anapaest's anathema, and grim.
Though trochees may be near the Maker's heart,
you'll never hear a dactyl in a hymn.
There's only one the Lord thinks worth a ****
the sacred, the unchangeable iamb.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
How to write an English poem
Well this is what I do,
I listen to my dear friend "Jon"
Then I go about copying him.
He says Good-marrow My to Thy lady
I laugh & reply back Hath thee fared well,
Like I'm in Shakespeare's Macbeth.
I love how
He uses "thou" different then myself
I say thou in sense of "even though"
translations are must
to understanding my friend!
He speaks in
Cockney- crockery riddles
Yet some how I understand.
I doth not speak to make
fun of him
for I love his English gib,
I listen while learning
to write a sonnet since.
How to write an English poem.
I listen to Sir "Jon's"
witty sense of humor
His cloaked sarcastic'ness
as he talks in general,
Saying such this as
Aroin't thee & Blimey ole chap
as if I know'th what he means.
How to write an English poem
Well frankly it's a pickle of a thing,
I say I doth rightly know lets ask'th
Sir"Jon & see!
He say'ith to me
"change your ****** dialect"....
And
when he's spitting made
He yells
O' God Save the queen.
He also talks of frippery
& ask if I'd like a spot of tea
when asking me questions
he laughs & quotes
such things like ;
" cheeky" little beggar or monkey
as "IF" I
know what he means.
Funny thing is though
Sir "Jon'
never really
******* told me
How to write an English poem
(so answers to every-ones question- I'd say walk around & say top of the morning,
ole chap & blimey, Even things like Bristol Cities & things likes this don't forget your "TH" s
addressing your selves a lot & put emphasis on every other syllable & thing!)
Well dear Sir "Jon"
I am not a British Bolk
Just A YANKEE- New Englander
oh & a NuYorican
Ta Boot
So next when I see You
****** Friend tell me-
How to write an English poem !?!
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC