"tun" poems
“What do you think
The bravest drink
Under the sky?”
“Strong beer,” said I.
“There’s a place for everything,
Everything, anything,
There’s a place for everything
Where it ought to be:
For a chicken, the hen’s wing;
For poison, the bee’s sting;
For almond-blossom, Spring;
A beerhouse for me.”
“There’s a prize for every one
Every one, any one,
There’s a prize for every one,
Whoever he may be:
Crags for the mountaineer,
Flags for the Fusilier,
For English poets, beer!
Strong beer for me!”
“Tell us, now, how and when
We may find the bravest men?”
“A sure test, an easy test:
Those that drink beer are the best,
Brown beer strongly brewed,
English drink and English food.”
Oh, never choose as Gideon chose
By the cold well, but rather those
Who look on beer when it is brown,
Smack their lips and gulp it down.
Leave the lads who tamely drink
With Gideon by the water brink,
But search the benches of the Plough,
The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow,
For jolly rascal lads who pray,
Pewter in hand, at close of day,
“Teach me to live that I may fear
The grave as little as my beer.”
8k
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
The good thing about a tortoise
Is that he carries time on his
shoulder
and does not have to run
to cry.
He is like a river
flowing backward,
climbing the rocks on which her mother
had bitten
to un-feel the pain of origination,
so as to cast a glimpse on her nest
in the mountain.
He is a figure, a language, a sun
whose force is sustained by his own spirit -
unrelated, unlike a star,
a candle, a night.
He is his
own version
of the light,
and the rite,
and the fight
Sisyphean.
© Lazhar Bouazzi, Carthage, TUN, July 18, 2016. Revision made on July 25, 2016.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.
A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.
On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”
(c) LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Makahiridlaw an at' pahuwayan nga natukod,
Asay sinirungan kun an adlaw hapit na matunod
Pagsipat han im' bayhon, nawawara't kagul-anan
Duyog han panhuni'n gangis, panhapun han katamsihan.
Ngan kun nadangat na an kagabihon
At' gintatan-aw an bulan ngan mga bituon,
Panuro han tun-og ha panit man humarumhom
Kamataghom han gab-i dire nat' aabaton.
Salit ginkalasan ak pagsalidsid han adlaw
Nga ha ak' pagpukrat, waray ka na man ngahaw
Nagtikang panuro an makusog nga uran
Nabungkag an gintukod nga pahuwayan.
Yana hain man magtitikang?
Hain mapahuway kun gingugul-an?
Hain man masarig, hin-o't uulian?
Kun waray na'n im' kasing-kasing nga ak' puruyanan.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 10:12 AM UTC
1239
Risk is the Hair that holds the Tun
Seductive in the Air—
That Tun is hollow—but the Tun—
With Hundred Weights—to spare—
Too ponderous to suspect the snare
Espies that fickle chair
And seats itself to be let go
By that perfidious Hair—
The “foolish Tun” the Critics say—
While that delusive Hair
Persuasive as Perdition,
Decoys its Traveller.
2.3k
Espresso Yourself
Word hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes,
unload reload,
you’re the gun,
memories are the ammo,
noting is verboten even when forgotten,
this twisted linguistic addict attitude is not an act or a show,
but the derangement of this is entertainment regardless,
and this artist is in demand all around the world,
they want to take my time,
and everything else that I thought was mine,
but I don’t have the time to spare because I’m in a race to nowhere,
trying to find the finish line before I completely lose my mind,
gaining ground in quicksand sick and no one seems to care,
grinding grounds no chitchat i just grab my espresso and get outta there,
there as in here no beer just these coffee beans this is a caffeine affair,
I’ll take a double on the double,
actually if it’s more simple I’ll take a triple,
no milk no sugar no trouble,
just this espresso and these expressions that ripple,
with words hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
Holiness on the head,
Light and perfections on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To lead them unto life and rest:
Thus are true Aarons drest.
Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest:
Poor priest, thus am I drest.
Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
Another music, making live, not dead,
Without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well drest.
Christ is my only head,
My alone-only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me ev’n dead,
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new-drest.
So, holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tun’d by Christ (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest),
Come people; Aaron’s drest.
2k
I' ve cut my way through life on camelback,
Halting only punctually by the track;
Yes, “punctually” indeed, to sleep and feed
On what was placed with care on my steed:
Sun-dried Thoughts & Language for me; the fruit,
For those I met on the opposite route.
© Lazhar Bouazzi, Carthage, TUN, July 1, 2016
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Translation From Catullus
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia’s favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov’d:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o’er her ***** mov’d:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup’d oft, and, free from care,
Tun’d to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass’d the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia’s grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta’en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia’s eyes o’erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life’s decay.
1.9k
English
I wake up
I bath
I work
I finish
I go home
I sleep
I repeat
French
je me réveille
je prends un bain
je travaille
je termine
je rentre à la maison
je dors
je répète
Yoruba
Mo ji
Mo wẹ
Mo sise
Mo pari
Mo lọ si ile
Mo sun
Mo tun ṣe
Arabic
استيقظت
أنا حمام
أعمل
أنهيت
أنا أذهب للمنزل
انام
أكرر
Japanese
Watashi wa
mewosamasu
watashi no basu
watashi wa hataraku
watashi wa oeru
watashi wa ienikaeru neru
watashi wa kurikaesu
Latin
Ego surgere
et bath
laboro
ego consummare
i Vade in domum tuam
ego dormio
ego iterare
Lithuanian
aš atsikeliu
Aš maudytis
Aš dirbu
aš baigiu
aš einu namo
aš miegu
aš kartoju
Rex Verum Regem
TFK
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of the sun
and the greenness of the tree
he would summon the image
of Fatma - an Arab maiden
who was once Berber,
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her,
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothing
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of light goldness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a millon birds who
sing in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Where were you
when they called me ‘keling’ and ‘pariah’?
Where were you
when my grandparents arrived in a boat?
Where were you
when my kind slogged the railway tracks and roads?
Where were you
when they called me a snake and a rubber tree loafer?
Where were you
when they tore down my temples ‘coz there were one too many?
Where were you
when higher education was denied ‘coz some quota had been filled?
Where were you
when my kind were killed in prisons?
I didn’t know it was a crime to look like a black rapper with earrings;
Where were you
when my grandmother wept the first time she cast a vote?
Where were you
when my grandfather laughed, shaking hands with the Tun seated by the Brit?
Where were you
when I proudly held the nation’s flag up the Everest and in a squash court?
Where were you
when I wept at the sound of ‘Negaraku’ heard thru’ muffled speakers and a loud silence?
One Malaysia sorry *** was once believed but now delusional
When my kin are likened to toilet paper
Used when needed and then discarded!
@ shaqila 21/1/2013
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue
Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
(Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.
^ ^
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of the coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of Sun
and the greenness of Tree
he would summon the specter
of an Arab maiden - Fatma -
who was once Berber
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothes
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of thin goldeness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a million birds who
speak in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph .
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 27, 2016
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
The rain falling now
In Carthage -
A nectar
Of rainness -
Is like the grains
Of couscous
Made the day of
Celebration.
In Carthage today
The scent of rain
Is like the sound of
Pain
Memory had lost
To imagination.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, june 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
"Stung
like a bumblebee,
Danced
like a butterfly."
Once or twice
he was on his knee,
But never lost
the “tiger’s eye.”
Au revoir,
inerrant Punch Press!
Yes,
adiós,
Black Orpheus!
Adiós,
adiós!
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, June 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
XIII
To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Aires.
Harry whose tuneful and well measur’d Song
First taught our English Musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas Ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth aire couldst humor best our tongue
Thou honour’st Verse, and Verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus Quire
That tun’st their happiest lines in Hymn or Story
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Then his Casella, whom he woo’d to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.
1.3k
all
i
have
to
do
is
find
out
who
you
are
would
you
take
some
time
and
reveal
yourself
to
me
i
would
like
to
get
to
know
you
a
little
bit
better
i've
been
looking
for
the
right
op
por
tun
ity.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
Das brennende Herz
Ich liebe dich.
Ich blute dich.
Ich beobachten Ihren jeden Atemzug.
können wir immer weglaufen, bis nichts mehr übrig.
Lassen Sie uns gehen weg für immer, können wir in der Samt Mond tanzen.
Ich werde dich halten.
Ich werde dich küssen
Bis meine zitternden Lippen blau.
können Sie Ihr Zuhause in dem Feuer meines Herzens finden
oder Sie können mich mit dieser sengenden lange stare brennen
Ich brauche dich.
Ich werde Verzweiflung.
Ich werde Sie Schlaganfall.
Auf der Wange so weich und langsam.
Aber ich will nicht das Gefühl, die Liebe, die Sie tun,
Ich werde mit kaltem gefüllt werden.
Ich werde bis zum Tod zu springen.
Ich halte den Atem an.
Wenn das alles was man braucht um dir zu gefallen.
Also sag mir, Liebling, was Sie wollen, was muss ich tun?
Sie sehen unsere Liebe ist ein brennendes Herz.
Ich brauche es.
Ich hasse es.
Schmerz, aber notwendig von Anfang an.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
The moon, a hollow
Saint Jacques shell,
whose kernel
lovers
and language figures
had wasted through the flow
of time,
came
to this eerie pond
a dry vagabond -
now a dweller
of the surface deep.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, September 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Because of you, I'm doubled over
All through the night
And it's dark
very, very dark,
Pitch black
And in the distant hours, Im rocking and rolling
Stomach in knots.
The darkness and blackness looks and me and laughs
Knowing I promised I wouldn't
And I have
The stars, the milky way, the universe
All giggle at my weakness
But I laugh back up at them
At myself
I should be frightened
bit I am being fixed
Healed, is going too far,
However.
I am not the Capulet, an NO!
You are not the established Montague
Star-crossed we are not
But at one moment, gravity
did not pull me down
but pulled me in
And how dare you make my emotions tun into a
supernova
How dare you allow me to feel
Because now,
it's too late.
Not star-crossed, but stars collided
And what happens then?
We both know we'll blow up
Supernova
I just trust the universe
To make sure nothing
Breaks.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
Leong's watching TikTok on her laptop (as always) and she asks Lisa (a NYC girl) “Are you familiar with the the “downtown girl” aesthetic?”
Lisa’s dismissive, “Yeah, it just looks like Urban Outfitters grunge to me.”
Leong explains, “It includes headphones and it’s supposed to be a Lower Manhattan style.”
“Yeah,” Lisa snorts, “Because Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are SO cohesive.”
Lisa considers herself an Uptown girl (like the song) even though 59th Street, where she lives, is the border between Uptown and Midtown Manhattan. I’m learning that these distinctions are culturally key to New Yorkers.
“And,” Lisa adds, “why would someone wear, and lug around, giant, clunky headphones when you can use AirPods??”
“Amen sister.” I proclaim and even Leong nods in agreement.
“Later, Sunny, Leong and I are on a study break, eating salads and talking about who we hope Yale invites to the next “Spring Fling” concert. We aren’t being realistic; we’re covering who we wish would come. I’d named Charlie Puth, “Kat-Tun!” Leong squealed (A Japanese boy band - apparently Chinese girls LOVE their boybands) and Sunny countered with Ed Sheeran.
“I don’t like Ed Sheeran,” I mumbled, making a yuck-face.
“Why no Ed?” Sunny gasps with shock (She’s a big Ed fangirl).
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “he’s a star by all measurable metrics,” I admit, “but,” I fade out.
“You want my theory on Ed hate?” Sunny offered, “He’s beyond talented vocally - whoever your favorite artist is, Ed’s probably not that far behind. He’s a stellar song writer and he’s making hit after hit; do you want my theory?”
“Too basic, too popular?” I guess.
“No, he’s not appealing to the gaze,” Sunny states.
“The gays?” Leong questions, stepping back into the conversation.
“No,” Sunny corrects, “the gaze - G-A-Z-E, he doesn’t try to look pretty all the time.”
“Ha!” I snort, “Gaze, I thought you meant gays too,” as Leong and I chuckle together.
“No,” Sunny laughs, “nothing like THAT. Ed’s just not trying to be a heartthrob, he knows that’s not his core strong point - and that’s why he’s discounted.”
“Like lesbians don’t comb their hair or wear makeup and wear pajamas to class” Leong observes, “they don’t want to attract the male gaze?”
“No, we’re not imbued by the male gaze.” Sunny states, “Ed just wants to lowkey.”
Dec 14, 2022
Dec 14, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
I saw two butterflies in the alley,
between the new well and the orange tree;
With the shade of the tree they seemed to dally
to tease the sun who, without them cannot be.
I overheard two blackbirds when I looked up:
“Why can’t we tease the shade like the butterflies?”
Said the maid-bird, pretending an orange to sup.
And before she could even realize,
The darkbird spread his long wing over her thighs.
In the throbbing blue flakes of the sky she cries
& she cries & moans & she moans & she cries
unlike a Buddhist.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC