"warsaw" poems - Hello Poetry

Let me have A last look At your green horizon Take me in your dream To Warsaw and beyond Before I fall asleep, With a smile on my lips.

0

Sep 28, 2014

Sep 28, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC

olivier-bricet

Your green eyes

Let me have A last look At your green horizon Take me in your dream To Warsaw and beyond Before I fall asleep, With a smile on my lips.

7

/ as i am pretty sure all americana feels about "us": oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man europe, no hemmingway, and no so: as the casual english expression solidifies exchanges: just across the atlantic: the, pond... haven't the foggiest... i'm "new" here, and even i find these english prims & pomps and idiosyncracies a bit debilitating... today i walked from my home with a knife in my pocket... why... why?! apparently it's worse than new york, a belt as a qusimodo boxing glove won't cut it, given that that: requires a formal introduction, prior to a fight... guns guns guns... over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives... and politicians can't exactly ban them... no, not really... ban knives, soon you'll be banning forks, then spoons... and then... the whole ******* kitchen... we'll all be eating out, in public, cheap cheap cheap, cheap restaurants like the slovakians eat in... can you even imagine that while in st. petersburg i didn't see, not one mcdonalds... same so in moscow: not a single mcdonalds... it was like a: relief... a bit like only seeing africanos only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw; erm: afro-saxons? sure! we have them in england, plenty of afro-saxons... so now afro(x) is not pop-up frizzy hair, bundled into a french bun... type of... "thing"? **** yeah! hit the spot! oh old man europe... tired and yet, and yet tired of his riches, how craving the old trenches of Ypres... the belgian mud, the rain, the rats and crows... europe: lament over libya... or even pseudo-neo-rome lamenting over carthage being destroyed... in reverse - abbrv. into - orior carthago! was it cato the elder who persisted counter to this? as heidegger would have put it: that's not even question-worthy.

0

Jul 19, 2018

Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

old man europe and carthage

/ as i am pretty sure all americana feels about "us": oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man europe, no hemmingway, and no so: as the casual english expression solidifies exchanges: just across the atlantic: the, pond... haven't the foggiest... i'm "new" here, and even i find these english prims & pomps and idiosyncracies a bit debilitating... today i walked from my home with a knife in my pocket... why... why?! apparently it's worse than new york, a belt as a qusimodo boxing glove won't cut it, given that that: requires a formal introduction, prior to a fight... guns guns guns... over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives... and politicians can't exactly ban them... no, not really... ban knives, soon you'll be banning forks, then spoons... and then... the whole ******* kitchen... we'll all be eating out, in public, cheap cheap cheap, cheap restaurants like the slovakians eat in... can you even imagine that while in st. petersburg i didn't see, not one mcdonalds... same so in moscow: not a single mcdonalds... it was like a: relief... a bit like only seeing africanos only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw; erm: afro-saxons? sure! we have them in england, plenty of afro-saxons... so now afro(x) is not pop-up frizzy hair, bundled into a french bun... type of... "thing"? **** yeah! hit the spot! oh old man europe... tired and yet, and yet tired of his riches, how craving the old trenches of Ypres... the belgian mud, the rain, the rats and crows... europe: lament over libya... or even pseudo-neo-rome lamenting over carthage being destroyed... in reverse - abbrv. into - orior carthago! was it cato the elder who persisted counter to this? as heidegger would have put it: that's not even question-worthy.

69

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

0

Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

Wankers United

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

104

In Rome on the Campo di Fiori Baskets of olives and lemons, Cobbles spattered with wine And the wreckage of flowers. Vendors cover the trestles With rose-pink fish; Armfuls of dark grapes Heaped on peach-down. On this same square They burned Giordano Bruno. Henchmen kindled the pyre Close-pressed by the mob. Before the flames had died The taverns were full again, Baskets of olives and lemons Again on the vendors' shoulders. I thought of the Campo dei Fiori In Warsaw by the sky-carousel One clear spring evening To the strains of a carnival tune. The bright melody drowned The salvos from the ghetto wall, And couples were flying High in the cloudless sky. At times wind from the burning Would driff dark kites along And riders on the carousel Caught petals in midair. That same hot wind Blew open the skirts of the girls And the crowds were laughing On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday. Someone will read as moral That the people of Rome or Warsaw Haggle, laugh, make love As they pass by martyrs' pyres. Someone else will read Of the passing of things human, Of the oblivion Born before the flames have died. But that day I thought only Of the loneliness of the dying, Of how, when Giordano Climbed to his burning There were no words In any human tongue To be left for mankind, Mankind who live on. Already they were back at their wine Or peddled their white starfish, Baskets of olives and lemons They had shouldered to the fair, And he already distanced As if centuries had passed While they paused just a moment For his flying in the fire. Those dying here, the lonely Forgotten by the world, Our tongue becomes for them The language of an ancient planet. Until, when all is legend And many years have passed, On a great Campo dci Fiori Rage will kindle at a poet's word.

0

3.6k

Czeslaw Milosz

Campo di Fiori

In Rome on the Campo di Fiori Baskets of olives and lemons, Cobbles spattered with wine And the wreckage of flowers. Vendors cover the trestles With rose-pink fish; Armfuls of dark grapes Heaped on peach-down. On this same square They burned Giordano Bruno. Henchmen kindled the pyre Close-pressed by the mob. Before the flames had died The taverns were full again, Baskets of olives and lemons Again on the vendors' shoulders. I thought of the Campo dei Fiori In Warsaw by the sky-carousel One clear spring evening To the strains of a carnival tune. The bright melody drowned The salvos from the ghetto wall, And couples were flying High in the cloudless sky. At times wind from the burning Would driff dark kites along And riders on the carousel Caught petals in midair. That same hot wind Blew open the skirts of the girls And the crowds were laughing On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday. Someone will read as moral That the people of Rome or Warsaw Haggle, laugh, make love As they pass by martyrs' pyres. Someone else will read Of the passing of things human, Of the oblivion Born before the flames have died. But that day I thought only Of the loneliness of the dying, Of how, when Giordano Climbed to his burning There were no words In any human tongue To be left for mankind, Mankind who live on. Already they were back at their wine Or peddled their white starfish, Baskets of olives and lemons They had shouldered to the fair, And he already distanced As if centuries had passed While they paused just a moment For his flying in the fire. Those dying here, the lonely Forgotten by the world, Our tongue becomes for them The language of an ancient planet. Until, when all is legend And many years have passed, On a great Campo dci Fiori Rage will kindle at a poet's word.

64

All colors come from the sun. And it does not have Any particular color, for it contains them all. And the whole Earth is like a poem While the sun above represents the artist. Whoever wants to paint the variegated world Let him never look straight up at the sun Or he will lose the memory of things he has seen. Only burning tears will stay in his eyes. Let him kneel down, lower his face to the grass, And look at the light reflected by the ground. There he will find everything we have lost: The stars and the roses, the dusks and the dawns. Warsaw, 1943

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC

aaronmullin-fb

The Sun by Czeslaw Milosz

All colors come from the sun. And it does not have Any particular color, for it contains them all. And the whole Earth is like a poem While the sun above represents the artist. Whoever wants to paint the variegated world Let him never look straight up at the sun Or he will lose the memory of things he has seen. Only burning tears will stay in his eyes. Let him kneel down, lower his face to the grass, And look at the light reflected by the ground. There he will find everything we have lost: The stars and the roses, the dusks and the dawns. Warsaw, 1943

13

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

0

Oct 30, 2020

Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations

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

52

So they hacked some computers. "No big deal" you may say, "Since their influence steered things toward the right way" "They just didn't respect us, that's why the attack. So I place all the blame on the Dems and Barack" "So we'll get nice and cozy, Vladimir and me, since there is just so much upon which we agree" "We want to be strongmen who'll shape history and we're both such examples of virility" "And we'll handle the media through fear and attack to ensure truth and balance shall never come back" "Admiration and power is what we adore, it's the one greatest cause that we truly live for" So, Mr. Trump... When you're there in the Oval and Europe's alarmed 'cause in Prague and in Warsaw. the Russians, well armed, have crossed o'er the borders and come to reclaim their former domininons, then who will you blame? So why this great bromance? What's your motivation? Why would you align with Vlad and his nation? Could it be business ties? Or maybe high debt? Or maybe dark secrets you wish they'd forget? I do not want to think that it could be such things but the Russians sure look like they're pulling your strings.

0

Feb 20, 2017

Feb 20, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC

the-trumpoet

Vladimir

So they hacked some computers. "No big deal" you may say, "Since their influence steered things toward the right way" "They just didn't respect us, that's why the attack. So I place all the blame on the Dems and Barack" "So we'll get nice and cozy, Vladimir and me, since there is just so much upon which we agree" "We want to be strongmen who'll shape history and we're both such examples of virility" "And we'll handle the media through fear and attack to ensure truth and balance shall never come back" "Admiration and power is what we adore, it's the one greatest cause that we truly live for" So, Mr. Trump... When you're there in the Oval and Europe's alarmed 'cause in Prague and in Warsaw. the Russians, well armed, have crossed o'er the borders and come to reclaim their former domininons, then who will you blame? So why this great bromance? What's your motivation? Why would you align with Vlad and his nation? Could it be business ties? Or maybe high debt? Or maybe dark secrets you wish they'd forget? I do not want to think that it could be such things but the Russians sure look like they're pulling your strings.

45

oh i can tell you why Brexit happened... apparently in light of the European i was not European enough, a mongrel, a ******* Mongol... eastern Europeans are Mongols, mind you... i'm pretty sure the Brexit vote happened... because the A8 joined... when the Eatern European joined the old post-colonial powers... plenty of Pakistanis... do i mind? do i ******* care?! i don't care... you deal with: the minding! no... i have an inheritance tax without any ceremonial past... your **** is your ******* **** plus the Arab, and the curry... **** off! i'm no ******* *vierte ***** pussy-whip... you ******* yo-yo oreo! mind you? put me down on this one... i hate the Poles... i ******* hate the Poles... what they did to the Chernobyl me? i hate the Polacks... don't like them... i'd rather spit than talk to them... i've learned my lesson... i hate them more than the Germans, or the Russians... i hate them with the sort of hatred reserved for patriots... Judas Priests... i abhor the ****** catholicism... it makes me... cringe... then i think: thickens the thong - better than the Islamic crap to mind making a boot... Brexit only happened because of the supposed invasion of the A8... the Pakistani mobile gave off a jitter - somehow the "excess" Europeans migrated... whites combined with whites... Europeans mingled... big problem for the Pakistanis... Brexit only happened because "eastern" Europe joined the *vierte ***** well... "joined"... some of us had enough sense as to keep the currency... ******* Pakistani bullshitters... what?! i thought English girls loved being gang-rape-fucked?! no?! my bad... the joining of the A8 disrupted the presence of Britain in the EU... thumbs up on the curry-sauce... thumbs down on the Baltic sauerkraut.... guess what?! **** you! you ******* British Empire bonkers... relief contra racism with an Empire disintegrating! wankers... sure, beseech alliances outside of Europe... seek them, find them, govern them... the next time you come shoveling your **** into my: awareness... i'll be asking... so... Rotherham... no, not really... don't bother me with that sort of **** you deal with your ******** before shoving your ***** into my mouth expecting me to gargle on the produce... you're closer to Pakistan than i am to Mongolia... you draw the the postcard... i'll draw the pretty picture. don't get me wrong, thought, i hate the Polacks... i don't belong between them... i'd prefer to be strapped to a Hydra of homeless dogs... than exercise the humanity of a shared tongue with these... mongrels; mind you... the British are just as bad... when it comes to their, mongrel stature.

0

Sep 17, 2018

Sep 17, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

the Mongols are coming! / scenes from Warsaw

oh i can tell you why Brexit happened... apparently in light of the European i was not European enough, a mongrel, a ******* Mongol... eastern Europeans are Mongols, mind you... i'm pretty sure the Brexit vote happened... because the A8 joined... when the Eatern European joined the old post-colonial powers... plenty of Pakistanis... do i mind? do i ******* care?! i don't care... you deal with: the minding! no... i have an inheritance tax without any ceremonial past... your **** is your ******* **** plus the Arab, and the curry... **** off! i'm no ******* *vierte ***** pussy-whip... you ******* yo-yo oreo! mind you? put me down on this one... i hate the Poles... i ******* hate the Poles... what they did to the Chernobyl me? i hate the Polacks... don't like them... i'd rather spit than talk to them... i've learned my lesson... i hate them more than the Germans, or the Russians... i hate them with the sort of hatred reserved for patriots... Judas Priests... i abhor the ****** catholicism... it makes me... cringe... then i think: thickens the thong - better than the Islamic crap to mind making a boot... Brexit only happened because of the supposed invasion of the A8... the Pakistani mobile gave off a jitter - somehow the "excess" Europeans migrated... whites combined with whites... Europeans mingled... big problem for the Pakistanis... Brexit only happened because "eastern" Europe joined the *vierte ***** well... "joined"... some of us had enough sense as to keep the currency... ******* Pakistani bullshitters... what?! i thought English girls loved being gang-rape-fucked?! no?! my bad... the joining of the A8 disrupted the presence of Britain in the EU... thumbs up on the curry-sauce... thumbs down on the Baltic sauerkraut.... guess what?! **** you! you ******* British Empire bonkers... relief contra racism with an Empire disintegrating! wankers... sure, beseech alliances outside of Europe... seek them, find them, govern them... the next time you come shoveling your **** into my: awareness... i'll be asking... so... Rotherham... no, not really... don't bother me with that sort of **** you deal with your ******** before shoving your ***** into my mouth expecting me to gargle on the produce... you're closer to Pakistan than i am to Mongolia... you draw the the postcard... i'll draw the pretty picture. don't get me wrong, thought, i hate the Polacks... i don't belong between them... i'd prefer to be strapped to a Hydra of homeless dogs... than exercise the humanity of a shared tongue with these... mongrels; mind you... the British are just as bad... when it comes to their, mongrel stature.

111

How far would you travel from where you were born? She spends more on her dogs in one week, Than the government provides for those in trouble. She’s a naturally happy person. The mottled concrete walls of the council block she’s moved in to, Complement her pock-marked, pink skin. For a rich person, She’s ugly. The doors to buildings are painted bright colours, -blues and greens- And stand out against the brown stone that is everywhere. Kevin is a mousey young man with stringy brown hair, Recovering from drugs, And she thinks he looks like a very nice man. They are playing football on cement outside, -plants are expensive- Now talking over vegetables, around a table, About the young mothers who will be coming in to learn, How to grow turnips - Like growing confidence, they’ll be told. Did you know that people move to Dundee from Warsaw? Makes you wonder what Warsaw is like- -who’s fault it is that people can’t eat alcohol- She’s hanging knickers out to dry and telling me that she’s discovered, She doesn’t need all the shoes that she has, And would it do if she were to donate, A hundred and fifty thousand pounds? They smile when they receive their checks. Their blue doors fly open, And when they say thank you, they mean it, The money is enough. Round the back, The husband is in tears.

0

Jul 20, 2012

Jul 20, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC

ipoet

Pregnant in Dundee

How far would you travel from where you were born? She spends more on her dogs in one week, Than the government provides for those in trouble. She’s a naturally happy person. The mottled concrete walls of the council block she’s moved in to, Complement her pock-marked, pink skin. For a rich person, She’s ugly. The doors to buildings are painted bright colours, -blues and greens- And stand out against the brown stone that is everywhere. Kevin is a mousey young man with stringy brown hair, Recovering from drugs, And she thinks he looks like a very nice man. They are playing football on cement outside, -plants are expensive- Now talking over vegetables, around a table, About the young mothers who will be coming in to learn, How to grow turnips - Like growing confidence, they’ll be told. Did you know that people move to Dundee from Warsaw? Makes you wonder what Warsaw is like- -who’s fault it is that people can’t eat alcohol- She’s hanging knickers out to dry and telling me that she’s discovered, She doesn’t need all the shoes that she has, And would it do if she were to donate, A hundred and fifty thousand pounds? They smile when they receive their checks. Their blue doors fly open, And when they say thank you, they mean it, The money is enough. Round the back, The husband is in tears.

33

.. You whom I could not save Listen to me. Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another. I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words. I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree. What strengthened me, for you was lethal. You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one, Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty; Blind force with accomplished shape. Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge Going into white fog. Here is a broken city; And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave When I am talking with you. What is poetry which does not save Nations or people? A connivance with official lies, A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment, Readings for sophomore girls. That I wanted good poetry without knowing it, That I discovered, late, its salutary aim, In this and only this I find salvation. They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more. Warsaw, 1945 - by Czeslaw Milosz st, 13 dec 13

0

Dec 13, 2013

Dec 13, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC

st64

Dedication - by Czeslaw Milosz

.. You whom I could not save Listen to me. Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another. I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words. I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree. What strengthened me, for you was lethal. You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one, Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty; Blind force with accomplished shape. Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge Going into white fog. Here is a broken city; And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave When I am talking with you. What is poetry which does not save Nations or people? A connivance with official lies, A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment, Readings for sophomore girls. That I wanted good poetry without knowing it, That I discovered, late, its salutary aim, In this and only this I find salvation. They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more. Warsaw, 1945 - by Czeslaw Milosz st, 13 dec 13

30

"There where that ray touches the plain And the shadows escape as if they really ran, Warsaw stands, open from all sides, A city not very old but quite famous. "Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud, Under the hills with an acacia grove Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules. "What divides this land with white foam Is the Alps. The black means fir forests. Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish. "Among the many fine cities that are there You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital, By those round roofs on the church Called the Basilica of Saint Peter. "And there, to the north, beyond a bay, Where a level bluish mist moves in waves, Paris tries to keep pace with its tower And reins in its herd of bridges. "Also other cities accompany Paris, They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron, But for today that would be too much, I'll tell the rest another time

0

2.4k

Czeslaw Milosz

Father Explains

"There where that ray touches the plain And the shadows escape as if they really ran, Warsaw stands, open from all sides, A city not very old but quite famous. "Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud, Under the hills with an acacia grove Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules. "What divides this land with white foam Is the Alps. The black means fir forests. Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish. "Among the many fine cities that are there You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital, By those round roofs on the church Called the Basilica of Saint Peter. "And there, to the north, beyond a bay, Where a level bluish mist moves in waves, Paris tries to keep pace with its tower And reins in its herd of bridges. "Also other cities accompany Paris, They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron, But for today that would be too much, I'll tell the rest another time

24

. tiky torches, and not football hooligan red flares?! i want gnashing teeth.... the red worm... i want the crude.... waiting feud! you, don't, make, dictum, in, this, part, of, the world! nein! you, can, have, your women! but, not, the, ego, of males! **** you, and your colonialist past rewrite! **** you... dr. dre, ****** so no, what becomes musicological click-bait?! ****** ****** yo ** ******* term gets... owned?! like *vomito ***** making reference to the black plague?! you do your ****** bit, i do mine... and we meet in the middle... and then... we crash and burn... for whatever it's worth... now catch me petting rottweilers... heavy headed craniums... ready to bullwhip a gnash of a raiding bullish cranium head-butt... just, gagging, to perform, the jaw-swapping gnash! sure... big, bogus, jaw dropping crude... of a count of teeth... but... i'm itching... itching to fasten onto a feast of a fist; not in eastern europe, ****** you come here... you play by our rules... the whole anti-rap... the whole hip hop scene of Warsaw... no, not really... i'm not exactly part of either, "scene"... god... i haven't even allowed myself to use edgy words... girl worth a ***** but to succumb to motherhood? i'm a heavy drinker, i'm not exactly the moralizer; wrap up, clean the shit-show... and forget i even managed to circumstance a narrative.

0

Aug 16, 2018

Aug 16, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

the red worm

. tiky torches, and not football hooligan red flares?! i want gnashing teeth.... the red worm... i want the crude.... waiting feud! you, don't, make, dictum, in, this, part, of, the world! nein! you, can, have, your women! but, not, the, ego, of males! **** you, and your colonialist past rewrite! **** you... dr. dre, ****** so no, what becomes musicological click-bait?! ****** ****** yo ** ******* term gets... owned?! like *vomito ***** making reference to the black plague?! you do your ****** bit, i do mine... and we meet in the middle... and then... we crash and burn... for whatever it's worth... now catch me petting rottweilers... heavy headed craniums... ready to bullwhip a gnash of a raiding bullish cranium head-butt... just, gagging, to perform, the jaw-swapping gnash! sure... big, bogus, jaw dropping crude... of a count of teeth... but... i'm itching... itching to fasten onto a feast of a fist; not in eastern europe, ****** you come here... you play by our rules... the whole anti-rap... the whole hip hop scene of Warsaw... no, not really... i'm not exactly part of either, "scene"... god... i haven't even allowed myself to use edgy words... girl worth a ***** but to succumb to motherhood? i'm a heavy drinker, i'm not exactly the moralizer; wrap up, clean the shit-show... and forget i even managed to circumstance a narrative.

67

every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love, i stand on the central Warsaw train-station, and there's this girl checking her mobile interet, phone, and she looks pretty... and... i really don't want to **** her like the guys **** her in ***** movies... maybe that''s shy i'm considered "effeminate".... maybe... i just didn't **** enough women... or maybe... i speak the tongue of the crusaders... but we sent the artillery... the beautiful women to the Arab ****** and kept the nation safe... Islam, akin to the comparison of the Bubonic Plague... Islam... virus of the mind... i'll contest thi... i'll ******* die for this... i've been feeling weird for the past few days.... Tom Petty died.... so... why would anyone give a **** if Wayne Static does the coffer? so... i'm supposed to care?! **** you! Jeff hanneman died... but do you see me, making a case for a ******* parade?! no? good... that's how i like it... ******* south London plonker! every single time... i fall in love with a girl at the central train-station in Warsaw... the love dies a sudden death... when i get to the.... Western train station of Warsaw... the Ukrainians et al... the Mongols... love's up, dead, long gone... i'm basically living the enterprise in re-experiencing a slow death... feral lands... these Polacks are like... please don't land in Warsaw.... i know... Krakow has Auschwitz as a tourist destination... but... but... you will not see the generic schematic of globalization... every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love, and then i think of "it"... **** marriage.. no thanks, you have it covered... on your way; i might not be on the winning side, but sure as **** i'm also not on the losing side either... and t think... that i could even concise my life within the confines of imitating my father... i could have... but then... life... isn't exactly a chance on bet within the confines of a roulette.

0

Oct 15, 2018

Oct 15, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love

every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love, i stand on the central Warsaw train-station, and there's this girl checking her mobile interet, phone, and she looks pretty... and... i really don't want to **** her like the guys **** her in ***** movies... maybe that''s shy i'm considered "effeminate".... maybe... i just didn't **** enough women... or maybe... i speak the tongue of the crusaders... but we sent the artillery... the beautiful women to the Arab ****** and kept the nation safe... Islam, akin to the comparison of the Bubonic Plague... Islam... virus of the mind... i'll contest thi... i'll ******* die for this... i've been feeling weird for the past few days.... Tom Petty died.... so... why would anyone give a **** if Wayne Static does the coffer? so... i'm supposed to care?! **** you! Jeff hanneman died... but do you see me, making a case for a ******* parade?! no? good... that's how i like it... ******* south London plonker! every single time... i fall in love with a girl at the central train-station in Warsaw... the love dies a sudden death... when i get to the.... Western train station of Warsaw... the Ukrainians et al... the Mongols... love's up, dead, long gone... i'm basically living the enterprise in re-experiencing a slow death... feral lands... these Polacks are like... please don't land in Warsaw.... i know... Krakow has Auschwitz as a tourist destination... but... but... you will not see the generic schematic of globalization... every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love, and then i think of "it"... **** marriage.. no thanks, you have it covered... on your way; i might not be on the winning side, but sure as **** i'm also not on the losing side either... and t think... that i could even concise my life within the confines of imitating my father... i could have... but then... life... isn't exactly a chance on bet within the confines of a roulette.

76

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork. "Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave." "Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays. Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ... Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy. The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

0

2.1k

Carl Sandburg

An Electric Sign Goes Dark

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork. "Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave." "Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays. Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ... Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy. The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

24

You’re less subtle than susceptible to the sun rising to hands softer than mine. The smoke colors your fingertips tarnished turmeric gold with life passing through them in waves and ripples like Warsaw’s children playing on the wharf. That foam splashes up behind a sun the rose hips on your hips, an alabaster canvas. Nothing falls gracefully. Brake, break, grab, slide, ball like an infant safe in your ******* womb. Cars around growl poised in packs on round haunches. I hear finesse in relation to broken teeth, rats in relation to style. Like writing, your name on an outstretched rubber band watch yourself shrink and fly away every time I see you let go. Your teeth like drywall looks when you’re eyes’ve gone red. I want you like a child’s first attempt at perfume too much alcohol and pulling blush from a warm rose.

0

Apr 27, 2014

Apr 27, 2014 at 1:50 AM UTC

leeshez

Perfume

You’re less subtle than susceptible to the sun rising to hands softer than mine. The smoke colors your fingertips tarnished turmeric gold with life passing through them in waves and ripples like Warsaw’s children playing on the wharf. That foam splashes up behind a sun the rose hips on your hips, an alabaster canvas. Nothing falls gracefully. Brake, break, grab, slide, ball like an infant safe in your ******* womb. Cars around growl poised in packs on round haunches. I hear finesse in relation to broken teeth, rats in relation to style. Like writing, your name on an outstretched rubber band watch yourself shrink and fly away every time I see you let go. Your teeth like drywall looks when you’re eyes’ve gone red. I want you like a child’s first attempt at perfume too much alcohol and pulling blush from a warm rose.

31

Letter Of A Young Polish Nobleman, Warsaw, 1759 There was a farce performed the other day In the cathedral, where, as is my wont, I'd gone to mass. While kneeling near the font, I saw, when I had just begun to pray, A mob of filthy Jews swarm up the aisle To be baptised. The King himself was there And even stood as sponsor to a pair Of thick lips with a most unpleasant smile. Back home, I asked my steward, Mendel Gryn, What it had been about. "Pan Casimir," He said, "The man you saw was Yankev Frank, Those were his followers: they claim that sin Leads Man to God, but now, baptised, I hear They've all been raised, by law, to noble rank."

0

Sep 27, 2012

Sep 27, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC

paul-silbert

Letter Of A Young Polish Nobleman, Warsaw, 1759

Letter Of A Young Polish Nobleman, Warsaw, 1759 There was a farce performed the other day In the cathedral, where, as is my wont, I'd gone to mass. While kneeling near the font, I saw, when I had just begun to pray, A mob of filthy Jews swarm up the aisle To be baptised. The King himself was there And even stood as sponsor to a pair Of thick lips with a most unpleasant smile. Back home, I asked my steward, Mendel Gryn, What it had been about. "Pan Casimir," He said, "The man you saw was Yankev Frank, Those were his followers: they claim that sin Leads Man to God, but now, baptised, I hear They've all been raised, by law, to noble rank."

16

yes, theology reduced to the anti-speculative reasoning to choose he v. she, as if what pronoun mattered to be hardly exact - national effigies exist for ex-patriots - immigrants is a ***** word used by assimilating cultures, the small intestines and the the tape worms - she ******* Europe - he labouring Europe - winged Hussars in Ukrainian mud - while Versailles was built - Poles, the French of the East - Moscow was trivialised twice - once by Mongol, once by Pole - Nietzsche maddened called for the Slavic-Frenchmen - i can already see the proximity of French with Polonaise - the duchy of Warsaw - Napoleon - Justepatron - just partition - or thus the two bombardments equal - thus two kept a holy alliance - that the Pole be Frenchman when a croissant was questioned.

0

Jul 18, 2016

Jul 18, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

Winged-Hussar and the Irish Blacksmith

yes, theology reduced to the anti-speculative reasoning to choose he v. she, as if what pronoun mattered to be hardly exact - national effigies exist for ex-patriots - immigrants is a ***** word used by assimilating cultures, the small intestines and the the tape worms - she ******* Europe - he labouring Europe - winged Hussars in Ukrainian mud - while Versailles was built - Poles, the French of the East - Moscow was trivialised twice - once by Mongol, once by Pole - Nietzsche maddened called for the Slavic-Frenchmen - i can already see the proximity of French with Polonaise - the duchy of Warsaw - Napoleon - Justepatron - just partition - or thus the two bombardments equal - thus two kept a holy alliance - that the Pole be Frenchman when a croissant was questioned.

17

In the back of a polish bar we sat Smoking a foreign brand of cigarettes my lips had never touched smoking until we ran out. Me, pretending to be eccentric. coy laughter closing the gaps between the continents we were born surely we will bring pangea back to her glory This is my favorite song, I say. grace is serenading me from across the world we inch closer together the warsaw wood panels start to cave us in i have forgotten about everyone else Palms glide up thighs wheat beer slides down the tongues that wait to interlace i listen to your kaleidoscope of syllables we, in your native land, speak in my foreign tongue i apologize for that. we are alone in this room, i think. the night's corners are creeping in as quickly as our bodies braid. our warszawa flame flickers.

0

Aug 20, 2013

Aug 20, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC

dana-green

Bartosz

In the back of a polish bar we sat Smoking a foreign brand of cigarettes my lips had never touched smoking until we ran out. Me, pretending to be eccentric. coy laughter closing the gaps between the continents we were born surely we will bring pangea back to her glory This is my favorite song, I say. grace is serenading me from across the world we inch closer together the warsaw wood panels start to cave us in i have forgotten about everyone else Palms glide up thighs wheat beer slides down the tongues that wait to interlace i listen to your kaleidoscope of syllables we, in your native land, speak in my foreign tongue i apologize for that. we are alone in this room, i think. the night's corners are creeping in as quickly as our bodies braid. our warszawa flame flickers.

23

In Warsaw in Poland Half the world away, The one I love best of all Thought of me to-day; I know, for I went Winged as a bird, In the wide flowing wind His own voice I heard; His arms were round me In a ferny place, I looked in the pool And there was his face — But now it is night And the cold stars say: “Warsaw in Poland Is half the world away.”

0

1.3k

Sara Teasdale

Day And Night

In Warsaw in Poland Half the world away, The one I love best of all Thought of me to-day; I know, for I went Winged as a bird, In the wide flowing wind His own voice I heard; His arms were round me In a ferny place, I looked in the pool And there was his face — But now it is night And the cold stars say: “Warsaw in Poland Is half the world away.”

16

Cheap imitations and prestidigitation A head full of acid and water on the knee Punch in Punch out I'm filing a work related grievance For managerial negligence I protest and picket My picket sign parade along the picket line Put me in the Warsaw ghetto Make me wear a star Put me to work Until I starve I want my independent identity But the in-crowd beckons me to live in anonymity -Tommy Johnson

0

Jun 7, 2014

Jun 7, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC

tommy-johnson

Holler of Hardships

Cheap imitations and prestidigitation A head full of acid and water on the knee Punch in Punch out I'm filing a work related grievance For managerial negligence I protest and picket My picket sign parade along the picket line Put me in the Warsaw ghetto Make me wear a star Put me to work Until I starve I want my independent identity But the in-crowd beckons me to live in anonymity -Tommy Johnson

15

sitting in an ivory tower. high above any contact. eating a loaf of bread. with a pretty dress on. waiting to be rescued. or maybe just thought about. desiring to spin wool. reading a book on the Warsaw ghetto. growing fat.

0

Sep 4, 2010

Sep 4, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC

kali-ma

life II

sitting in an ivory tower. high above any contact. eating a loaf of bread. with a pretty dress on. waiting to be rescued. or maybe just thought about. desiring to spin wool. reading a book on the Warsaw ghetto. growing fat.

9

Shouting about to all of my homies Outlaw, Warsaw, even lil Hacksaw There's something afoot It's a real hot poppin' They say, WHAT I say, YEAH, They all say, NAH I said, something not right It's still not a stoppin' They said, Oh man I said, Oh man Everyone in da house shouted Oh man The building is on fire Everybody get on down Keepin’ da flow, at a very low key Get your self way out, spoke he Everyone in da house yelled, Okey-Dokey 'Cause no one wants to be Miss USA, runner up, say WHO Nup Everyone in da house shouted, Oh man Oh, we bounced on out of there We be gettin' in nobody's way Uh-Uh We're not gunna pop, in someone else's fire Not today....

0

Dec 18, 2019

Dec 18, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC

Fetchitnow

It’s A Real Hot Poppin’ - Ft. Hippo & Harps

Shouting about to all of my homies Outlaw, Warsaw, even lil Hacksaw There's something afoot It's a real hot poppin' They say, WHAT I say, YEAH, They all say, NAH I said, something not right It's still not a stoppin' They said, Oh man I said, Oh man Everyone in da house shouted Oh man The building is on fire Everybody get on down Keepin’ da flow, at a very low key Get your self way out, spoke he Everyone in da house yelled, Okey-Dokey 'Cause no one wants to be Miss USA, runner up, say WHO Nup Everyone in da house shouted, Oh man Oh, we bounced on out of there We be gettin' in nobody's way Uh-Uh We're not gunna pop, in someone else's fire Not today....

26

If ****** could not **** my family... What makes you think you could **** me? What makes you think you could do me harm... When the greatest harm hath been done My blood is very much alive Of fire, of Ghettos, of **** threats and hallow mass graves I am the daughter of the Jews you could not **** My grandfather watches me Stands at the foot of my bed With a shotgun to any man that tries it again The last female, the last Tis my duty, tis my right Twas my father's to protect me But ****** did not betray his daughter... As my ancestors I was groped, stripped, bruised, ravaged Spewed out to unclean, tainted, filth History transcended through me My camp was a house full of vice and sin Where innocence was met with ****** eyes That which cast disdain unto their memory My Semitic heritage was concealed Hidden as my scars and torn ***** My people were ***** This flesh of mine no different... But I stand, I did not die... No pervert of old age, nor madman of Austria Could **** me... No, it was the closest man to home That did the damage...left me to the beast Dragged me into Warsaw of perverse intention and like the rest of the world ignored the cries My people and I cried out for justice... and history as always repeats itself and we were ignored... But I live...I live...I live because my Grandfather stands by me With a shotgun for the next man that tries it again

0

Dec 4, 2016

Dec 4, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC

hayley-siebert

You can't **** me

If ****** could not **** my family... What makes you think you could **** me? What makes you think you could do me harm... When the greatest harm hath been done My blood is very much alive Of fire, of Ghettos, of **** threats and hallow mass graves I am the daughter of the Jews you could not **** My grandfather watches me Stands at the foot of my bed With a shotgun to any man that tries it again The last female, the last Tis my duty, tis my right Twas my father's to protect me But ****** did not betray his daughter... As my ancestors I was groped, stripped, bruised, ravaged Spewed out to unclean, tainted, filth History transcended through me My camp was a house full of vice and sin Where innocence was met with ****** eyes That which cast disdain unto their memory My Semitic heritage was concealed Hidden as my scars and torn ***** My people were ***** This flesh of mine no different... But I stand, I did not die... No pervert of old age, nor madman of Austria Could **** me... No, it was the closest man to home That did the damage...left me to the beast Dragged me into Warsaw of perverse intention and like the rest of the world ignored the cries My people and I cried out for justice... and history as always repeats itself and we were ignored... But I live...I live...I live because my Grandfather stands by me With a shotgun for the next man that tries it again

36

we know how those doctors about to retire type: index punch, index punch, left hook index tap, brawler's right kiss index tap - thumbs are for the spacebar! but this little oddity got me thinking: i can tell you that my grandfather had beautiful handwriting, and a massive library, and all of this... under a communist regime... more books than the modern capitalist household, let me tell you - oddly enough i followed suit, never truly recognised my father aged eight at victoria coach station - 4 - 8 under my grandfather's construct - 6 - 8 psyche of a child given a doberman by his mother and left, upon return asking for a devil's mask in warsaw, the same devil mask a furore at a fancy dress party in school ripped by friends all wanting the share of suffocating under plastic. but this got me thinking, i never had the proper handwriting fluidity for an A grade in english during examination, that's always a grade more than anything you put your mind to in terms of content. so... on handwriting fluidity: omega alpha beta flows nice, because the greeks managed to convene that letters had to have names, no wonder the export of greek lettering into mathematics and science... imagine if it was the romanic letters: that's *** arr squared: peeing on the arc of triumph seeing sqaures?! bonaparte with a bunch of pirates?! no! πr2, the area of the ****** circle! never mind that, that's just me overstepping the giggles, but i think because of the non-complex denotation of the romanic letters we have terrible handwriting, just like it sounds, punched in by dyslexic judy separately: look - a' b'e c'e d'e e' z'ed. no wonder the alphabet turned to programming and cyborg fancies - plus it's no fun trying to remember alpha bravo charlie... i mean, it's a bit **** that nato phonetic ******** over the phone: oscar v. ω? ω! romeo v. ρ? ρ! sierra v. σ? σ! let's face it, greek too ancient and romanic trying to speed up... no wonder there's a bit of charlie and the x-ray; or maybe this whole phoneticism is a way to say - keep that ugly so we can lego it into beautiful stances of the fencing tongue.

0

Sep 16, 2015

Sep 16, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

they once had beautiful handwriting

we know how those doctors about to retire type: index punch, index punch, left hook index tap, brawler's right kiss index tap - thumbs are for the spacebar! but this little oddity got me thinking: i can tell you that my grandfather had beautiful handwriting, and a massive library, and all of this... under a communist regime... more books than the modern capitalist household, let me tell you - oddly enough i followed suit, never truly recognised my father aged eight at victoria coach station - 4 - 8 under my grandfather's construct - 6 - 8 psyche of a child given a doberman by his mother and left, upon return asking for a devil's mask in warsaw, the same devil mask a furore at a fancy dress party in school ripped by friends all wanting the share of suffocating under plastic. but this got me thinking, i never had the proper handwriting fluidity for an A grade in english during examination, that's always a grade more than anything you put your mind to in terms of content. so... on handwriting fluidity: omega alpha beta flows nice, because the greeks managed to convene that letters had to have names, no wonder the export of greek lettering into mathematics and science... imagine if it was the romanic letters: that's *** arr squared: peeing on the arc of triumph seeing sqaures?! bonaparte with a bunch of pirates?! no! πr2, the area of the ****** circle! never mind that, that's just me overstepping the giggles, but i think because of the non-complex denotation of the romanic letters we have terrible handwriting, just like it sounds, punched in by dyslexic judy separately: look - a' b'e c'e d'e e' z'ed. no wonder the alphabet turned to programming and cyborg fancies - plus it's no fun trying to remember alpha bravo charlie... i mean, it's a bit **** that nato phonetic ******** over the phone: oscar v. ω? ω! romeo v. ρ? ρ! sierra v. σ? σ! let's face it, greek too ancient and romanic trying to speed up... no wonder there's a bit of charlie and the x-ray; or maybe this whole phoneticism is a way to say - keep that ugly so we can lego it into beautiful stances of the fencing tongue.

46