"witman" poems
- I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
- Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same.
ولدت هنا لأبوين ولدا هنا من أبوين ولدا هنا.
- Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves الرفوف are crowded with
perfumes, مكتظة بالروائح
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it أتنفس أريج نفسي فأنا أعرفه وأحبه.
- My respiration and inspiration شهيقي وزفيري, the beating of my heart خفقان قلبي, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks.
- the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun. أغنيتي وأنا أنهض من السرير وأستقبل الشمس.
- Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? هل تمرنت طويلا لتتعلم القراءة؟
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems.
- Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems امكث هذا النهار والليل معي وسوف تملك كل القصائد.
- You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self سوف تصغى لكل الجهات وتنقيها عبر مصفاة ذاتك.
- To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so لا داعي للإسهاب (التطويل) المتعلم وغير المتعلم يدرك الأمر
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
the beautiful muse
beauty beyond the restrictive nature of language
Woe is me, unable to describe such radiance. the problem of a wordsmith.
conclusions lead to new inspiration
but conclusion, leads forced end
to eternal broken wheels
The Beauty of language
stifled by despotic definitions
The Muse has my soul
she squeezes my *******
and won't let go until I write her songs
explosions of spastic action
muscles under the command
of a proverbial *****
life mundane,
like an addiction
music getting sweeter
and life around brings only apathy
all that matters
is the swaying hips of the muse
the heat of her groin
the atmospheric morphing of the air around her
whispering every word that is to be written
her hands over mine as I type
her breath on my cheek
she visited me not as a first
Witman,
Ginsburg,
Burroghs,
Kerouac,
from all she demanded verse and chapter
from me,
from them,
centuries old games.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC