"youn" poems - Hello Poetry

Where are we, Kaya? Landscapes pock like amanita muscaria, fly agaria the long-legged mushrooms, scarlet and foot-cloven and languages rage and quicken like seeds Seated at the empty table bloated from unrequited intentions we refrain from embrasures Your Garingau voice & throaty laugh ripple over our eyes Ha liya youn dabib? You ask: Where are we going? from here, with Lighthouse Caye in sight on this sea of blighted corals beyond Seine Bight where you were born as a footling-- inked though it became-- sole dark, Soul bright emerging from the long dive talismans training in your toothless mouth foretelling the deeper plunges off Billy Hawk Caye at Solstice soulfully spearing our Sole--food without strife And there is richer fare where we are going into the night Kaya. ~ Lin Ostler December 23. 2011 all rights reserved

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Mar 18, 2012

Mar 18, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC

lin-ostler

Where Are We, Kaya?

Where are we, Kaya? Landscapes pock like amanita muscaria, fly agaria the long-legged mushrooms, scarlet and foot-cloven and languages rage and quicken like seeds Seated at the empty table bloated from unrequited intentions we refrain from embrasures Your Garingau voice & throaty laugh ripple over our eyes Ha liya youn dabib? You ask: Where are we going? from here, with Lighthouse Caye in sight on this sea of blighted corals beyond Seine Bight where you were born as a footling-- inked though it became-- sole dark, Soul bright emerging from the long dive talismans training in your toothless mouth foretelling the deeper plunges off Billy Hawk Caye at Solstice soulfully spearing our Sole--food without strife And there is richer fare where we are going into the night Kaya. ~ Lin Ostler December 23. 2011 all rights reserved

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September 30, 1995: My name is Ni Young Yoon, Nye Yun Yun, Nai Yung Youn, Nhi Yon Yün, Ni Young Yoon, I can only spell it out phonetically. Ni Young Yoon, the three syllables float in my mouth like the gibberish of a baby, bubbling out sounds, resembling a language I never spoke, but taste on my tongue, babbling to a mother I’d never know, but see in the mirror. My name was Ni Young Yoon. January 23, 1996: My name is Natalie Rose Sereda, Natalie, my dad’s favorite actress, Natalie, my mom’s favorite singer, Nata, my grandpa’s twenty-year-old nickname, Nat!, my younger brother’s call from downstairs, Neeeatalie, my older sister’s Chicago accent, My name is Natalie Rose Sereda, words tucked into the bed of my tongue fast asleep under the roof of my mouth, a baby wakes up after a long flight over, she is greeted at the gate, named in the airport, and in this moment, in the arms of her parents, she is born. My name is Natalie Rose Sereda.

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Dec 10, 2015

Dec 10, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC

natalie-rose

We are born when we are named

September 30, 1995: My name is Ni Young Yoon, Nye Yun Yun, Nai Yung Youn, Nhi Yon Yün, Ni Young Yoon, I can only spell it out phonetically. Ni Young Yoon, the three syllables float in my mouth like the gibberish of a baby, bubbling out sounds, resembling a language I never spoke, but taste on my tongue, babbling to a mother I’d never know, but see in the mirror. My name was Ni Young Yoon. January 23, 1996: My name is Natalie Rose Sereda, Natalie, my dad’s favorite actress, Natalie, my mom’s favorite singer, Nata, my grandpa’s twenty-year-old nickname, Nat!, my younger brother’s call from downstairs, Neeeatalie, my older sister’s Chicago accent, My name is Natalie Rose Sereda, words tucked into the bed of my tongue fast asleep under the roof of my mouth, a baby wakes up after a long flight over, she is greeted at the gate, named in the airport, and in this moment, in the arms of her parents, she is born. My name is Natalie Rose Sereda.

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The melody spills from my lips As I sing these words My voice goes low My voice goes high These words will touch the sky Rush through valleys Dip to the plates of the earth Then swirl through the skies To the heavens I sing from my soul I sing from my heart These words slowly crumble me apart My feelings rest behind Each syllable My eyes well with tears As I sing these words That I write here *soft in her beauty , She closed her eyes Rich with her youn adolescent purity She was in desguise She hide her true nature behind a mask The only thing she had Was a memory of the past* The words mean nothing to the people that hear But those words Hold my pain and my fear And even as I lower The microphone I knew that I was going home With sadness in my heart Because they never understood The words that I sang

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Oct 24, 2012

Oct 24, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC

katlyn-orthman

Untitled

The melody spills from my lips As I sing these words My voice goes low My voice goes high These words will touch the sky Rush through valleys Dip to the plates of the earth Then swirl through the skies To the heavens I sing from my soul I sing from my heart These words slowly crumble me apart My feelings rest behind Each syllable My eyes well with tears As I sing these words That I write here *soft in her beauty , She closed her eyes Rich with her youn adolescent purity She was in desguise She hide her true nature behind a mask The only thing she had Was a memory of the past* The words mean nothing to the people that hear But those words Hold my pain and my fear And even as I lower The microphone I knew that I was going home With sadness in my heart Because they never understood The words that I sang

33

There was a youn lady called Pru Who declared she had nothing to do So she set about putting it right And got into a bit of a fight You see she wanted to make it clear That she had nothing to hide and nothing to fear She was incredibly rude and loud What she said hung in the air like a heavy cloud She wanted to set up a stall, selling buttons to one and all She seemed to have found her call But she said to a woman who purchased six small ducks That the woman was bang out of luck For small was not her size From her hips to her big blue eyes She continued with her speech That made it clear, small was out of the woman's reach The woman began to cry Pru began to sigh People began to gather Everyone got in a bit of a lather A gentleman happened by And asked Pru why? Why did she feel the need, to put the woman down? Pru began to consider and began to frown That was not her intention, she was misunderstood She had just meant that small was no good for the woman's hood Pru and the woman shook hands The council provided a band Someone brought scones and jam for afternoon tea And everyone sat down to eat at about half past three Now Pru and the woman are friends And this short story is soon to end But first I just wanted to say Thanks for reading, have a good day

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May 27, 2018

May 27, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC

jackie-mead

A Young lady called Pru

There was a youn lady called Pru Who declared she had nothing to do So she set about putting it right And got into a bit of a fight You see she wanted to make it clear That she had nothing to hide and nothing to fear She was incredibly rude and loud What she said hung in the air like a heavy cloud She wanted to set up a stall, selling buttons to one and all She seemed to have found her call But she said to a woman who purchased six small ducks That the woman was bang out of luck For small was not her size From her hips to her big blue eyes She continued with her speech That made it clear, small was out of the woman's reach The woman began to cry Pru began to sigh People began to gather Everyone got in a bit of a lather A gentleman happened by And asked Pru why? Why did she feel the need, to put the woman down? Pru began to consider and began to frown That was not her intention, she was misunderstood She had just meant that small was no good for the woman's hood Pru and the woman shook hands The council provided a band Someone brought scones and jam for afternoon tea And everyone sat down to eat at about half past three Now Pru and the woman are friends And this short story is soon to end But first I just wanted to say Thanks for reading, have a good day

34

Be you with me, And I'm just frustrated Don't mind me, And youn dont, Because I give my all And it's actually what u needed. Lost in the entrapment, A small amount of your waters... A sip and for the thirst Of the Ded, truth in pieces Float in an ocean of lies. Masks you wear Are all the faces that made You hide away. They may hate you in reflection, But don't let that be what you See or feel everyday. Behind the mask Is a cage, Only the real can set it free. Mask off And all I know Is real, I have no friends.

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Jan 6, 2018

Jan 6, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC

dedpoet

Mask Off

Be you with me, And I'm just frustrated Don't mind me, And youn dont, Because I give my all And it's actually what u needed. Lost in the entrapment, A small amount of your waters... A sip and for the thirst Of the Ded, truth in pieces Float in an ocean of lies. Masks you wear Are all the faces that made You hide away. They may hate you in reflection, But don't let that be what you See or feel everyday. Behind the mask Is a cage, Only the real can set it free. Mask off And all I know Is real, I have no friends.

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and at every turning - it's an "ethno-centric" conundrum - either random outbursts of the modern tongue, that can't be said: is repressed - indeed kept intact - and yes, sometimes merely hidden, until it self-demands a presence - and those: are the sweetest moments i can ever and never will forget to fathom: that seemingly long lost essence of what i am grounded in - and fervently explore in the tongue of acquisition, that i can confuse an english psychiatrist whether to think me a schizophrenic, or merely bilingual; so lets not kneel before the altar of stigmata & taboo, but therein is the common fear, and how it feeds and encourages a respect through that same commodity, of being common. thus having relinquished one's state of infantile pressures of language - you can move toward the beyond... indeed, i have nostalgia not so much for a country, but for a childhood - upon several return visists i find the land and town of origin unrecognißable! why? the child i was and remember isn't there! the metallurgy factory that employed 15,000+ men shut down, and thus the bright itching dodo: a town of pensioners, old communist and deßerters... i pledge no allegiance to either flag or land or a former **** but language? well, i can allow its spontaneous emergence as it sways me in this appropriated tongue... but let's be frank, certain prejudices can be translated, all to well, in england, as too in scootland - i didn't spend 3 years among the picts for no ****** reason, ah you see, if the americans have a derogatory term for this western slavic group i am and i'm not part of - thank you very much for the supposed "derogatory" term ****** - you said beautifully in my mothers room, thank you once again for not confusing with poles and mahogany polish - thank youn paul; but you want to know a secret? what do you think the polacks call germans? no clue? *schwaby / szwaby / swabians - shvaby*... polak, polski, po polsku, po ludzku (a pole, pauleesh, in pauleesh, in **** lingua).

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Jul 19, 2017

Jul 19, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

derogatory terms

and at every turning - it's an "ethno-centric" conundrum - either random outbursts of the modern tongue, that can't be said: is repressed - indeed kept intact - and yes, sometimes merely hidden, until it self-demands a presence - and those: are the sweetest moments i can ever and never will forget to fathom: that seemingly long lost essence of what i am grounded in - and fervently explore in the tongue of acquisition, that i can confuse an english psychiatrist whether to think me a schizophrenic, or merely bilingual; so lets not kneel before the altar of stigmata & taboo, but therein is the common fear, and how it feeds and encourages a respect through that same commodity, of being common. thus having relinquished one's state of infantile pressures of language - you can move toward the beyond... indeed, i have nostalgia not so much for a country, but for a childhood - upon several return visists i find the land and town of origin unrecognißable! why? the child i was and remember isn't there! the metallurgy factory that employed 15,000+ men shut down, and thus the bright itching dodo: a town of pensioners, old communist and deßerters... i pledge no allegiance to either flag or land or a former **** but language? well, i can allow its spontaneous emergence as it sways me in this appropriated tongue... but let's be frank, certain prejudices can be translated, all to well, in england, as too in scootland - i didn't spend 3 years among the picts for no ****** reason, ah you see, if the americans have a derogatory term for this western slavic group i am and i'm not part of - thank you very much for the supposed "derogatory" term ****** - you said beautifully in my mothers room, thank you once again for not confusing with poles and mahogany polish - thank youn paul; but you want to know a secret? what do you think the polacks call germans? no clue? *schwaby / szwaby / swabians - shvaby*... polak, polski, po polsku, po ludzku (a pole, pauleesh, in pauleesh, in **** lingua).

76