Category Archives: Poetry

Whitman. Sappho. Neruda.

09 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, Translation

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Ուիթմեն. Սապփո. Ներուդա.
Տաղ. Հնչեակ. Վիպերգ.
Ես գրում եմ իմ բանաստեղծությունները վրա ձեր ծլիկ.

Whitman. Sappho. Neruda.
Ode. Sonnet. Ballad.
I write my poems on your clit.

* * *

Notes:

As far as I know these are the correct spellings in Armenian of these poets’ names. Պաբլո Ներուդա (Pablo Neruda), Ուոլթ Ուիթմեն (Walt Whitman) and Սապփո (Sappho).

Writing, as they say, is a gamble. We put our art out for the world to see, and then hope the reader enjoys it enough to write back. Some people find their audience right away and some never do. I have no idea where the audience for this poem is, but I am willing to take the chance that once I send it out into the void that is the Internet it will, slowly, find its way to the one who it’s intended for. And who knows? That person might even help me with my grammar, since my ability to write in Armenian is շատ վատ (very bad). Cheers!

Quote

i want to sing only for you

08 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in Armenian, Poetry, Translation

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Someday I will find a friend to help me re-learn all the Armenian I knew while in Peace Corps. Now I feel frustrated, I’ve forgotten so much. But I know one day I’ll sing again, sing beautifully.

Ես մուրացկան.
Ես ուզում եմ այցելել ձեզ.
Բայց ես չեմ կարող երգել.
Խնդրում ենք սովորեցնել ինձ երգել.
Ես ուզում եմ երգել է միայն ձեզ համար.

.

I am a beggar.
I want to see you.
But I can not sing.
Please teach me to sing.
I want to sing only for you.

the road to enlightenment has many paths

08 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman

I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.

 

 

 

 

my mistress’s witcheries

07 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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“It is knitting time,” a friend, a witchling,

informed me. She knew secrets to distill

dyes, how to tink, frog and yarf. Loom knitting

was her passion. “I was taught how to kill.

I was trained in the witcheries of war.

But,” she added, “Blood does not interest me.”

She lived in a lone mountain pasture, far

from the engines of men and their ugly

tools. That spring she taught me how to prepare

wool for spinning; how to charm honey bees

from their hives; how to talk to willow, yew

and oak. “I was trained only for warfare,

but witchcraft is far better. This craft frees

me for my loves: knitting, goats and now you.”

.

NOTE:

For a while I wanted to write a knitting poem, but since I don’t actually know how to knit I wrote this instead. The terms I use in the poem:

FROG: To rip back (when you say, “rip it, rip it”) by removing the needles from the project and pulling on the loose end of the yarn.

TINK: To undo knitted stitches by reversing the knitting motion, effectively un-knitting the stitch.

YARF: Slang for “yarn-barf.” A big lump of yarn that accidentally gets pulled out of a new center-pull ball, usually when you’re trying to find the end.

the sea queen’s daughter

03 Wednesday Apr 2013

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There is a legend told by the diving
girls of Okinawan, the Uminchu,
that the Queen of the Sea, while out floating
one day on the surface, gave birth to two
daughters. A goddess births only pearls,
of course, big as the moon. These two daughters
slept on the sea floor. Side by side, two girls
in their pearly forms slept. Then pearl divers
found Rin curled all round. Where her twin sister
was hid none could say. So they took her home,
combed her hair and called her Rin, the Sea Queen’s
daughter. And being the Sea Queen’s daughter
Rin was the essence of love and sea foam …
… and Our Lady of War and Submarines.

without

30 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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It was in a valley of sunflower

blooms when the maid, the mother and the crone

came to our door. They called you out. “Daughter”

is a word hard enough to shatter stone

so now all I have left are broken rocks.

I am fine with the rites and all we do,

but not this. First they cut off your dreadlocks,

tattooed your skull, gave you a sword, taught you

how to kill. My daughter now makes chaos

kneel and beg but was taken one spring day,

leaving nothing for my arms to hold tight

but air. I wait for you, love, so that my loss

might be found. You’ll always be my blessed, fey

child; not some blood-soaked woman, dying knight.

crime is bliss

28 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by in Humor, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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"You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself" -- The Buddha

“You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself” — The Buddha

* * *

Crime is bliss. What do you need? Whatever

it is it is gone. The night kissed me, said,

“go and look for it.” But why would horror

want to be reclaimed? You were not misled

when they said life sucks. It does. Like people

who call themselves Buddhists — already they’re

doing it all wrong. I lost my Jekyll

(or was it my Hyde?) my thrill, my nightmare,

all that I could carry in a spare bag

and say, “hands up!” I don’t hate the Buddha,

just his followers. Take what you need. Greed

is god. Don’t feel too bad. If you need swag

you need swag. “Crime is bliss,” is my mantra,

because, apparently, that’s what I need.

* * *

You cannot commit the crime until you have become the crime itself2

i took what’s mine

28 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Up there it’s a bastard: rain, tears, spit, piss.
I’ve had it all. Down here, though, each deep breadth
pleases; the sun is a beacon. There’s bliss
in this pressure per square inch. Crushing depth,
they call it. All the sky is full of blue
ripples. There are two-legged boys I know, shy
when they first meet mother. What’s that haiku?
“Mother I never knew,/ every time I
see the ocean/ every time.” Yes. Indeed.
Go down, love, I tell them. They taste like brine.
How odd that things made of bone and stone thrill.
I had a lover who called me “Jah;” smoked weed
floating on the surface. I took what’s mine
“I love you,” he said, as he kissed each gill.

err or err

28 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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I don’t want to be born. I want to be
made-up from a world of cryptic but bad
grammar. Make me bionic and hungry
for spare parts. Ink pens for lips, a keypad
smile. Where I walk loose change shall fall. I err,
for I struggle with my opposable
thumbs every day. It is in my nature
not to have any Nature in me. “Null”
is a good word. So is “methyl,” “sour”
and “carbon-based life-form.” Shall I compare
myself to a sodden day? I am damp
as a void. I mean, it takes an odd hour
to fill the wet gap in me. Err or err,
either way I’m as blank as a headlamp.