• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

colossus

02 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on colossus

Tags

colossus, crimsoned your eye-holes, erotic poetry, golem, north down, sonnet, tail plug

First I took clay, breathed over it. In my mouth:
sand, storm, burning sky. Then I fashioned it,

beloved, into you and everywhere — south,
north, down, up — paused, listened to this misfit

magic. The breeze listened. The bread listened.
The knot listened. The dawn listened. Sun dawned.

I woke you up; painted your lips, crimsoned
your eye-holes. You blinked twice, sat up and yawned.

This is before the Bengal cat tail-plug
that you loved. Before you learned desire

and walked through this world like a colossus.
You were famished. You ate drug after drug;

all I had. That first trip you simply were,
beloved, all naked, divine, monstrous.

bewitchingly

31 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on bewitchingly

Tags

bewitchingly, delight, erotic poetry, euphorically horny, get undressed, Happy Halloween, I miss your laughter, sonnet

I am naked all day to match my mood —
The French must have a word meaning, “almost

euphorically horny.” It’s why I’m nude
writing this to you now, little sad ghost

that no one wants. Come over, I want you.
We can preen, paint our nails, slurp tea, snuggle

or do that one thing that the living do
to feel better. That one obscene, shameful,

sublimely fun act that you have not done
in ages. We will be naked chums, bosom

pals, wild playmates. Little sad ghost, lover,
delight is contagious, and so is fun.

Life is too short for sorrow and boredom.
Come here. Get undressed. I miss your laughter.

bless the hips

26 Thursday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on bless the hips

Tags

call it depraved, erotic poetry, moment of glow, rot cum’s bloom, sonnet, the darkness in the spark, the hip's bliss

Pleasure is full of invisible things
that you feel but just dimly know. Darkness —

split in half, shaman-child, by climax — brings
visions; hawk of Venus, fox of Eros.

To ripe. To rot. Cum’s bloom. We both follow
sparks that all these fingers, cocks and cunts give.

Sessing insights in that moment of glow.
Call it depraved but what god won’t forgive

naughty when it feels good? Don’t try to sess
all those who love the husks but not the fruits.

Those who stop praying when the spirit’s sky
fills them even for a second. We bless

the hip’s bliss; not old trees but their deep roots;
not the zealot’s cry but our cum-deep sigh.

graven

18 Wednesday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on graven

Tags

after opium, after orgasms, erotic poetry, faith needs pain, gape wide, graven, nipple studs, sonnet

It’s not narcissism to want sadism
and the knotted lash. Get treated like trash

after orgasms— after opium—
let raunch remain. Thrash marks. Ash from your hash

pipe in your hair. Face down. Ass up. You glare
from clove-hooded lids, gape wide while queer fluids

drip from your cheeks. You swear that this is prayer.
Faith needs pain. I’ve sucked on your nipple studs

— ridden you to ruin. Burnt you. Graven
image that you are. Each stroke is the stroke

that might break you, but won’t. The sky is bright,
we are alive and O soul! What Latin

means a furious fuck? We smoke. We toke.
We are all the essences that unite.

like fog three fingers

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on like fog three fingers

Tags

bindi, call me Aunty, erotic poetry, fellatio, gloom of the soul, London, sonnet, three fingers, wet like fog

First came morning London fog, thickening
curtains beyond the door that your husband

just left from. Then a curious rapping
at your kitchen door. In all of England:

you, from Mumbai, I, an exchange student,
became neighbors. You giggled (thirteen-years

older than me, ex-doctor, now pregnant
housewife) then let me in. Rejection, fear,

isolation — the gloom of the soul — stirs
queer sides in us all. “You’ll call me Aunty,”

you said, rising from your knees, your boredom
gone, your grin gone wet like fog, three fingers

running across your cheek, nose, the bindi
moon on your forehead, all splattered with cum.

ch’iu chin: i die unfulfilled

11 Wednesday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Chinese, Feminism, Historic Research, Poetry, Translation

≈ Comments Off on ch’iu chin: i die unfulfilled

Tags

ch'iu chin, Chinese translation, 秋风秋雨愁煞人, essay, i die unfulfilled, Poetry, Qiu Jin, translation

autumn rain/ autumn wind/ i die unfulfilled

Poetry translation is never an exact science. Taking a concept, rich with metaphors, from one language and somehow then discovering a similar meaning in another has challenges. How does one find that original essence – the core of what the poet was trying to say – in an alien tongue? I have always found translation to be a synthesis of everything that has been done before my attempt and then a smoothing out of all the rough bits into something that sings to me. If there was a philosophy to this it’d go: be illiterate in all languages, just resonate with the soul of what is being said. I suppose that is the difference between professionals and amateurs. I will always be an amateur. To misquote the Japanese haiku poet Issa: “there will always be farmers/ laboring in the fields/ I don’t feel guilty.”

Today I turn my attention to the Chinese radical feminist, revolutionary and martyr, Ch’iu Chin (better known through modern translation as Qiu Jin). If you’ve never heard her name before just know this: she was a lesbian poet who tried to overthrow the Qing dynasty in 1907 and then was executed, beheaded. One day someone will translate all her poetry, essays and speeches into English and that will be a blessing. Just now I am only looking at her last words, her death poem. They’re simple, they look like this:

秋风秋雨愁煞人

Technology fails us. According to Google Translate we get, “Autumn autumn rain sad people.” which are at least English words strung together in some sort of order. And yet they fail to capture any meaning of these words. First let me reprint the best translation that I’ve found:

Autumn rain, autumn wind/ I die of sorrow.
[from the documentary, Autumn Gem]

Now let me tell you why this is so good. Ch’iu Chin’s name literally translates into, “Autumn Gem,” and the ‘autumn’ is the metaphor that works in this poem. By the time of her capture she was burned out, depressed and had realized that her revolutionary goals would never happen. She let herself be captured and executed so that she could become one of the Chinese heroines of myth who rose up to fight for women during times of oppression.

As one says, there are no bad translations, just different interpretations. I point out these simply because they were faithful to the words on the page but the translators did not seem to know why the words were written:

O Autumn Winds chilly, O Autumn Rains chilly, (Why you are spilling)
Frank C Yue

Autumn wind autumn rain makes one gloomy
Lu Yin, from Imagining Sisterhood in Modern Chinese Texts, 1890–1937

For whom does the autumn rain and wind lament?
Sjcma

All of which, out of context, still works. Getting executed would make one gloomy. Then there is the fact that Ch’iu Chin became a symbol for the 1911 Revolution and her words were used to express the woes of other people, and thus we get the royal ‘we’

Autumn wind and rain have brought overwhelming grief to many
Albert Chan

The sorrow of autumn wind and autumn rain kills
China Heritage Quarterly

Again, this is all just a matter of interpretation of what comes before. Like I said, I can’t read Chinese, I can just guesstimate from the works of others. If I’m wrong … then I’m wrong and this was just a curious post won’t mean anything. Still, I love the poetry of Qiu Jin and if I can be part of helping her find an English audience then my day is good. Two translations that I think are kind of marvelous:

Autumn wind and autumn rain often bring forth unbearable sorrow
Alan Cykok

The autumn wind and autumn rain agonize me so much.
Badass Women of Asia

boreas’ curse

07 Saturday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on boreas’ curse

Tags

Boreas' Curse, cum please, curled in a C, erotic poetry, finger fucking, gods sleep, knuckles deep, October is laughter, sonnet, winter

The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst

time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse

lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,

because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.

Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.

Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle

deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”

faith and deceit

25 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on faith and deceit

Tags

erotic poetry, faith and deceit, piety is hell, procreation is the sinkhole, sonnet, why can't masturbation be a solution

Records of the soul: that is erotic —
between rapture we all keep fucking up

(all these bodily fluids) Be vulvic/
phallic/ the space between: cork-screw, scallop,

fingers in the deep dark. When the dead cheat
on you do you cheat back? The dead don’t care

and so you write about faith and deceit
which is piety, but nothing like prayer.

Faith means that you’ll put up with anything
just to be heard. Prayer touches, that’s what matters.

You are beloved and you are everything.
You’re god-talk. Erotica. The answers.

For them: procreation is the sinkhole.
For the rest of us: rapture is our soul.

tía

22 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on tía

Tags

anal sex, Dámelo duro, erotic poetry, Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo, sonnet, Spanish translation, tía

Defiled, bent over, your pucker glistened
as I pushed in deeper; little maelstroms

ran all through your thighs. That night your husband
was out of town, your son was at your mom’s;

I slept over only once. “Sé cuánto
quieres follarme el culo,”
you joked

on the phone. All week you’d used a dildo
to stretch yourself out, and now, panting, soaked,

you groaned, “¡Dámelo duro!” so I did.
None of this lasted. The pillows loathed us.

The birds woke us. I went home. That was it.
Your taste, laugh, the inked Aztec pyramid

above your ass: all gone. I was anxious,
so young, you were my «Tía» so brilliant.

][][
Notes:
I use several phrases in Spanish in this poem. “Tía,” is the simple word for aunt. The best that I can do with, “Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo,” is, “I know how much you want to fuck my ass.” Finally, “¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “Harder!” or, “Give it to me hard!” All matters of the heart are bittersweet.

afterglow (galata)

17 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on afterglow (galata)

Tags

afterglow, erotic poetry, Galata Bridge, grief and menthol, Hrant Dink, Istanbul, Peace Corps, sonnet

Say what is true: the sky darkened. Your name
was Yu Na, hand on your neck, pressed against

your back, hard deep fast enough, hips became
bruised; your parents slept in the next room. Tensed,

you bit my arm as you quaked. Tomorrow
you’ll be gone with your parents on the next

leg of your holiday. In the afterglow
I could not read your face: content? perplexed?

mesmerized by the rain against the pane?
Once you’re gone I shall walk through Istanbul

in the Old Quarter. Do you still recall
all that we did: kisses, pleasure, cocaine?

Now what is true: sky storm, I was sick-ghoul
thin and you tasted of grief and menthol.

][][

Notes:
So let’s say that you take a big red autobus from Yerevan to Istanbul (back in 1997) then you’ll pass through the mountains of Georgia and all along the Turkish coast of the Black Sea (which looks surprisingly like the coast of Baja Mexico, except all the towns have minarets in them). The bus, filled with Armenian merchants with their wares to sell in the markets, ends up at a curved street near the Spice Bizarre and the Blue Mosque in the Old Quarter of the city. The hotel that everyone uses, The Golden Horn, has people from all around the world. Next to my room was a family from Seoul. Across the street was a restaurant that specialized in pilaf and curry. I spent two weeks in Istanbul during my winter holiday while in Peace Corps. I crossed over the Galata Bridge that spans from Europe to Asia every day. Hrant Dink was still alive. I wasn’t healthy and when I finally returned to the city of Gyumri, Peace Corps administration had me “psycho’vac’d” to Washington DC. I would arrive in back in America, damaged, on March 10, my 27th birthday.

← Older posts
Newer posts →

age difference anal sex Armenia Armenian Genocide Armenian translation ars poetica art artist unknown blow job Chinese translation conversations with imaginary sisters cum cunnilingus drama erotic erotica erotic poem erotic poetry Federico Garcia Lorca fellatio finger fucking free verse ghost ghost girl ghost lover gif Gyumri haiku homoerotic homoerotica Humor i'm spilling more thank ink y'all incest Lilith Lord Byron Love shall make us a threesome masturbation more than just spilled ink more than spilled ink mythology ocean mythology Onna bugeisha orgasm Peace Corps photo poem Poetry Portuguese Portuguese translation prose quote unquote reblog retelling Rumi Sappho sea folklore Shakespeare sheismadeinpoland sonnet sorrow Spanish Spanish translation spilled ink story Taoist Pirate rituals Tarot Tarot of Syssk thank you threesome Titus Andronicus translation video Walt Whitman woman warrior xenomorph

electric mayhem [links]

  • aimee mann
  • sandra bernhard
  • discos bizarros argentinos
  • poesia erótica (português)
  • cyndi lauper
  • Poetic K [myspace]
  • armenian erotica and news

Meta

  • Create account
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Blog Stats

  • 393,365 hits

Categories

ars poetica: the blogs a-b

  • black satin
  • sommer browning
  • brilliant books
  • margaret bashaar
  • afterglow
  • tiel aisha ansari
  • all things said and done
  • the art blog
  • aliki barnstone
  • stacy blint
  • cecilia ann
  • megan burns
  • Alcoholic Poet
  • wendy babiak
  • sandra beasley
  • american witch
  • alzheimer's poetry project
  • clair becker
  • armenian poetry project
  • mary biddinger
  • emma bolden
  • afghan women's writing project
  • kristy bowen
  • lynn behrendt

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 44 other subscribers

Archives

ars poetica: the blogs c-d

  • cleveland poetics
  • maria damon
  • lyle daggett
  • linda lee crosfield
  • julie carter
  • michelle detorie
  • roberto cavallera
  • abigail child
  • lorna dee cervantes
  • flint area writers
  • natalia cecire
  • CRB
  • cheryl clark
  • jennifer k. dick
  • jackie clark
  • juliet cook

ars poetica: the blogs e-h

  • julie r. enszer
  • sarah wetzel fishman
  • maggie may ethridge
  • amanda hocking
  • pamela hart
  • elizabeth glixman
  • elisa gabbert
  • joy garnett
  • jeannine hall gailey
  • maureen hurley
  • bernardine evaristo
  • human writes
  • liz henry
  • jessica goodfellow
  • carol guess
  • ghosts of zimbabwe
  • carrie etter
  • Free Minds Book Club
  • herstoria
  • hayaxk (ՀԱՅԱՑՔ)
  • jane holland
  • Gabriela M.
  • joy harjo

ars poetica: the blogs i-l

  • a big jewish blog
  • renee liang
  • dick jones
  • diane lockward
  • joy leftow
  • donna khun
  • maggie jochild
  • gene justice
  • Jaya Avendel
  • megan kaminski
  • meg johnson
  • amy king
  • language hat
  • irene latham
  • emily lloyd
  • lesley jenike
  • sheryl luna
  • IEPI
  • Kim Whysall-Hammond
  • charmi keranen
  • laila lalami
  • lesbian poetry archieves
  • sandy longhorn
  • miriam levine
  • las vegas poets organization
  • kennifer kilgore-caradec

ars poetica: the blogs m-o

  • sharanya manivannan
  • january o'neil
  • mlive: michigan poetry news
  • michelle mc grane
  • caryn mirriam-goldberg
  • new issues poetry & prose
  • wanda o'connor
  • sophie mayer
  • ottawa poetry newsletter
  • heather o'neill
  • Nanny Charlotte
  • maud newton
  • marion mc cready
  • the malaysian poetic chronicles
  • iamnasra oman
  • adrienne j. odasso
  • My Poetic Side
  • michigan writers network
  • michigan writers resources
  • motown writers
  • nzepc
  • majena mafe

ars poetica: the blogs p-r

  • ariana reines
  • helen rickerby
  • sophie robinson
  • kristin prevallet
  • susan rich
  • nikki reimer
  • Queen Majeeda
  • split this rock
  • joanna preston
  • nicole peyrafitte
  • maria padhila
  • rachel phillips

ars poetica: the blogs s-z

  • sexy poets society
  • vassilis zambaras
  • Stray Lower
  • tuesday poems
  • Trista's Poetry
  • scottish poetry library
  • southern michigan poetry
  • tim yu
  • shin yu pai
  • ron silliman
  • switchback books
  • womens quarterly conversation

  • Subscribe Subscribed
    • memories of my ghost sista
    • Join 44 other subscribers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • memories of my ghost sista
    • Subscribe Subscribed
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar