• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Poetry

phantasmic slit

07 Tuesday Nov 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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anxiety, depression, guilt slit, phantasmic slit, poem, Poetry, sacrifice, sonnet

Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer

cesarean incision that will bear

me no child and will never heal. All fear

rests right here (between hip and hip) right there

(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra

do I need to drive a knife through to keep

myself from feeling this way? Since vodka

only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep

without dreaming let me run fingernails

across my phantasmic slit; that which you

can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut

this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s

trail that not even the gods can undo.

A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.

ravenous

03 Friday Nov 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, masturbation, orgasm, petite morte, ravenous, ravenous depravity, sonnet, The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels of Cunnilingus, The Book of Misfits, why can't masturbation be a solution

The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels

of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples

when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul

incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;

it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome

in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one

has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.

colossus

02 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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