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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

the children of arba lijoch

17 Saturday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Poetry, sonnet

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Addis Ababa, Arba Lijoch, Armenia, Armenian Genocide, Ethiopia, Haile Selassie I, Kwame Dawes, poem, Poetry, sonnet

— for Kwame Dawes

Crown Prince Ras Tafari brought the children
of Arba Lijoch out of the desert —

Orphans who became Ethiopian,
who sang of the Metz Yeghern, the Great Hurt;

composed, “Marsh Teferi,” the first music
Marcus Garvey heard while in audience.

I, too, have heard of, “Natural mystic
blowing/ through the air,”
Ararat’s fragrance

in each word. I’m told, Babylon crashing.
Where in Kingston is the orchestral sound

of Addis Ababa? — I listen — I
listen, but the dance halls tell me nothing.

The ghosts of Van hang low in the background.
Who will sing their song? Tell their prophesy?

Notes:
Arba Lijoch were a group of forty Armenian orphans who had escaped from the 1915 atrocities in Turkey, and were afterwards adopted by Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia. He had met them while visiting the Armenian monastery in Jerusalem; they impressed him so much that he obtained permission from the head of the Armenian church, the Catholicos, to adopt and bring them to Ethiopia, where he then arranged for them to receive musical instruction. The Arba Lijoch arrived in the capital city, Addis Ababa, in 1924, and along with their conductor, Kevork Nalbandian, became the first official orchestra of the nation. Nalbandian also composed the music for Marsh Teferi (words by Yoftehé Negusé), which was the Imperial National Anthem from 1930 to 1974. Metz Yeghern is the Armenian word for their Great Calamity, their genocide.

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“Cow Worship” by Gerald Stern

03 Saturday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, quotes

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cow worship, Gerald Stern, poem, Poetry, quote unquote

I love the cows best when they are a few feet away
from my dining-room window and my pine floor,
when they reach into kiss me with their wet
mouths and their white noses.
I love them as they walk over garbage cans
and across cellar doors, over the sidewalk and through the metal chairs
and the birdseed.
— Let me reach out through the thin curtains
and feel the warm air of May.
It is the temperatures of the whole galaxy,
all the bright clouds and its clusters,
beasts and heroes,
glittering singers and isolated thinkers
at pasture.

the ancient tongue of the sea

03 Saturday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry

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la mer, le mar, Poetry, snippet, the ancient tongue of the sea

le mar la
mer le mar

expectations

02 Friday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry

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expectations, middle California, part-time archaeologist, poem, Poetry, summer of 1993

We are loathed
to give such feelings
anticipation, mercy
to forests, trees of sap

In the hills of middle California
where entire mountains are cultivated
to be chopped down
right before the bulldozers & axes arrived
they’d send us, part-time archaeologists,
to verify that they weren’t destroying any,
“cultural remains;” all that summer & that heat
I walked one foot ahead of the bulldozers
looking for fire-cracked rock, obsidian,
anything to indicate that this swath
of trees, this valley,
these canyons, could be saved

and the trees held their breath
and the wind turned its cheek
as I passed by

02 Friday Oct 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry

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Poetry, snippet

all day I hear
my heart
in my ear

wet charcoal

04 Friday Sep 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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crone, don't get cocky, maiden, mother, poem, Poetry, slashed bole, sonnet, wet charcoal

Don’t get cocky — Everything can get blown
apart. There’s no help the way I’m wired.

Vast sky: I am small. Mother, Maiden, Crone:
be with me as I drift — I’m still tired.

My name sounds rough in your tongue. This slashed bole
of a stump means that there’s no way I can

cling tight, I’ll just leave smears like wet charcoal.
I’ve read the Bible, Torah and Koran:

all man-made laws that restrict my sisters
restrict me — When they came for the sissies

and the butches I was high strung enough
to stand my ground, though there are some horrors

you can’t beat — how do I love these slashes
or find a name that doesn’t sound rough —

deathblowjob

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Acid Girl, deathblowjob, L.S.Diva, monster squirrel fetish, mutant cells, obedient bodies, Poetry, sonnet

I tell you, sex with a nightmare is odd
but fun. No, it wasn’t a monster squirrel

fetish; she was, in fact, a disease god.
— L.S.Diva aka Acid Girl

aka Small Disease God — I don’t know
exactly the disease she embodied,

a small one, I suppose. The term, “deathblow
job”
was hers. Obedient bodies’ need

to feed did not excite her. “You’re immune
system’s failure is what I want,”
she’d grunt,

her long forked tongue crazily twined with mine,
fingers touching the lump in my breast. “Soon,

soon.” I don’t mind being loved for my mutant
cells, who can say of cancer, “fuck benign.”

booze blood words

16 Saturday May 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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booze blood words, full of doubt, hospice nurse, poem, Poetry, sonnet, wearing other people's underwear

Liquid devils; it’s not other people
that I’m morbidly sick over, it’s what

they do. No. I mean, when I say, “devil,”
I mean, “words in a text;” and “liquid”? Blood.

Booze. All that I put in me. This is me:
after the shift I’m left with ugly shoes,

aching lack and words. Without dowry,
all my touchables go untouched. This booze.

This blood. These words. I bite my lip. I think
I’m a bitter deity, since I don’t

even get the chance to tell you about
who died at work, that I’m wearing your pink

boy-briefs, or that nothing (booze, blood, words) won’t
let me unread what fills me now: pure doubt.

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quote unquote

14 Thursday May 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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envoi, our lady of ruins, poem, Poetry, reblog, Traci Brimhall

You said abundance would not harm me,
but none of your songs could stop

the god-awful fullness of the moon.
Even the plague ended in feast,

birds chirping fat and happy
in their nests. I tried other oceans,

climbed a volcano to look inside
the earth, walked to the edge

of the sinkhole that swallowed a city.
My freedom only made me more afraid.

I’m not sure there is any world
but this one, and the mango’s sweetness

is terrible to me. Some days the fire is a mirror.
Some days I can bear the stillness of elk

when I surprise them in the alder.
Yesterday I cleaned bones out of the boat

and met a child on the shore. He made a gun
out of his hand. No one taught him this.

He raised his arm, fingers leveled
at my heart. You said I could contain it,

this gift. The boy told me I could keep
the boat. The bones were his.

Traci Brimhall, “envoi”

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quote unquote

13 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Frank O'Hara, Meditations in an Emergency, Poetry, quote unquote

Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.

Frank O’Hara
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