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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: Poetry

child mother and calf

26 Tuesday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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child mother and calf, I love you all, poem, Poetry, sonnet, the forgotten dead

“the bridge remembers” — Wong May

To the forgotten dead, the unhonored,
silent; to those still with untamed passion,

the mad ones, those still in love with the word;
to those never buried, without coffin,

gravestone or name. Come, your lover calls you.
Come, I remember your name. My lovers

number in the millions because those who
take so much pride in race and ancestors

are the worst caring for them. So I call
and call. Some hear. Some answer. Abandoned

is a curse. Come home, love, come. I have love
enough for us all. My bed is nightfall,

my kiss is the moon. Come, don’t be frightened;
wolf and child, mother and calf, kite and dove.

i met two who knew my name

25 Monday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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art, biblical erotica, I met two who knew my name, poem, Poetry, sonnet

two

three

four

one

On the road I met two who knew my name
which is never a good sign. When angels

and ghosts know who you are, that sort of fame
only ends poorly. I don’t trust mortals

who claim to know what happens after death.
By life’s own definition no one can.

Mystics travel far. Yogis count each breath.
Skeptics laugh. We’re all sure what will happen

next, poor sods, and we’re all missing the point.
Perhaps I will leave with those two today,

perhaps not. I’m still in deep, my debt
unpaid and I want to tear up this joint,

run wild and be ignorantly blase.
There’s some knowledge that I don’t want just yet.

out of this wasteland endlessly turning

23 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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barren, ghostly cat, poem, Poetry, sad, sonnet, tomboy

Make her a tomboy, one who likes to read;
with hair down to her hips. Every evening

I would loosen it, pick out each hayseed
and green bumble-burr, then brush it, twisting

it up into two plaits, like horse’s reigns
that would hang down her back. She would love math

and stars; fill her summer days with grass stains,
kissing and wild roving. Like Hera’s wrath

none would dare call her “foundling,” “witch’s brat”
or “fay” within earshot. The Blessed Arbor

would be hers; birthright only to children
of the gods. Forgive me, my ghostly cat,

my lost foal; you see, I have no daughter,
and my dreams, like my body, are barren.

garcia lorca’s sorpresa [por michael brown]

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Federico Garcia Lorca, Ferguson, Michael Brown, Missouri, poem, Poetry, Sorpresa

… because even as I work on this translation another person has been shot by police in Ferguson, MO.  As Garcia Lorca said about an apathetic country when its children are murdered by their own police, “Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.” I suppose this is the point where I say something cliché like, “I pray for peace,” when in reality the only way there will be peace is when those who have been hiding behind their “to serve and protect” badges are held accountable.

][

SORPRESA

— by Federico Garcia Lorca

Muerto se quedó en la calle con un puñal en el pecho.

No lo conocía nadie.

¡Cómo temblaba el farol!

¡Madre, cómo temblaba el farolito de la calle!

Era madrugada.

Nadie pudo asomarse a sus ojos abiertos al duro aire.

Que muerto se quedó en la calle que con un puñal en el pecho y que no lo conocía nadie.

][

[in English]

SURPRISE

Dead they left him in the street with a knife in his chest.

No one knew who he was.

How the lamppost trembled!

Mother! How the little lantern trembled!

It was early morning.

Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.

And he was dead in the street with a knife in his chest, and no one knew who he was.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

ANAKNKAL

Merrats e, vor lk’yel e nran p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki.

Voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e na:

Vor lapterasyun vakhets’av!

Mayry! P’vok’r lamperi vakhets’av!

Da vagh arravotyan:

Voch’ vok’ ch’i karogh nayel nra ach’k’yeri mej ch’ap’azants’ ach’k’i ynknogh mej tsanr od:

Yev na merrats p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki, yev voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e ink’y:

][

[in Armenian]

ԱՆԱԿՆԿԱԼ

Մեռած է, որ լքել է նրան փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի.

Ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է նա:

Որ լապտերասյուն վախեցավ!

Մայրը! Փոքր լամպերի վախեցավ!

Դա վաղ առավոտյան:

Ոչ ոք չի կարող նայել նրա աչքերի մեջ չափազանց աչքի ընկնող մեջ ծանր օդ:

Եւ նա մեռած փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի, եւ ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է ինքը:

garcia lorca’s la guitarra [in english and armenian]

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Armenian translation, art, Federico Garcia Lorca, la guitarra, poem, Poetry

awesome

Note from the Translator:

I must apologize with my sorry attempts to bring a beautiful Spanish poem by Federico Garcia Lorca into both English (my mother tongue) and fantastic Armenian. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that both my grasp of Spanish and Armenian are comically pathetic, usually by native speakers, which is only fair. However, life is short and as far as I can tell there is nobody who lives near by to help in my translations, so I present these new labors, not because it is the best that you can find for free on the Internets but because it’s the best that I can do. You’ll find four versions here; the original Spanish, my English translation, and since not a lot of people can read pure, uncut Armenian, a transliteration version as well as the pure Heyeren. Hope it does not displease. Cheers!

][

LA GUITARRA

— Federico Garcia Lorca

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Es inútil callarla.

Es imposible callarla.

Llora monótona como llora el agua, como llora el viento sobre la nevada.

Es imposible callarla.

Llora por cosas lejanas.

Arena del Sur caliente que pide camelias blancas.

Llora flecha sin blanco, la tarde sin mañana, y el primer pájaro muerto sobre la rama.

¡Oh guitarra!

Corazón malherido por cinco espadas.

][

[in English]

THE GUITAR

The crying of the guitar begins.

The glasses of dawn are broken.

The crying of the guitar begins.

It is useless to stop her.

It is impossible to stop her.

She weeps endlessly, as water weeps, as the wind weeps over the snow.

It is impossible to stop her.

She weeps for things remote.

The hot southern sands yearning for a white camellia.

A weeping arrow without target, evening without morning, and the first dead bird on the branch.

Ai, guitar!

Heart wounded by five knives.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

KIT’ARR

Sksvum e kit’arri lats’y.

Skahakner ein arravotyan kotrel.

Sksvum e kit’arri lats’y.

Anogut e lrrets’nel ayn.

Anhnar e lrrets’nel ayn.

Da lats’ e linum anverj, ayn lats’ e linum jri pes, ayn lats’ e linum nman k’amu nkatmamb dzyan.

Kit’arry artasvum e baneri hamar herravor.

T’yezh haravayin avazner klk’i spitak kamelianeri.

Lats’ e linum mez slak’y arrants’ npatakayin yerekoyan, arrants’ arravotyan, yev arrajin mahats’ats t’rrch’ni masnachyughi.

Ai, kit’arr!

Sirty mahats’u viravorvats e hing danakner.

][

[in Armenian] 

ԿԻԹԱՌ

Սկսվում է կիթառի լացը:

Սկահակներ էին առավոտյան կոտրել:

Սկսվում է կիթառի լացը:

Անօգուտ է լռեցնել այն:

Անհնար է լռեցնել այն:

Դա լաց է լինում անվերջ, այն լաց է լինում ջրի պես, այն լաց է լինում նման քամու նկատմամբ ձյան:

Կիթառը արտասվում է բաների համար հեռավոր:

Թեժ հարավային ավազներ կլքի սպիտակ կամելիաների:

Լաց է լինում մեզ սլաքը առանց նպատակային երեկոյան, առանց առավոտյան, եւ առաջին մահացած թռչնի մասնաճյուղի:

Օ, կիթառ!

Սիրտը մահացու վիրավորված է հինգ դանակներ:

with the word pervert

08 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

damning erotic life, nasty, pervert, Poetry, sonnet

“nasty boys/ don’t mean a thing …”
— Janet Jackson (1986)

I love how “pervert” is still genderless,
and how anyone can play. Other’s porn

seldom is open-minded. Who’d say “yes”
to things that they’re not hard wired for? You scorn

so much and still claim to be broad-minded.
Curious. I’ve smoked Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

finger-fucked Sexton in her sad bed, slid
my tongue over Lorca’s cock. Rumi’s ass

hung like the moon. Shams’ too. Still, you can’t guess
who I am with the word “pervert.” Riddle

me this: why are you so frigid-rigid
with all your desires? You who profess

to be nasty? You say that you’re lustful …
but you won’t touch me, bite me, drink my blood.

are you thunder? are you lightning? are you the ionized atmosphere right before all hell breaks loose?

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in haiku, Poetry

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Tags

are you lightning?, are you the ionized atmosphere?, are you thunder?, haiku, poem, Poetry

summer heat melting
between our lips, hinting at
the downpour to come

nightmare on horseback

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Poetry, Prose, sonnet

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Mariam Abandian, Poetry, prose, sonnet

Petals of lust. Stamens of dreams. Nightmare
upon horseback. My heart was ripped open;

moonlight in the dust, trampled without prayer,
without mercy. Mustachioed horseman,

blood-red fez, ghost. You planted the horror,
roots like ass’ legs; you have death-head lilies

in place of eyes. The was once a flower
that I loved, for there is no smut or sleaze

when it comes to Nature. No shame. No sin.
That’s Man’s domain. I don’t want a trampled

flower or a dream that promises lust
but can never deliver. Horror-man,

you rise, with your broken tusk you impaled
my curse, you’ll spawn only decay and rust.

hellbent

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Armenian heroine, art, blood sister, hellbent, Mama warrior, Mariam Abandian, poem, Poetry, sonnet

MARIAM1

Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea

will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.

We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,

where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,

let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.

Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung

what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.

thrive

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Anahit on my tongue, break up song, Devil under my fingers, poem, Poetry, sonnet

lovers of the wand

And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,

willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.

No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.

Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,

Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.

Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow

sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.

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