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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: sorrow

bereft

22 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

after ecstasy, bereft, disaster, pain, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sorrow

But just then temperance whispers: you are dull

sober. You’re still a shit and self-possessed —

 

the way devils possess the infidel,

the way cancer still lurks in your left breast

 

— possessed and achingly lonely. Restraint

didn’t change that. All mild calm has brought you

 

is new panic, all your old fears, that quaint

dread of future fuck-ups to come. You knew

 

that there’d be hell to pay but why is hell

so worn? forlorn? The last horned god has left

 

the woods, the last great shark fished from the sea.

This is your inheritance. You shall tell

 

of your riches — flat, gray, cut off, bereft

— and all that happens after ecstasy.

Quote

quote unquote

20 Saturday Feb 2016

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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Tags

quote unquote, sorrow, W.B. Yeats

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand —

W.B. Yeats

my heroes in the face of disaster, pain and sorrow

17 Monday Feb 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow

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Tags

American soldiers rape, disaster, Goddess save us all, my heroes, pain, photos, sorrow, stop rape, woman warrior

Feb 17, 2014 (1)

Feb 17, 2014 (2)

Feb 17, 2014 (3)

Feb 17, 2014 (4)

Feb 17, 2014 (5)

Let’s put faces on my heroes, the women who have dedicated their lives to making this miserable world better. Cathay Williams (September 1844 – 1892), a soldier, the first African-American woman to enlist in the United States of America. I have been told not to be ashamed of my military, that the My Lai Massacre, and all rapes and mutilations by Americans are a distant part of history …

… but Goddess Damn All Rapists, they are not.

For all my sisters who enlisted, who dedicated themselves to making the American idea better; for all those women and men who’ve been hurt, raped and killed by their fellow soldiers …

… you have been, you are now, and you will ever be my heroes. For now and forever. I can only give my blessings, for what that is worth, because you are braver than I will ever be.

the problem with words

13 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

death in my family, emptiness into, funeral, my grandmother passed away, poem, Poetry, sonnet, sorrow

img074

img077

img293

late night party

mama after the party

][][

—– —– —- emptiness into emptiness into
this, which did not die. How can I be brave

when all this now stops? All that we once knew
must go … go down into darkness of grave

dirt — words stop, too, they’re heavier than earth;
right now I can’t shape them. I am a nurse.

I know about the science of death, birth
and all that lies in-between. What is worse

than this? needing but being unable
to find words, emptiness into — I know

I need my words about my grandmother
when we all gather at her funeral

but our matriarch is dead, she must go
now, wait for all of us to come to her.

note:

On Monday morning, November 11th, my 92 year old grandmother passed over. I will be off-line for a while, I must fly out to California and help my family prepare for the funeral. Almost everyone on my father’s side died before I was born. Up until now no one on my mother’s side had died, This isn’t the poem I shall read, but it is the poem about not knowing what to say.

I hope everyone is well. Cheers.

iris murdoch the one alone

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

afraid, Alzheimer's, Iris Murdoch, Poetry, sonnet, sorrow, the one alone

Is there any other way out of this
skull? I’ve drugged it, drilled holes in it, shot it
full of electricity. Nothing. There’s bliss
in pain, yes. But not release. I mean, shit,
Murdoch’s fog still creeps in. I am blurring
in front of the mirror. I’m freaking out.
Maybe ghosts are just us dead forgetting
who we are? Without memory I doubt
I am going to be saved, find a path
out of this woods. Lover, do not leave me.
I am afraid. Perhaps I have always
been this afraid, I do not know. My wrath,
my laugh, my fears, my love I am sorry
no, no, no do not sink into this haze.

tsovinar

07 Thursday Mar 2013

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

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Armenia, ghost city of my soul, Gyumri, memory, Nar, Peace Corps, sonnet, sorrow, Tsovinar

sky child 2

I.
I was twenty-six when my neighbor sold
me his daughter. She was twelve, he explained,
and if I didn’t pay drams, dollars or gold
for her, the brothel in town would. He feigned
sorrow at such an act, though my neighbor
had been happily drunk the day before.

I was an oddity: a foreigner
living alone. I despise the word whore.
Pimps are poltroon dogs. But at twenty-six
I was easily confused; too frightened
that I would become the sort that inflicts
hell on a girl by saying no. Orphaned

for a month worth of cheap vodka, I paid
$82 dollars for her. All that night

we cried, sitting in my one-room hut; prayed
that there was some quick answer to make right
things that are neither. I could barely speak
her odd, harsh language. Nar knew no English.

She owned one dress, but no shoes. All that week
I went clothes hunting; hoping to furnish
for her at least underwear. But no one
sold such things at the market. Malnourished

and lice-ridden I shaved her. Her fallen
mane writhed upon the floor. Nar’s small, anguished
face looked foreign like me without her hair.

All that week she did not speak; lay in bed
and cried and cried. All that week my despair
deepened too. It was as if we had known
there was no easy out. I bathed her clean
and fed her full of lavash, khorovadz
and tahn. Even so, I felt obscene,
queasy, with my stomach tied up in knots.

II.
Nar will visit me sometimes. It took me ten
years to quit blaming myself. I never

have stopped blaming myself. Again, again,
again; the whole sick night, like a fever,
returns. Sweating and shitting and throwing

up all I gave her, Nar grew weaker, day
by day. I had no medicine, nothing
to ease her pain. Neighbors all stayed away;

even the bastard who had sold my Nar,
my lost Tsovinar, to me. Each visit

of hers is bitter-sweet. She travels far
for a boy who went mad; burnt down his hut,
got sent home in shame. I’ve never forgave

myself for leaving my Nar in her grave.

Notes:

The name Tsovinar (Ծովինար) is very ancient and very sacred. It was given to one of the pre-Christian deities in the Armenian pantheon. Tsovinar, or Nar, is the goddess of water, sea, and rain. A fire creature, she forces the rain and hail to fall from the heavens with her fury. Her name translates as “Nar on the sea.”

The Armenian monetary unit is called the dram. I also use several words in the poem which are the names of various Armenian dishes. Lavash (la’vash), bread of the gods, is soft and flat and when made by hand is rolled out and slapped against the walls of a clay oven. Khorovatz (xorovatz) is the Armenian word for barbeque and is often served using chunks of grilled meat rolled up in lavash. I found it similar to the Middle Eastern shawarma. Finally, Tahn (t’an) is a sour milk soup prepared by diluting yogurt with water. Often in Gyumri cucumber and dill were added.

without

04 Monday Mar 2013

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

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

blizzard, childless father, daughter, fallen in batle, grief, pride and joy, sorrow, without, woman warrior

lost in the snow

Daughter, how many years does a woman
have? You are now shapeless and I a lice

ridden old man. You knew all the Koran
by heart. You could wrestle any boy twice
your weight. The long bow sang only for you.
So did the war ax. Now I itch with grief.

From the vast and bleak steppe country a few
worn sobs can be heard. There is no relief
for the father I’ve become. I despair.

I’m lost beyond words. All I know now fails
me; all because of some mongrel swordsman.

Somewhere in a grave you hide; with your hair

that has stopped growing; and your tiny nails

that will never need to be cut again.

desirous appetites

13 Thursday Dec 2012

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

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Tags

conquering worm, ghost, sorrow

desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [2]

desirous appetites [2]

I.
The moon
smiled
on me
last night
as I lay
beneath
the stars hot
and flushed
in the grave
yard winking
as if
to tell me
of more delights
in the time
to come if
I could only
understand.
If I could
only hear
what
they want
to tell me.

II.
Deep down
under
the tombs
the conquering
worms writhe
and twist
with their
desirous
appetites,
hungry for what
remains
of flesh,
now deflated,
long shriveled,
spent. Cocks
and the dead
have much
in common.
Both strut
and fret
and when over
are heard
no more.

III.
Last night
I slept
in the grass
and felt it
tickle
the soft flesh
of my naked
thighs
and dreamed
you were
more than just
a ghost and
I was more
than just
in love
with your
lost,
dead
eyes.

consume me

14 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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Tags

consume me, sorrow

contemplation

contemplation

I am
not yours,
though you are
still living
inside me.
Hiding.
Like grief.
There is no
healing
from grief.
It’s not
a gunshot wound,
leaving behind
tell-tale scars.
It’s not
a cancer,
though I have
been carrying you
around long enough.
No doctor
can cut it
out of me.
No knife
can find it,
though one day
you will consume
me. You are
consuming me.
Because
like all good cancers
you simply confirm
what is worst
in me and
how poor
I am
in making
choices.

azucar en crudo

09 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Translation

≈ Comments Off on azucar en crudo

Tags

azucar en crudo, raw sugar, sorrow

Puro o pervertida.

Una transformación.

Nuestra tristeza.

Nuestra pasión.

Esta cosa buena.

Hundimiento

dentro de usted.

Pulgada por pulgada.

Gloriosa.

En nuestra sangre.

Si soy malsano

para usted,

soy azúcar en crudo.

Algo dulce.

Una felicidad.

Hundimiento

profundamente

dentro de usted.

 

 

(Pure or perverted. A transformation. Our sadness. Our passion. This good thing. Sinking into you. Inch by inch. Glorious. In our blood. If I am unhealthy for you, I’m raw sugar. Something sweet. A happiness. Sinking deep within you)

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