EM JAY says...

She's learning how to drown

Posts tagged poetry

5 notes

eve2layla:

teaching a woman
that paradise
is at her feet
is not an excuse
to leave her with her children
teaching a woman
she can enter through any door
is not an excuse
to lock her up behind one
teaching a woman
modesty
is not a reason
to hide her

eve rivera
5/30
#2014
#nationalpoetrymonth
#napomp
#lifeisapoem
#IMANarts

Filed under poetry mother/wife/womanhood

16,116 notes

All she wanted
was find a place to stretch her bones
A place to lengthen her smiles
and spread her hair
A place where her legs could walk
without cutting and bruising
A place unchained
She was born out of ocean breath.
I reminded her;
‘Stop pouring so much of yourself
into hearts that have no room for themselves
Do not thin yourself
Be vast
You do not bring the ocean to a river’

you are oceanic, Tapiwa Mugabe (via seinedol)

(Source: tapiwamugabe, via seinedol)

Filed under poetry

3 notes

Unbraid your hair. Let your fingertips slip through the curling strands.

Look in the mirror. Just look.

Smile.

Feel the shards -
Wanting to reflect but the mirror is broken.

Smile a little more.

The sadness in your eyes might make your reflection swim
But don’t stop. Smiling.

Embrace the hurt.

Plunge, face first,
Into the newly carved
Hollow.

Hallowed space,
This pain is holy.
Breaking you to make you whole again.

You will learn
What is true
And what is real.

And while you drown,
Gasp and splutter -
Racking sobs and heaving sighs -
Call out His name,
Call on His Beloved.

That is the rope which you should have grasped.

The longer you allow it to slip
Through your hand,
The longer it shall burn.

Take it.
The rough before the smooth.
Taste it.
The bitter before the sweet.
Tear it.
The illusion before the truth.

"The sky is mine," said the Prince.

One day, it shall be ours.

Filed under personal ramblings remembrance and reflection poetry ?

1 note

Daughter of the Moment: The Flip Side of Love

daughterofthemoment01:

Love can make the sane walk out of suburban doors

and wake up on psychiatric wards

Having forgotten their own names and from where they came.

Love can make the mildest amongst us

Lay awake at night plotting the demise

Of the one who took her love away

Leaving a raging hole where her heart…

"Love is the way Coltrane kissed his saxophone
In that moment you would think they were all alone
No band, no audience, no stage, no microphone
Just the ‘Player’ and the ‘Played’ in a dreamy haze
And then he awakes and realises everyone was watching them make love.”

Love love LOVE this!!!

Filed under poetry Love jazz music Coltrane and his sax truth

2 notes

I’ve never known

I’ve never done this before.
Stuck my neck out on the line.
Not for anyone.
It’s all too easy to end up heedless, headless.

I’ve never felt this before.
That little bird fluttering madly against my ribcage -
It sings a little louder when squeezed.
Until you can open the catch, it’ll be a bittersweet melody.

I’ve never said this before.
But I don’t care if you’re broken because
I want to gather those shards, taste
The blood and kiss each scar of gold.

He’s yours - half the beauty of the world -
But you’d blaspheme and say he was all.
Love and pain inextricably intertwined.
Oh, yes, these thorns hurt but, my God,

By God!

Just watch that rose bloom.

Filed under personal poetry confusion hope brokenness

8 notes

of love and killing

what of the one who so loved the unknown

he wanted to know the unknown

and in his knowing killed his beloved

what of the one who so loved peace

he fought for peace

and in his fighting he killed his beloved

what of the one who so loved contentment

he desired to have no desires

and in his desire he killed his beloved

what of the one who so loved love

he hated hate

and in his hating he killed his beloved

what of I who so loves you

I’m sorry.

- Amir Sulaiman, from ‘Love, Gnosis & Other Suicide Attempts

Filed under Amir Sulaiman Love Gnosis and Other Suicide Attempts on love and killing poetry loving knowing

43 notes

rimeswriting:

“INTERVIEWER You are one of the most widely translated poets—into about thirty languages. Into what languages are you best translated?
 
NERUDA: I would say into Italian, because of the similarity between the two languages. English and French, which are the two languages I know outside of Italian, are languages which do not correspond to Spanish—neither in vocalization, or in the placement, or the color, or the weight of the words. It is not a question of interpretative equivalence; no, the sense can be right, but this correctness of translation, of meaning, can be the destruction of a poem. In many of the translations into French—I don’t say in all of them—my poetry escapes, nothing remains; one cannot protest because it says the same thing that one has written. But it is obvious that if I had been a French poet, I would not have said what I did in that poem, because the value of the words is so different. I would have written something else. 
 
INTERVIEWER And in English?
 
NERUDA: I find the English language so different from Spanish—so much more direct—that many times it expresses the meaning of my poetry, but does not convey the atmosphere of my poetry. It may be that the same thing happens when an English poet is translated into Spanish.”

An excerpt from Pablo Neruda interviewed by Rita Guibert in The Art of Poetry No.14 by The Paris Review.

This reminded me of a conversation I’d had with my Iranian colleague the other day.

I’d mentioned what I’d read on one of the blogs that I follow, namely how an Iranian guy had told his girlfriend, “Fadat besham (sp.?)”, literally “I would die for you”, as an expression for his love for her.

That’s pretty intense, right? And I love that about languages like Farsi, Arabic and Urdu. They have such rich rhetorical devices, such poetry, to describe things like love. English is really dry, in that respect.

I love you." That’s cool. But it’s so… blunt.

Majid pointed something out to me, though.

"If he says ‘I love you’, then it’s direct, usually because he means it. With Farsi, he’ll tell you all those beautiful phrases, "Fadat besham", etc., etc., and even with that honey, he’ll still have his eyes looking around."

I laughed out loud but it got me thinking: these poetical languages are double-edged swords.

It can describe one’s love, one’s intensity, much better than the English can. Yet, at the same time, it leaves you open to a more evident hollowness, if you don’t mean it. The shallowness of insincerity is even more disappointing in a way.

I could go off on all types of tangents, but then I think of Darija equivalents and I cringe a little.

Is “kan bgheek” really the best we have to offer?

(via moroccanstateofmind)

Filed under random musings languages Darija Farsi Spanish English lost in translation poetry