traditional poem

Habibti, 
he says when I am honey.
And leaves me hungry
for spices. He leaves 
me angry and in love. 
I love you. I 
say it so desperately
and it does not calm me.
And he does not always
say it back.
I guess it’s too
European for him to
say: I love you too.  

Albi, 
he says when I am alone 
in the kitchen, crying softly,
before I cut a pomegranate.
I tell him I miss him
and he does not
cause the lust might 
devour me tonight.
He only misses me 
when another man’s
hand is on my thigh 
for my body is his 
property. 

Hayati, 
he says when he 
has spoken to his mother
about my Henna tattoos.
But he has not said
anything to my 
father about the white sheets.
I say marriage.
He says Insha'Allah.

—  Arabic Is The New French from The Immigration Series by Royla Asghar 

Mother Nhaama, you see me from high above

Tonight I shall dance with you

Show my gratitude for the life you bestowed upon me

Pray for your protection over myself and those I hold close


Say Mother; is my family gazing at you now as well?

Celebrating for you like I am now

Far beyond the horizon…


Dawn draws near

I shall dance with you again

When you once more grace the skies with your beauty


Til then…

Please keep being my guide through the nights to come

Watch over me and those I love

Oh Dusk Mother, our light in the darkest night

“ey kadin
büyük sevgisini postayla gönderen
sesini
rimelini
ve kiskirtici kokusunu
ey kadin
ey kendisini tanidigim ve tanimadigim
durdur, durdur su yazma isini
gönderdiklerin hep çocukça
yazdiklarin saçma hep
yok bunlarda bir kadin
postayla ask yapilmaz erkekle
postayla ancak çocuklar baba olur ”

Nizar Kabbani

Görsel :  Beduin tradition

“Musgrave. The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea.”

Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
Gentle and brown, above the pool?
And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain?… oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea? 
~From The Old Vicarage, Grantchester by Rupert Brooke

“One of Brooke’s most famous poems, its references can be overly obscure because of the many specific Cambridge locations and English traditions to which the poem refers. Some have seen it as sentimentally nostalgic, which it is, while others have recognized its satiric and sometimes cruel humor.” [x]

“You have a constellation lining the cathedral walls of your chest, a moon for a heart, and the sunlight pouring through your skin. You’re a symphony of stardust and you were born to shine.” Tyler Kent White 

The Sabbat Song

Sleep is waking, waking sleep
we ride the broom across the deep,
fair is foul and foul is fair
by bee and cat, by hound and hare,
the living die and the dying live
we turn the shears and the sieve,
light is darkness, darkness light
to farers through the mystic night,
up is down and down is up
to seekers of the cauldron-cup,
lords are churls and churls are lords
we leap across the bridge of swords,
birth is death and death is birth
we tread the paths beneath the earth,
Bride is Hag and Hag is Bride
between the times we rage and ride,
day is night and night is day
for farers on the witching way.
                               Nigel Jackson - The Call of the Horned Piper

#400

Use the word “zɪgʔʌzɪgʔa” to mean “a type of lover who works hard to fit in with your life, because they love you so much and are willing to put in effort to make your relationship work,” that is usually untranslated. Known mostly from a translation of a traditional poem in your conlang. Taken from the earlier translation, because I could not find the latest, “Prithee, canst thou tell me what thou desirest? What thine heart truly desireth?// By my troth! I will tell thee what I long for, what in my deepest soul I long for.// I pray, willst thou tell me what thou art thirsting after, what in thy deepest bosom, thou art thirsting after.// I want a, I want a// I really, really want a zɪgʔʌzɪgʔa

Darkness and Light
  • Run not from the darkness,
  • Shield not your eyes from the light,
  • Embrace the darkness as well as the light.
  • For does the light not cast shadows?
  • And without the dark, how can we know light?
  • Both are one and the same, separate yet joined.
  • As left and right, as male and female, as up and down, are dark and light.
  • Without one, the other can have no meaning.
  • As they are but two phases of the same energy, know that in darkness, there is light.
  • And in light, there is darkness.

My name means mountain. It means I can crush your heart, it means you can’t carry mine. It means I am bigger than life, it means I smile with teeth of icebergs. It means I am lonely somewhere in the forest, it means you can’t tear me down. It means when you are with me you’re on top of the world, taking humans in your palms, swallowing the seas and rivers like saliva. And when you fall from the highest altitude remember to give me your black bruises.

My name is a tribe in South Asia, of proud people with eyes of emerald and blood on their clothes. My name is loyalty, one for all, all for one. It means family, it means let me tell you the story of my people, a tragic one, a beautiful one, written in poetry in a garden of pomegranates.

My name is spelled wrong, defying who I am, for my accidental birth, and for my parents’s lack of culture and tradition. My name is a woman in Afghanistan, older than my father, my name misses a place to belong. My name is quick temper, my name is impatience, my name is not easy to pronounce, and has no time for you to learn it.

My name is unforgivable, my name meant sun once, my name was hot as the summer, killing butterflies, and my name is incarnated in the mountains of Himalaya, killing people, and asking them to understand.

—  When My Name Told Me The Truth by Royla Asghar
Here Dead Lie We...

Some people have asked for the text (I guess to see the line breaks) of the short poem on the most recent episode of Dear Hank and John. The poem is by A. E. Houseman.

“Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.”

The poem is sometimes criticized for its nationalism, but I don’t read it as a drum-beating poem of war. (The choice here is between death without shame and life with shame; it’s more about fearing shame than it is about the traditional war poem values of honor and valor.)

My feeling is that, like a lot of WWI poetry, it refuses to glorify death because it centers experience in the body: “Here dead LIE we…” The dead have no souls in this poem, at least not that we hear about.

If all of a person’s self is contained within the body–if there is no soul, or at least no soul that survives death–then the destruction of the body becomes the ultimate and eternal destruction. And in that context, “life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose” is awfully damn chilling, because there is nothing more of humanness than bodily life.

Anyway, I’ve been going back to this little poem for 20 years now as I’ve tried to think about the relationship between life and shame, and between the body and shame, and between the body and what we call the soul. And it keeps me thinking–38 words in just the right order to hold my attention across decades.

anonymous asked:

do you have a fave poem?

i really like the monkey garden by sandra cisneros which is a vignette more than a traditional poem and shakespeare’s sonnet 35 !!! tbh i don’t read much poetry but i’m working on branching out