Author Topic: 30:30 - Poem #1  (Read 19147 times)

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Offline Soft Words

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Re: 30:30 - Poem #28
« Reply #42 on: December 28, 2008, 11:40 PM »
te quiero.

you taught me
how to stretch three syllables
into six. we were
obsessed with iambs
and the creation
of our own tongue to say

je t'aime

in words of black flame.
skipping consonants, juggling vowels
stolen from the roman alphabet
and creating new words,
new sounds
new love
not knowing
it wasn't enough for you.

le amé.
me pregunto si usted sabía.

je vous ai aimé.
je me demande si vous saviez.


Life isn't about waiting for the storms to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.

Offline nixon

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Re: 30:30 - Poem #1
« Reply #43 on: December 29, 2008, 12:56 PM »
Arti Jo,

I love these last two poems, the latin and the spanish and french--damn cool beans, I had to use babelfish on the french, my spanish just good enough to rough translate..  I love these lines

My breath comes in little wisps,
pale ghosts telling me
I'm alive.

and these

obsessed with iambs
and the creation
of our own tongue to say


I will try to catch you later, have been in and out visiting my sister, and dealing with a reoccuring migraine, one that today seems to be at a bay, fingers crossed.  Wishing you a beautiful day.

:) brenda
In loving Memory
Justin Michael Owen
1987-2004
Only the good die young

Offline Soft Words

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Re: 30:30 - Poem #29
« Reply #44 on: December 29, 2008, 11:33 PM »
{Brenda, me lovey. Glad you liked the language mixing, I'm a sort of language whore, I am saving up to buy myself language courses so I can read literature in various languages. This is the first time I'm mixing languages to make a poem.
Keep the headache at bay, hope you get over the reoccuring nuisance soon.}


I used to await
the mailman at the stroke
of 10:37 everyday
so I knew the chicken had marinated
long enough.

I remember letters from long ago,
strings of words in loopy handwritten font
spritzed with some long-hoarded perfume
of longer-dead roses and dahlias,
sleeping with those precious keepsakes
under my pillow.

I wish I could go back,
remove the nails from coffin lids,
plant kisses upon once-people skeletons,
run my fingers in the dust
of what once upon a time
was my heart
that magically changed places with yours.

I'm an old woman with stocking-covered
stick-legs and lacy girdles
shaking my head at that thing
that looks like a black brassiere
up in the branches of that naked tree.
I used to wear one of those
to mark the spot
where your heart merged into me.

Je ne suis plus effrayé,
je n'ai pas peur pour dire
je t'aime.
Life isn't about waiting for the storms to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.

Offline Soft Words

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Re: 30:30 - Poem #30
« Reply #45 on: December 31, 2008, 06:12 AM »
The final poem in this 30:30. I did write the poem on 12.30.08 - but I was too emotionally drained to type it up.

I grew up in a city
where laundry hung outside
windows and balconys
drip-drying in the sun.
Everything
from underwear to bejewelled sarees
waving and twisting
wanting more than anything else
to dance away with the wind,
but restrained
by viciously tight clothespins
and nylon rope.
It made the whitewashed walls
of tall apartment buildings
look friendlier,
more middle class.
It was in the richie-rich neighborhood
that the clothes were tumbledried
inside the house,
never hung out in the sun,
that I was awkward and clumsy
and I lost my bearings.

Today, I live in places
where I long for the smell
of sunshine in my clothes,
to bury my face in a pile of freshly-folded laundry
and find a little bit of home
in the sun and the stars
that are the same everywhere.
I'm an outsider
in this world
with my boorish habits
and a longstanding dislike
of shaving my legs.
I am a child displaced,
a girl invisible
an actress par excellence,
a chameleon in the making
because no one hears
the sigh in my laugh
or sees the trapped scream
in my smile.

And so I write,
with tears for ink
and cliches strewn about
like vagabonds in a city of millions.
I write of grief and joy,
heartbreak and heartache,
dream and desire and
all the bodies I learn to cure.
I am a sprite who has forgotten
how to be herself
except in syllables
read by no one who feels her touch
everyday.


And because it fits my current state of mind, a poem from Sara Teasdale:

What do I care?

What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
 That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
 I am an answer, they are only a call.

But what do I care, for love will be over so soon,
 Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by,
For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
 It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.


Thanks for sticking it out with me for 30 days, I'm glad I challenged myself and glad I completed it. I have some good poems that I will be working on, maybe they'll show up elsewhere, later. For now, I'm off to buy myself a few bags of chips and candy to help bring in the new year.

:)
Arti.
Life isn't about waiting for the storms to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.

Offline Halo

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Re: 30:30 - Poem #1
« Reply #46 on: June 09, 2013, 04:24 AM »
Arti, I was just browsing and find this so interesting.
I have watched your poetry evolve into something so wonderful.
I love reading you!  :rose

I heartily agree with you, Kay, a trove of treasures. Wish you were here, doc Arti, sharing your way with words with us!  :rose

I love roaming around the Alley reading long ago written poetry I haven't read before. Every so I often I bump and old
piece just because I like it and think it's worthy of a fresh audience. Arti's poetry is more than worth a read!!!
Be careful of your thoughts; they may become words at any moment.  ~  Ira Gassen

Offline Halo

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Re: 30:30 - Poem #1
« Reply #47 on: September 04, 2018, 05:27 PM »
Bumping this up out of the depths for a new day and a fresh read! Miss you, Arti, wherever you are. xx B

{zen-ish free write.}


there are lines on my palms,
inscrutable secrets
I live with everyday.
there is a lifeline that fades away
before the end;
a love line that is intersected,
bisected, trisected.

I have always sucked at drawing.
The peacocks turned into peahens on my easel,
amebic colors running, mixing, mating,
my lines undefined.
I tried to draw one bold line
but managed to wash it away
several times with tears.

The lines on my hands
have been thrown into sharp relief
every time that happens,
permanent marker
temporarily staining my skin
and flowing as rivulets,
turning into rivers
river deltas
pooling in the cusp
of my lifeline and travel-line.

My loveline is never bold –
it is a wispy thing
that bonds with my study line,
on the ventral side
of my metatarso-carpal joint
from start to end,
sharing intersection and trisection,
ad infinitum.

My study line is longer than my lifeline.
Does that mean
I will be taking exams
forever?

Be careful of your thoughts; they may become words at any moment.  ~  Ira Gassen