these bags of yours
you drag around
dumping pieces you’ve collected
on all your friends

i’d say we like your crap
but i’m sick of lying

i write for you everyday.

not because you’re an avid reader or a fan of poetry

or even a fan of me

and my words,

but i write anyways.

see—i always disregard the disregard you have for my wellbeing sometimes

and the lack of passion for my passion

but i can never disregard the physical satisfaction

yes. the. physical. satisfaction.

is always right.

and on those nights when you don’t call me afterwards,

i write.

i write for you everyday

because no matter how wide-eyed you make me

you are never satisfied.

let’s take it back to how it used to be.

this relationship once built on love,

is now built on pride.

say goodbye to the call me just because you can,

reach out to hold my hand,

and stroll down the street,

you and me late night,

can’t decide what to eat,

hot sauced and blue cheesed,

underwear and white tees,

sitting on the couch

watching something pointless on tv

type of love.

back when i thought love was

me wearing your pajamas home

falling asleep on the phone

writing your name a million times,

next to mine.

back when you were mine.

now it’s these unanswered text messages

and awkward encounters with your friends like,

“oh, how’s phif?”

and that awkward laugh it off situation

when they still call me your wife,

back when our names came up together

in daily conversation on the yard

and wherever you were,

i was never too far.

that was love to me a long time ago.

before every thing fell apart.

see i write for you

from the heart

on the days when i can feel you without you even being here.

and the nights that i can imagine you breathing in my hair.

and the times when out paths cross and you don’t say hey.

i write for you every fucking day.

because i was the only one who never stopped caring

never stopped sharing

never stopped bearing your burdens

so that you weren’t alone.

it was me those wee hours on the phone

when you had that 12-4shift

and i had that 8oclock class

and you wasn’t talking bout shit

and i wanted to kill your ass,

but i stayed.

and even to this day,

i write for you.

i write to defend all the accusations of my friends

that you are proof that niggas ain’t shit.

but don’t get it twisted.

that doesn’t mean i don’t believe them.

but i stay coming up with excuses like

“yall don’t even know him,”

because they don’t.

but nowadays, neither do i.

see, i write for you because i remember the days

when love conquered all

when no mountain was too tall

for us to roll a blunt

and soar over.

no problem too big

that we couldn’t hide between the sheets from.

we always made a way somehow.

but now, i write with these tears in my eyes

to erase the stains of our poison love,

and all the times we’ve given up

and all the times i threw a fit

when you claimed you didn’t know a bitch.

but the call history was looking pretty decent.

text messages saying “let’s do lunch.”

wall-to-wall’s looking pretty recent.

and you haven’t mispelled her twitter name not once.

can i get a tweet?

an @ sign? a trending topic? a response?

and let that bitch know,

don’t walk past me, brush by me, look at me wrong.

because i’m not trying to fight,

but she’s the one you entertain,

but i’m the one who writes.

i’m the one who fights with these words to hold on to every word you said

before we got here to where we are now.

because somehow,

when i see you i have this deep desire

to kiss you

and fuck you

and slap the shit out of you

all simultaneously

every metaphor

every simile

every dear you,

sincerely me.

all i have done is write for you

every day

and every night

in the silence of my room.

and i know writing won’t bring you back.

and writing won’t save your life,

but it is I,

who sits alongside the moon

and pulls these  thoughts out of my head.

all fucking night,

i sit up and write

and you still want her instead.

NTKOG #64: The kind of girl who gets all sweaty and obsessive over the pale undead and wakes up ungodly early to swoon over Edward with the rest of the acne-ridden masses.

I am: into books. Real books. With tiny little elements like plots and pacing and character development. Maybe the occasional bout of internal story logic too, while we’re at it?

I am not: a Twilight fan, in short. Sorry, dudes.

The Scene: A cinema in Fenway, ungodly early, with the rest of the Twitards Twihards and their sleepy, grimacing boyfriends. Sister, for all her other graces, is among the afflicted, and has promised me a movie-size box of Sugar Babies if I’ll sit through the movie with her without scoffing too loudly. Sugarlust and sisterly obligation prevail.

For context, I read the first book with an open mind (then became — in words that Twihards will understand — quite mellifluous with my chagrin after about fifty pages); the first movie I watched with only mocking in mind. To express my respnose to “New Moon,” I present you with a poem inspired by another, better teen trash flick:

Ten Things I Hate About New Moon

I hate its hackneyed premise
and its screaming preteen fans,
I hate the cinematography,
those dizzying circular pans.

I hate the cliched dialogue,
I hate Lautner’s hyped-up brawn,
I hate the logical contradictions
and I fucking hate Bella Swan.

I hate how Meyer just can’t write
and how slow the story’s paced,
the lazy trope of perfect love –
I hate that they’re so damn chaste.

I hate how Kristen Stewart mumbles
and how she gasps at Edward’s touch.
But mostly I hate how I didn’t hate it,
Not even close, not even a little — well, okay, not much.

The Verdict: Yeah, you guys heard me. I actually didn’t hate this. Okay, it was sappy and overly long, and I wasn’t totally comfortable with all the soccer mommies sitting behind us cackling with lascivious glee at 17-year-old Taylor Lautner, but the movie itself? Not terrible. Unlike the first one, there was actually some nice character development with Jacob Black, the occasional snappy line, and some pretty okay art direction (when the camera guy wasn’t trying to get too cute.) Unlike the first movie — of which 98% was comprised of Bella and Edward congratulating one another for being so hot — this one sort of had a plot. A pretty watchable one.

Don’t get me wrong, I gave myself an eye-rolling cramp from scorning the pox upon humanity that is Kristen Stewart and her mumbly scream-sobbing. And there were big plot holes. But it was better than 2012, and in this day and age, isn’t that really about the best we could hope for? So yeah. Doing stuff I think I’ll hate: sometimes a pretty okay idea. Thumbs up from this un-undead dude.

[Also, as I've once again wowed you with my pentameter, this might be an appropriate time to beamingly update you that I've now heard back from all of the poetry journals that I submitted to a few weeks ago, and announce that I was blessed with two rejections, and three acceptances! Yes! I just found out tonight that I have a sonnet forthcoming in Word Riot's May issue, and two more in the next issue of some journal nobody has ever heard of, but which I applied to because it had an awesome name. Eeeeeeee! TKOG: published poet.]

by Heinrich Heine (1797 – 1856).

E’en as a Lovely Flower

E’en as a lovely flower,
So fair, so pure thou art;
I gaze on thee, and sadness
Comes stealing o’er my heart.
 
My hands I fain had folded
Upon thy soft brown hair,
Praying that God may keep thee
So lovely, pure and fair.

(transl .  by Kate Freiligrath Kroeker)

Notes:
http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/hheine.htm
http://www.answers.com/topic/heinrich-heine

Man ever the beast and always the savage

no matter how clever his status.

In an increasingly deteriorating terra firma

with a lust and driving force for power.

The few dominating our every moment 

as the majority are in rapid descent.

    Unbelievable amounts of money being spent

as this is now what rules our lives.

Most struggle to pay the  horrendous taxes

imposed but not used to improve society.

Squandered to the detriment of the majority

from those elected by us into authority.

    If the wealth was spread more evenly about

poverty would be just a simple word.

People safe to stay in their own homelands

no fear of persecution or starvation.

Treated with dignity and more as equals

but unlikely as money rules any sequels.

    The enviroment falls short of financial gain

the beast and the savage will remain.

Any method used to boost the profits

overrules the correct and just route.

On the streets the blood is being spilt

life treated to cheaply taken without guilt.

     Take what you want no matter who you hurt

individuals are being thought of as only dirt. 

Not a soul is safe inside or out in our land

police lines thin often not there to give a hand.

    The Foureyed Poet.

The rules and information for the Hex Factor contests can be found in the original post here.

We’re over halfway to the end now and AU’s charity drive is still going strong! So let’s keep supporting them in their cause with this week’s Hex Factor contest – poetry.

Now, I use the term ‘poetry’ loosely. Obviously there are many different kinds, and as always I’m open to interpretations. All I want from you is a short poem (unless you really want to do a long one) about either Child’s Play, Azeroth United or the Hearts, Hands and Voices drive.

You could do a witty limerick:

There once was a Child’s Play charity,

Whose money raising brought much hilarity.

They raised so much cash,

That the children had a bash,

And sadness became quite the rarity!

Okay, that was awful. Maybe a haiku?

Hearts Hands and Voices

Azeroth United calling

Raising funds for kids.

Well, you get the idea, and I’m sure you can do much better than me! I look forward to your emails at veliaf AT hotmail DOT co DOT uk.

Vel.

]]> http://ayesha5.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/rahman-baba/ Sun, 22 Nov 2009 11:41:39 +0000 Ayesha http://ayesha5.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/rahman-baba/

Rahman Baba (1653-1711) is a renowned Pushto Sufi poet. He is fondly called the Nightingale of Pukhtoonkhuwa. In the preface of the book called ‘The Nightingale of Peshawar’ by Jens Enevoldsen, Professor Pareshan Khattak writes:

Pashtuns are proud of Khushal Khan Khattak, the warrior-poet of the nation, the venerate Ahmad Shah Abdali, they have a taste for Hamid Baba and Kazim Khan Shaida and they appreciate even lesser poets. But Rahman Baba rules their hearts and minds. Love of Rahman Baba is in the blood of every Pushtun. His advice is binding, his decisions are final.

Rahman Baba is often quoted by literate and illiterate people alike. His couplets could be seen painted on the local buses and rickshaws.

As Professor Preshan Khahttak explains about the poetic style of Rahman Baba:

He as a master craftsman, coveys his thoughts through word association rather than through the direct meaning of the words themselves. He was so skilled in use of his language for his words have something to say to everyone who reads them. To the uninitiated his words are simple, soft and easy. For the mystical mind they are unfathomably deep.

About the Author

Jens Kristian Enevoldsen (1922-1991) was born in Esbjerg, Denmark. He earned an MA Theology (1954) and was the Minister of churches in Erritsoe (1954-58) Tjorring (1972-81) and Utterslev (1981-89).

Jens Enevoldsen came to Pakistan in 1958. He taught European History at the University of Peshawar and was a volunteer researcher at the Pushtu Academy. Jens worked to increase the awareness of the Pashtu literature in the North West Frontier Province and the West.

With Lorens Hedelund and in cooperation with the Pashtu Academy he started mobile Pashtu Literature Service, travelling to villages throughout the NWFP.

Throughout the Frontier, Jens Enevoldsen was known by his Pushto name, Ghulam Isa, ‘Servant of Jesus’. As a padre, teacher and scholar Jens Enevoldsen sought to build bridges between his faith and that of his Muslims friends.

Taken from ‘The Nightingale of Peshawar’

I have taken that poem from the above mentioned book translated by Jens Enevoldsen.

Bad Days

When bad days come
What can the clever do?
When fate shows up
What can a wise man do?

The parents pray:

God give us offspring good!
When luck is bad
What can the parents do?

A big hand may
Set friend from friend apart
When that hand stays
What can the lovers do?

You pray, you curse
But God alone decides

If God won’t act
What can your prayers do?

By force or gold
No one has made his luck
Be weak or strong
In this, what can you do?

The moth complained
About the candle’s heat
RAHMAN, what can

Your tears, your laughter do?

I feel like dancing
Whenever, wherever, swing!
Gotz ma mojo back!

I look backwards

betrayer, deceiver so despised

reconfigure myself with nonsensical cult lies

(if you thought as I did

we would all wither and die

after sinking deep

into the suffocating mess and stink of the mire)

I look backwards

tainted and foul

the betrayer does not hide

                             – but smiles

                             – white teeth

                             – clickity clack

 feral and hungry eyes

oh betrayer

oh deceiver so despised

I switch on the latest craze promising to purge the engrams

those vicious little imprints of hate

“are you happy yet” reads the slogan

(commercial slickness, economical cunning)

selling the perfect life

(selling the perfect lie)

I look backwards

betrayer so foul

walks the light of my thoughts

casting shadows that chitter and talk

I gorge myself

seek to satiate these twisted and dark desires

but vastus

such an emptiness

that coils and boils

churns and burns

twists and turns and bubbles with trouble inside

betrayer did you know you would leave it there,

an infection that I must fight?

I look backwards betrayer, deceiver so despised

©   gypsy

I know you know me … so much so well … still learning … still growing … not just some silly love spell … You shaped me … helped mould me … the secret I shall not tell … my darling … my everything …  I am here now for you are my life … when you’re not with me … you’re the air I breathe … gave me wings and let me fly … down for anything … you just call me … you know I’m here … anywhere and anytime … When you are distant … I know why it’s needed … it’s part of how I belong … if ever you must turn me away … I know it’s ok … Just knowing you makes me strong … I trust your judgment … no questions asked … for you water the soil for every song … when you treat me like a Queen … never judge for where I’ve been … shown me completely … total security … you cannot leave me lost in everything … understand me … being there for me … more than anyone in ways only you could show … I know you too well … why you do what you do … this journey together we both chose … right from the beginning … no pretense … passion like a whirlwind … all my fears you allowed me to let go … I’m so grateful for you my one and only … let them all continue to believe … we are meant to be … add to the mystery … they will run with whatever they are told!

All my love ~ forevermore xxx

Measure ink by length
and sheets like streets; my hands walk
farther than my feet.

From a story Mike told me about how far all the Bic pens could draw.  I originally , and accordingly, titled this To the Moon and Back Fourteen Times, and still kind of like it because I like long titles for short poems. Paper Trail hits the mark too, though.

Dari pusaran itu aku turun,

tolong selamatkan aku,

dan aku akan bunuh dia untuk mu,

mungkin aku sudah patut tahu sejak dulu lagi,

dia, yang kalah harus pohon simpati

dan aku, yang menang harus pergi dari situ.

Tak masuk akal

tapi itu memang semangat mereka

yang kononnya tinggal dibawah langit,

tanpa ragu, ia jadi halangan buat pedangku.

Aku menang, tapi aku masih disitu,

kenapa aku tak tahu,

mungkin apa yang cukup untuk mereka,

tak pernah cukup untuk aku.

Bunuh, bunuh,

aku harus bunuh dia!!!

Akukah yang menang?

sendirian dibawah langit,

atau cuma bayangan matahari.

Belajar sekadar itu …

Peter Lach-Newinsky

A Translation of:

Rainer Maria Rilke, The First Duino Elegy (from: Duineser Elegien, 1923)

 Who, if I screamed, would hear me from the angels’

realms? And should one even take

me suddenly to its heart: I would perish under its

stronger being. For beauty is nothing

but the beginning of terror we can still just bear,

and we admire it so because it serenely disdains

to destroy us. Each angel is terrible.

   And thus do I contain and swallow the seductive call

of dark sobbing. Oh, for whom are we able

to really need? Not angels, not humans,

and the clever animals have already noted

that we are not very dependably at home

in the interpreted world. Perhaps we are left

with some hillside tree, that we may daily

see it again; we are left with yesterday’s road

and the pampered loyalty of a habit

that liked being with us, and so stayed and never left.

 Oh and the night, the night when wind full of cosmic space

pulls at our face –, for whom would it not remain, the longed for,

gently disappointing one that strenuously threatens

the single heart. Is night easier for lovers?

Oh, they merely cover over their destiny each to each.

   Do you still not know it? Throw from your arms the emptiness

towards the spaces we breathe; so that perhaps the birds

may feel the expanded air with more fervent flight.

 Yes, the Springs probably did have need of you. Some stars

expected you to feel them. A wave

arose in the past, or

as you passed an open window

a violin abandoned itself.  All that was mission.

But did you accomplish it? Were you not always

still distracted by expectation, as if everything were announcing

a lover? (Where shall you house her

since great and alien thoughts throng

you and often stay the night.)

Yet should you long for it, then sing the lovers; by far

not immortal enough is their famous feeling.

Those, you almost envy them, forsaken ones you found

so much more loving than the stilled. Begin

ever anew their never attainable praise;

remember: the hero endures, even his fall

was just pretext to be: his ultimate birth.

But exhausted nature takes back lovers

into herself as if the strength were not there twice

to achieve this. Have you considered Gaspara Stampa

enough, that some girl whose lover has slipped away,

feels in the heightened example of these lovers:

would that I become like them?

Should not at last these oldest pains of ours

become more fruitful? Is it not time that we, loving,

freed ourselves from the beloved and survive that, quaking:

as the arrow survives the string to be, concentrated in release,

more than itself. For staying is nowhere.

 Voices, voices. Hear, my heart, as otherwise only

the holy heard:  that the great call lifted

them from ground; yet they kneeled on,

impossible ones, and payed it no attention:

thus were they hearers. Not that you could bear

God’s voice, far from it. But hear the blowing,

the uninterrupted message that forms from silence.

Now it rustles from the young dead to you.

Wherever you entered did not their fate

in Rome and Naples’ churches calmly speak to you?

Or else an inscription sublimely impose itself on you,

like that recent tablet in Santa Maria Formosa.

What they want of me? Quietly should I

throw off the semblance of injustice that sometimes

slightly disturbs the pure movement of their spirits.

  True, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,

no longer exercise habits scarcely learned,

not lend roses and other things of special promise

meaning in terms of a human future;

no longer be what one was

in infinitely anxious hands, and even lay aside

one’s own name like a broken toy.

Strange to not wish one’s wishes onwards. Strange

to see everything that was relation flutter so loosely

in space. And it’s hard being dead

and full of catching up so that one gradually

feel eternity a little. – But the living all make

the mistake of drawing too sharp distinctions.

Angels (it is said) often do not know whether they

wander among the living or the dead. The eternal current

always drags all ages along with it through both realms

and drowns them out in both.

 In the end they no longer need us, the early departed,

one is gently weaned from the earthly like one mildly

outgrows one’s mother’s breasts. But we who such

great secrets need, to whom from grieving so often

blessed progress springs – could we be without them?

Is the tale in vain that once within the lament for Linos

daring first music thrust through barren numbness,

that only in the startled space which an almost divine youth

for ever quit, the void entered that vibration

that now enraptures us and consoles and helps.

and THIS, my friends, is b l i s s . just made my entire night to stumble across it.

“…you ask me how am i ever going to learn to put my trust in you, like you want me to when i know what you’re prone to do? accusations fly like bullets do. here we go again. oh no. you know me because you’re doing it too. the cycle never ends. yea you’re doing it again. you said it would end, but here it goes again, and again, and again. DAMN i love you, but this is crazy. i have to fight you almost daily. we break up so FAST and we, we make up so PASSIONATELY. why can’t we just trust each other? YOU CAN’T HATE ME AND BE MY LOVER. passion ends and pain begins. i come back, and we’re doing it again…”

When walking in a sea of strangers a friend may wave and smile,
recognition easily thwarted by momentum,
and though she smiles and waves,
though paused to strike a pose,
all i see is a stranger making a mistake–
in a sea of strangers mind is convinced it must also be a stranger.

Stranger still is this desire for love override,
a tendency to forgo contact,
and relinquishing the tender touch my heart turns easy prey–
it has no where to hide.

Out in the open is the cure,
a walk about in my small town,
where every citizen a reflection of my soul,
and i may expect that friendly smile,
that loving wave embrace–
beloved see me clearly,
and i shall see you.

You slice onions with such agility

That I kept you in the cookroom.

Coming home on early evenings, I am audience

To your kitchen drama:

Onion skin is torn cautiously

While grasping knife by the blade

Which later would create rhythm on chopboard

Before clearing your eyes with the back

Of your palm, then concluding

Everything with a sigh

Always the tears.

The sniffles and sobs were of course

Caused by this tearjerker, so I merely let you

Proceed with your jugglery of recipes

Until you become infallible with the knife

And your strokes grow heavy

As the tears that you no longer care to wipe

Even when it’s not onions you slice anymore

And even when I just cut through you every night.

Gunboat Diplomacy

I don’t even remember what I was going to write here. It began a moment ago in the warm lamplight of my little room in Busan, where I, distracted with loneliness, began glancing through the poetry of Cavafy for some kind of solace. Ithaka has encouraged me to remain in motion before, and Ionic, which I just saw for the first time, I thought so exquisite that I wanted to write it down in my notebook. But before I could do that I had to report the situation, the state of the environment, you know, and that outpouring brought me here—why keep it private? Why not share?

I’m not surrounded by the terrible silence that comes sometimes after I stop talking with my friends on the other side of the world; through the window comes the windy sound of cars, a television murmurs in the ceiling, a bass beat climbs and falls. Nonetheless, night’s the time for company, and so many of the ones I miss are fast asleep.

” …Why does it always rain on me?
Is it because I lied when I was seventeen?”
~ Travis

I know you are close
when I smell smoke
Red wine
Sandalwood
Sex.

Oh the trouble I got us into
You’d never know
To look at me -
It’s a problem
of Karma.

i know
you’re not a
mathematician
darling
but your lips
upon mine
made things
a 100 times
better

i know
dearest
that you
are no doctor
but when you
gave
me your heart
(and in return
carefully took mine)
you healed my
every aching wound

i know
love
that your music
playing days
are gone
but
the rhythm
of the constant
beating in your chest
is the perfect
accompaniment
to our early morning
tango

i know
dear
that i am
no philosopher
but i’m confident
that the ingredients
for a perfect romance
are two poets
and the helping hand
of fate

Mawlana Rumi is a name that conjures up a lot of different images in peoples’ minds. Unfortunately most of them are wrong.

Mawlana Rumi was born into a family of Hanafi jurists in modern day Afghanistan. His family fled from the Mongol invasion to Konya in modern day Turkey. Rumi followed in his father’s footsteps as an orthodox jurist and became the Imam of the people of Konya. Then one day a wandering dervish known as Shams-i-Tabriz walked into his life and Rumi was changed forever. Much like Imam al-Ghazali wandering in the desert, the numerous seclusions Rumi shared with Shams ignited a flame inside of him that showed the raw spiritual aspects of Islam. He came to realise like Imam al-Ghazali that there is more to Islam than just books and scholarship, and that as slaves of God you have to experience true emotional devotion to your divine Creator in order to worship Him fully.

What resulted in Rumi’s revelation were pages upon pages of some of the greatest poetry ever written by men.

Unfortunately since the 60s hippies era, certain modern day orientalists have hijacked traditional Sufi teachings to perpetuate ideas of ‘Divine Unity’ and ‘Universalism’. Although there were some people who attached the label of ‘Sufi’ to themself and subscribed to ideas of ‘Wahdat-ul-Wujuud’ and pantheism (All creation are manifestations of God and one with Him), they were rejected by Orthodox Sufis. On top of that, when many Sufi writers would talk about passion and love with regards to the Divine, they would use imagery of human compassion as a symbolic way of understanding how one may feel when coming close to God. As a result many westerners have taken these lines of poetry, and carefully left out talk of God and have used it dress up their own carnal desires.

Rumi’s work has been at the forefront of this barrage of misunderstanding. Although Coleman Barks’s collection does retain many Islamic subject material, a lot of the work does seem to contain many of the fabricated works that have been wrongly attributed to Rumi.

One example is the famous passage:

Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not from the East or the West, not out of the ocean or up from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not composed of elements at…

It makes absolutely no sense Rumi would have written this, especially when the main plethora of his works are to do with how to become a better Muslim, not an atheist! Another counter example is the fact that in the Mathnawi he has a very long tale of a Jewish king’s vizier who planned to kill the Christians of a city. The only Christians who were saved were the ones who accepted that Muhammad (SAWS) was mentioned in the Gospel!

Another case where the work does not seem to be Rumi’s is the story of a king who sends an army to steal the beautiful concubine of the king of Mosul. The imagery in that story is tantamount to pornography, I am highly doubtful a Muslim jurist in the Middle Ages would have written such a work. (Although to be fair the moral of the story is quite good!)

Saying all this, Coleman Barks’s collection isn’t all bad. I still appreciated Rumi’s poetry through Barks’s writing, albeit he didn’t translate it from the Persian but reworked AJ Arberry’s works, which to be honest I think is the wrong way to go about it. It’s a good general introduction to Rumi, but I wouldn’t recommend it to others.

If you are looking for the real Rumi (“The Muslim one”), I have started reading Volume One of the Masnavi translated by Jawid Mojaddedi. Almost half way through, it has blown me away. The Masnavi(/Mathnawi) is the REAL Rumi. Mojaddedi is a Muslim who speaks Persian and has translated the work with an understanding of Islamic culture and Persian language. What adds to it as well is that he has made most of the work into rhyming couplets in an attempt to mirror the beauty the poetry carries in its original Persian. I will write a full review insha’Allah once I have finished reading it.

Peace.