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Apr. 18th, 2019
You, and not my craze with conquest, are my wedding.
I left to myself and its match in your devil self
the freedom to comply with your demands,
take my horse
and slaughter it,
and I will walk like a warrior after defeat
without dream or sense …
Salaam upon what you desire of fatigue
for the captive prince, and of gold for the maidens
to celebrate the summer. And salaam upon you
abounding with suitors of every jinn and man,
for what you’ve done to yourself for
yourself: your hairpin breaks
my shield and my sword,
and your shirt button bears in its glare
the secret word of birds of every sort,
take my breath the way a guitar responds
to what you demand of the wind. All of my Andalus
is within your hands, so don’t leave a single string
for self-defense in the land of my Andalus.
I will realize, in another time,
I will realize that I have won with my despair
and that I have found my life, over there
outside itself, near my past
take my horse
and slaughter it, and I will carry myself dead and alive,
by myself…
I don’t know the translator of this piece, but there’s a beautiful calligraphic version of the Arabic text here.
from Tumblr http://bit.ly/2KNm55C
via IFTTT
I left to myself and its match in your devil self
the freedom to comply with your demands,
take my horse
and slaughter it,
and I will walk like a warrior after defeat
without dream or sense …
Salaam upon what you desire of fatigue
for the captive prince, and of gold for the maidens
to celebrate the summer. And salaam upon you
abounding with suitors of every jinn and man,
for what you’ve done to yourself for
yourself: your hairpin breaks
my shield and my sword,
and your shirt button bears in its glare
the secret word of birds of every sort,
take my breath the way a guitar responds
to what you demand of the wind. All of my Andalus
is within your hands, so don’t leave a single string
for self-defense in the land of my Andalus.
I will realize, in another time,
I will realize that I have won with my despair
and that I have found my life, over there
outside itself, near my past
take my horse
and slaughter it, and I will carry myself dead and alive,
by myself…
I don’t know the translator of this piece, but there’s a beautiful calligraphic version of the Arabic text here.
from Tumblr http://bit.ly/2KNm55C
via IFTTT
When You Forget Me - Deborah A. Miranda
Apr. 18th, 2019 03:01 pm with thanks to Pablo Neruda
the past is a poor broken basket,
woven by hands that had no muscle, no song.
When you forget me, every word we spoke together
just before or after slow first light, lips still wet,
– doe, heron, stone, prayer – erases itself
from every language, as if never spoken. Extinct.
When you forget me, dream of other women,
offer them the dance of your heart, recline
in a meadow, drink red wine, seek another woman’s
blush, what basket could hold all this desire?
I’ll gather black maidenhair fern stems, redbud,
bear grass from our sacred places; I’ll harvest,
split and dry each piece. My busy hands
won’t miss the obsidian outline of your face.
When you forget me, that river where we first kissed
won’t stop flowing down from mountains older
than desire; when you forget me, the forest that cradled
our creation won’t burn down. Some things last.
I’ll remember what they are, one by one, as I dye
my bundles, start the coil, fit weft around stave.
I’ll remember how to make a life out of fragments,
how to splice so skillfully, no visible break remains.
from Tumblr http://bit.ly/2V6zBW2
via IFTTT
the past is a poor broken basket,
woven by hands that had no muscle, no song.
When you forget me, every word we spoke together
just before or after slow first light, lips still wet,
– doe, heron, stone, prayer – erases itself
from every language, as if never spoken. Extinct.
When you forget me, dream of other women,
offer them the dance of your heart, recline
in a meadow, drink red wine, seek another woman’s
blush, what basket could hold all this desire?
I’ll gather black maidenhair fern stems, redbud,
bear grass from our sacred places; I’ll harvest,
split and dry each piece. My busy hands
won’t miss the obsidian outline of your face.
When you forget me, that river where we first kissed
won’t stop flowing down from mountains older
than desire; when you forget me, the forest that cradled
our creation won’t burn down. Some things last.
I’ll remember what they are, one by one, as I dye
my bundles, start the coil, fit weft around stave.
I’ll remember how to make a life out of fragments,
how to splice so skillfully, no visible break remains.
from Tumblr http://bit.ly/2V6zBW2
via IFTTT