Contents collected poems #2
Pipe Sarabi Eventide
曾如何希望 I Once Hoped Watcher
RPG's Path Nofar
Two Poems Abiral
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I am No Palestinian Farah Chamma
Windmill Blade : Clock Hands Adan Kohnhorst
Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream. Ng Meizhi
African Heaven Frank Kobina Parkes
夜鸟 Night Birds 西川 Xichuan
Pipe Sarabi Eventide
There's so much that goes on in my head all the time it never stops somedays I can't sleep I can't eat Then they medicate me and things slow down. I can't access my brain Each thought feels unauthentic So I stop and the engine starts back and there are so many things that go on in my mind all the time it never stops professors think I'm an imbecile or worse, lazy And I try to explain but I can't explain Because my words are plain and the images, thoughts, things in my head are not they swirl around my head in a beautiful rainbow professor I'm trying professor I'm trying professor I'm trying
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I need more time I need more time I need more time. Time. If only there were a way to lengthen it so I have time for all of my thoughts and my work but I don't So I write filling page after page burning through books & pens faster than I can replace them and still not writing as fast as the thoughts I think because there is so much going on in my had all the time it never stops and I'm exhausted.
I am No Palestinian Farah Chamma -Recited by Sarabi Eventide-
I am no courageous, Fearless, valorous, gallant, Proud, adventurous, Selfless patriot I am a soul in exile Expressing my thoughts in All languages but mine "Hi…I am Palestinian" "Salut…Je suis palestinienne" (Hi…I am Palestinian) I cut my mother tongue In half ربخلا وبأ تنعل و أدتبملا تبصن (Curse the media) اننيب ام تمض يتلا ةمضلا ترسك (The bond that was between us has been broken) Palestinian poet Rafeef Ziadeh was right when She said "Allow me to speak my Arab tongue Before they occupy my language as well" Well… to that I must add Allow me to be the Arab That I am Allow me my right
To learn, to travel, to pray Allow me to walk through any Foreign street without having To feel this shame Without having to think twice About my clothes, my face, my name Or the visa I had to work Day and night for the claim Because at the end of the day I am not the one to blame For Bin Laden, 9/11, and all your Other schemes and games I am but a soul in exile I am in no hall of fame I have to opt to be Someone I am not Just to fit in your fame Despite the agony I went through Despite the struggles I overcame Despite the diplomas, the degrees, The awards I acclaim I am still no Palestinian No matter how many "I love Palestine" stickers
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I stick on my car No matter how many times I cry over Gaza And argue over the Israeli settlements No matter how many times I curse the Zionists, blame the media, And swear at the Arab leaders I am still no Palestinian Even if I memorize the Names of all the Palestinian cities Even if I recite Mahmood Darwiche’s Poetry and draw Handala on my walls Even as I stand here tonight In front of you all I am no Palestinian ةينيطسلف شم انأ (I am still no Palestinian) And I might never ever be And that’s exactly what Makes the Palestinian In me…
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Windmill Blade : Clock Hands Adan Kohnhorst
When I see the thin houses of Amsterdam, impossibly side-by-side, smell pannenkoeken, and inhale deeply the notes of apple and cinnamon, or hear the guttural tones of a language I once knew, I'm swept to a different place. Suddenly I'm tromping through the underbrush with cousins and a little brother, casting spells that never worked but always did. It's difficult to see blurry stains swimming in the boiling jam of garden berries, the colours bright like our faces.
is t h e closest I'll ever g et to enlightenment. I wouldn't mind.
Looking down on the thick white canvas over a world that can't possibly be cold, from a window beside a flaming hearth; it's the best place to laugh at untold jokes.
Was it really that, from atop that overseas crow's nest, the waters were so much calmer? Or was it just my child-eyes?
And maybe becoming a stone in that crumble-tower of that once-proud chateau
Regardless, I'm content just to suck on memory-salted licorice.
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曾如何希望 I Once Hoped Watcher -Both English and Chinese versions originally by Watcher-
我再没见过谁如你般绝望 眼神空洞满瞳战败之殇 如今人们都不再像以往疯狂 你走后只有我独自述说过往 I haven't saw one desperate as you Pain of defeat in your eyes of void People no longer crazy as in days of old Now you are gone and I'm reminiscing alone 他们爱的诗人没走到终章 夭折的笔杆上染了血浆 镜中的嘴角静静舔舐刀光 杀戮前夜这寂寞的天堂 The poet they love has fallen Before the chapter final Leaving a broken pen with stain of crimson And I was licking the sword edge in my mirror At heaven of solitude, before the night to kill 背叛了彼此我们走向了何方 谁偷走记忆里崩坏的希望 罪恶的王座上我兀自悲伤
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我们在十字路口轻声歌唱 召唤亡灵让它们肆意游荡 决定遗忘做天使的时光 剪断翅膀不再飞翔 At the crossroad we softly chant Conjuring dead to let them lingering about Oblivion for the angels' days Cut our wings and cease to sore 吻着的你泪水浸透荒凉 偷藏匕首割碎他的胸膛 你还要寻找到什么地方 有合适的教堂 埋葬一颗冰冷心脏 Your wintery tears flavored your kiss A concealing knife in his broken chest And how longer will you keep searching for A proper church to go To bury a heart of cold
Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream. Ng Meizhi
the everchanging shore; the lapping of the waves; the honking of boats; dreaming of sand under a microscope, they are tiny rocks. rocks swaying, rocks being, rocks flying in suspended disbelief believing the dreams is sleeping, waking up, and wanting to go back suspension of belief. believe the suspension. go back to sleep and evolve it we've stopped evolving the only thing that evolves is technology, not our bodies. soon, our naked bodies will lay limp in the sand. Machines to cover us and pull us up, to die and live. but still, dream. down the big white stream. the big black book. dreaming of wheat and planets bowing to you gets you killed.
joseph, the dream-reader, and his dreams led him to the land of sand. all the trickery and manipulation of one. of dreams. off to sleep. mr. sandman, bring me a dream. sprinkle sand on my eyes i need, i want, i have the stop motion in blinking eyes \time is sand/ /moving down the funnel of hope\ the pining for more the sweeping off the shore into the oceanic abyss. this drowning is real, it smothers and chokes, it devours, it silences it takes you whole and sends you back empty and naked on to the land of sand.
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African Heaven Frank Kobina Parkes -Recited by Mercy Angela-
Give me black souls, Let them be black Or chocolate brown Or make them the Color of dust — Dustlike, Browner than sand. But if you can Please keep them black, Black. Give me some drums; Let them be three Or maybe four And make them black — Dirty and black: Of wood, And dried sheepskin, But if you will Just make them peal, Peal. Peal loud, Mutter. Loud, Louder yet; Then soft, Softer still Let the drums peal.
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Let the calabash Entwined with beads With blue Aggrey beads Resound, wildly Discordant, Calmly Melodious. Let the calabash resound In tune with the drums. Mingle with these sounds The clang Of wood on tin: Kententsekenken Ken-tse ken ken ken: Do give me voices Ordinary Ghost voices Voices of women And the bass Of men. (And screaming babes?) Let there be dancers, Broad-shouldered Negroes Stamping the ground With naked feet
And half-covered Women Swaying, to and fro, In perfect Rhythm To "Tom shikishiki" And "ken," And voices of ghosts Singing, Singing! Let there be A setting sun above, Green palms Around, A slaughtered fowl And plenty of Yams. And dear Lord, If the place be Not too full, Please Admit spectators. They may be White or Black. Admit spectators That they may
Hear: Our native songs, The clang of wood on tin The tune of beads And the pealing drums. Twerampon, please, please Admit Spectators! That they may Bask In the balmy rays Of the Evening Sun, In our lovely African heaven!
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RPG's Path Nofar
I started in the dessert In a dark moldy cave between two peaks Waiting for my time to shine The pressure finally launched me to the light of the sun The bright light burned at first But the feeling of the warm light on my skin made everything else insignificant I was on my way to fulfill my purpose This is what I was made for I can't let them down Flying high in the sky, crossing the fence moving toward my target Until I reached it. I finally hit it It was me The first one who did it The first one who completed the mission The first one who hurt them The one who killed them
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夜鸟 Night Birds 西川 Xichuan -Recited by Shine-
残夜将尽的时候 When the last piece of the night is about to leave 是些什么颜色的鸟 What color are these birds 掠过城市的上空 flitting over the firmament above the city 它们的叫声响成一处 their songs harmonize as one 它们离梦想近一些 they are closer to dreams 它们属于幸福的族类 they are species belong to happiness 是些什么颜色的鸟 What color are they 带着它们的秘密 flying away with their secrets 和遗忘飞离 carrying their oblivion 夏天树叶的声响 neither the rustle of the summer leaves 秋天溪水的声响 nor the sound of the autumn stream
比不上夜鸟的叫声 is as beautiful as the songs of the night birds 我却看不到它们的 But I cannot see their 身体，也许它们 bodies, probably they 只是一些幸福的声音 are just the sound of blessedness
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Two Poems Abiral
Afterwards we went out onto the terrace. The softly glowing softly glowing lamplight softly burning flames soft warm glow. The wind still whistled around us. It was still cold. It was still so cold. The city sparkled cold cold sparkle the city lay cold and sparkling before us. We sat lined up against the wind huddled or I was huddled against the wind cold but with softÂwarmlyÂglowing lamps lamps on the tables
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on the tables between us as the city, cold and sparkling lay before us.
If there was a moon that night, it was smudged into the clouds like a charcoal face gone wrong. In the rustle of the leaves, there was a certain hushedness, like a pinch of fear: the wind motioned rather than blew through the trees; the grass grew silent; all breathing stopped.
seeing everything and still looking; he's under the bed now; they've realized something's wrong; lie still, don't move, lie still, don't make a sound, lie still, stop breathing.
In a brightly-lit room, all glass and grey carpets, work went on; the soft thump of passing footsteps, the quiet buzz of murmured conversations.
Somewhere, a door opens; somewhere there's a giggle; people don't blink very much. It's still a quiet room; it's still the laptops that are doing most of the talking; it's still just the scratch of pencil on paper.
Yes, I saw you coming out of the trees. Yes, I froze, just as I did all those years ago. Yes, there was a lingering mist in the air. In the corner, by the sliding glass doors, a little boy holds his breath and puts his arms around his knees against his chest. Outside, they're setting up for something. Can it see them? In the other room, it sniffs against the walls, snarls at the toys left behind on the floor. You need to be quiet, quieter. Here it comes now; sniffing, leering,
Yes, I froze, just as you did all those years ago. No, I was not afraid of you. Yes, the sky was a soggy grey. In the middle of doing something - perhaps he's playing, talking to himself; perhaps he's just stood up to move something across the room - he'll suddenly see it in the garden, and he'll freeze. (It's beautiful.) It's appeared at the far end and it's just seen him; it freezes as he does. They'll
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share a moment of frozenness, both acknowledging the other's eternity. The scratching stops but everything else goes on; the tapping-clickingmurmur-buzz and the jangle of the airconditioner's wheezing breath. But the scratching stops, and the breathing stops, and the melting stops; sloshslosh down and around puddles and buckets of drip; light-footed stroll down the dry grey stretch. And too soon, the moment is shattered. Glitter falls from the sky and paints the tops of trees; too high up to climb; too high up to see, even. The moon is smudged with glitter and clouds; they all float away and back again in-between the highest branches, teasingly certain that the night is dark and wispy.
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