Best Bilingual Poems
"When the Grim Reaper asked for my spirit,
I told him to take my poetic pen.
He walked away smiling, leaving me illiterate."
In the mystical wilderness of virtual poetry,
surrounded by metaphors that mystify my mind,
I've become a shadow of the poet I once knew.
Insecure with egotistical lame labels,
tormented by attention seeking tags,
irritated from imitative compliments.
Exhausted eyes sting, bloodshot from
reading an overuse of mumbo jumbo jargon.
On the edge of personification,
symbolic syllables burn all desire to scrutinize.
Sometimes there can be too many words,
sometimes not enough,
yet we veil the true meaning of our thoughts.
I guess there is an art to pretending,
yet I watch my artistry fade.
We weave webs turning the internal into external,
but I question whether I was ever a poet.
Pondering if my poems served a purpose.
I have lost patience for personal prose,
rhymes without rhythm sound so revolting,
the soul is sick of old fashioned sonnets.
as iambic pentameter has always been my enemy.
I hear alphabetic patrol sirens,
their ignorant judgment is a mockery to the bilingual.
An assassination of alliterations,
is causing a massacre of my muse.
There is a void in my verses,
which prevents me from roaming free.
My soul feels like a starless supernova,
a moonless sky drifting into a black hole,
as fatigued fingers become a mistress
to simple scribbles.
I yearn to be forever silent,
with no motive to write for a legacy,
so I've imprisoned my muse in an asylum.
I have lost passion to spill the ink from my quill,
so I no longer tend to the petals in my poetic garden.
I've found peace in the solitude of a blank canvas.
Silent One
15 February 2022
This is a true-life celebration of love ballad. A chance meeting on a Greek island becomes a whirlwind romance. From Athens’ vibrant Monastiraki markets to a Taverna where you can experience the lively traditional, passionate Greek culture and music.
Join Demetri and his spirited Sismo Dance Company to the strains of his Bouzouki. This Original bilingual (English/Greek) musical experience blends the magic of love at first sight with traditional and Mediterranean flair, to moonlit beaches, it’s a tribute to all those who’ve ever fallen in love fast, felt deeply, and dared to dream.
(YouTube, Subtitles in multiple languages)
(Simply click the Gear icon, choose your preferred language under 'Subtitles/CC'. Then click on 'Auto Translate.')
Come Closer To Me - Love at First Sight
LYRICS
COME CLOSER TO ME
Trelos ya sena
COME CLOSER, LOVE YOU TRUE,
Ella Konda mou na sou po,
MAY I HUG YOU,
Na s’angalayaso an boro,
I DANCED WITH YOU LAST NIGHT,
Ma ze sou horepsa egthes,
FOR ME YOU SEEMED SO RIGHT,
Agapi mou apo pou erthes?
COME CLOSER FOR IT IS MY AIM,
Ella Konda, na sou po,
TO TELL MY SECRET, THIS NO GAME,
To mistiko mou ella tho,
TO STAY WITH ME I ASK,
Thellou na zesume mazi.
ENJOY OUR YOUTH AND IN IT BASK.
Me tin igia mas ke krasi
WE WILL LOVE, KISS AND SIP FROM WINE,
Sta hili sou ena fili, se agapo toso poli,
AND WHILST WE DINE,
Ke an to potiri me krasi
IF A GLASS MAY FALL, BREAK AND SPILL,
Poh tay gee thee,
LET IT BE ON ME, IF IT WILL.
Na eme ego, ke ohi esee.
TOLD YOU THE SECRET TO MY HEART,
Goritsi mou, kseris ese to mystiko,
YOU WERE MY LOVE FROM THE START,
Apti tin argee, esouna ese.
YOU KNOW I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU, SO
Yati horis esena then boro,
FOREVER YOU’RE MY GAL AND ME YOUR BEAU.
Eeme trelos ya sena mono esena agapo.
TOLD YOU THE SECRET TO MY HEART,
Goritsi mou, kseris ese to mystiko,
YOU WERE MY LOVE FROM THE START,
Apti tin argee, esouna ese.
YOU KNOW I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU, SO
Yati horis esena then boro,
FOREVER YOU’RE MY GAL AND ME YOUR BEAU.
Eeme trelos ya sena mono esena agapo.
TO STAY WITH ME I ASK,
Me tin igia mas ke krasi
A bird, caged in jealous possession,
by silent assassins of suppression.
Fate took her voice, as she flew to be free,
now her songs are whispers of misery.
Is she a victim of reality,
drifting into realms of insanity.
Childhood trauma effects her mentally,
confused why humans act so venally.
Waiting for her loved ones to return home,
she's developed guardian angel syndrome.
Helping others, despite her own torment,
soothing their burdens whilst they lament.
Her bilingual tongue suffers in silence,
but at least her heart is safe from violence.
The Silent One
8 October 2020
This poem is not about me. I'm not a woman.
I have stuck to ten syllables, but I know the meter is not perfect.
Tongue Study
Tongues
Steady it wags
needing to know
more, about the
the very thing that
causes wars.
peace and pain.
I study my tongue.
Much has been said
about the tongue yet
how has it pertained
to my own.
My tongue has delivered
and served, it has given
and taken, it has blessed,
it has cursed.
It has been bitten,
and it has been written,
the tongue can be tied, twisted
curt, sweet, sharp, wagging or
bragging.
It may be your
native tongue
or foreign, it may be
exciting or boring.
If quiet is your tongue
"the cat may have it".
If you use your
tongue to speak ill
of the dead, you may,
challenge a force and
be cursing your life's course.
The tongue's confession's
may sweep out
dirty secrets from the
corners of your mind.
Wise words have fallen on death
ears, words smothered by pride.
truth escaped lying eyes.
Ignoring what you saw and
twisting what was heard.
Tongues may bond
with imbeciles or angels
forming positive
or negative energy.
Be careful, mind your tongue
it is closest to your own ears
and will affect you first, rather
before the others hear.
Be not at the mercy of
an imbecilic tongue
read their eyes
and duck the darts
about to be thrown.
Do not despise the
a foreign tongue
for it is the aptitude
of the brain, the tunnel
to his bilingual, do not
expect the champions,
to cater to the dunce,
or those who can barely
master his own tongue.
In general, I have concluded
whether you live by the sword or
stand on principals, I had to
learn to manage my tongue
as I would a loaded gun.
I will not justify my tongue
when I use its power for the wrong
and neither hold my piece,
to placate the sword of the unjust.
The real power is in
the righteousness
of the speaking tongue.
For those who live by
the sharp and swarded tongue
and wield words as death
blows to the innocent,
or those who are silent,
while others suffer.
May also die
by the mighty tongue,
or by the holding of it.!
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014
This morning I am glued to my TV,
for something has happened in DC!
I’m scratching my head.
Am I dreaming still in bed?
They are PRAISING the President on NBC!
I turn to CNN. It's all the same again!
From ear to ear Don Lemon wears a grin,
“...the President’s magnanimous...
a genius without animus...
In the next election he’s sure to win!"
WHAT?
Surely MSNBC will say something keen.
“The first lady should grace a magazine,”
says Chris Matthews all atingle,
“did you know she’s bilingual?”
The unobjective fawning is obscene!
Schumer and Pelosi toasting with champagne,
are heading Trump's re-election campaign!
The POTUS’s tweets
called, "poetry--like Keats"…
Has the planet gone completely insane?
At FOX News everyone is crying.
They’re shaking their fists and Oh-why-ing.
Hannity’s guzzling booze,
While Tucker sings the blues.
I wonder if pigs have started flying!
Something very strange has happened in DC!
And I am still glued to my TV,
uncertain if I woke
or if it’s all a joke…
The President simply switched from “R” to “D”!
January 31, 2019
Aimeriez vous une chevaline rouge
Composée de sucre d’orge?
(would you like a red horse made of barley sugar?)
Vous pourriez faire la race de
Plaines aux tires d’eponge.
(you could race across sponge toffee plains)
Vous amènera à un bosquet d’arbres
Faites de réglisses à la menthe
Ou des bariolé jujubes croissent au lieu de feuilles.
(would bring you to a grove of trees
Made of mint liquorices
Where multicolour jujubes grow instead of leaves).
For Debbie Guzzi's biLingual Poetry Contest
you wished for me to write something sweet, Debs:))
Sycamores certainly speak French, cypresses - ancient Greek, the Old Testament's olives are bilingual: they speak Hebrew and Aramaic. Birch is a Russian tree though growing in Canada. So small and frail (they wither abroad), already gone into a winter trance, she is silent but she is silent à la russe. That's how silent bears in dens are, that's how drunkards listen to the voice of the devils dissolved in their blood, that's how old believers pray, that's how a poet meditates on his faraway homeland and, finally, that's how silent my girlfriend was, accompanying me to the airport. What are we doing here, you and me, between fall and winter, at the crossroad of four Canadian corners?
a hush of partings
of pursed lips and lonely hearts…
we should go home birch
10.12.2019
December Or January Haibun Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
The end of a life
And the last of a line
None there to mourn her
But the priest and the pallbearers
(and the crows in the trees)
No tears for her passing
Only rain and howling wind
Cineres cineribus, pulverem pulveri
For Deb’s Bilingual contest
*Ashes to ashes, dust to dust/Cineres cineribus, pulverem pulveri
Cul du sac
Blood tears
Leaking
slowly
the empty face
emotions raped
red raindrops
fancy lollipops
empty glass
filling with sanguine color
drip
drip
drip
We are smiles
en chante
tous
les petits moulins rouges
tombe
casse
drink well from my veins
sleep in my tears
robbed of heart
faceless
fate has fermented
barrels of laughter
in the silent chamber
of broken dreams
Notes: Translations
Cul du sac = dead end
en chante = cheers
tous = all
Les petits moulins rouges = the little red windmills
tombe = to fall
casse = broken
Many have attempted bilingual art, music, song, film, and very few have had success, and yet for me, doing so is a bridge that joins the best of all cultures and heritages whichever they may be, so seeking less success, and more bridges to travel I carry on.
BILINGUAL CONFRONTATION
She entrée-ed into the room and it was all so déjà vue
Because her Quebecois wiggle was timed to match the tango
But she’d met her match with the senorita from Peru
Madre de dios - que Madonna! With eyes afire from the fandango.
They locked horns just after the siesta de toros
When les beaux gars were just relaxing from the dance
And they hair-pulled and cheek-scatched around the floor-os
To see who would command the beaux gars’ romance
Brigitte had a scalp-hold on Conchita and held it grimly
And the Peruvian princess had her claws full of French cheek.
Oh, for the gentlemen they always behaved so primly,
But in a fight their rough grasps could lock for a week
In an instant Brigitte snapped the beads of the princess
And there was Peruvian horror at the loss of the necklace
So the latina grabbed the earring of the Montrealaise
And it was snapping and grabbing in manner reckless
At last the toros woke up and the lutte des chattes ended
The Spanish senorita with arms around a toro
And the Quebecoise demoiselle with her lips locked
On a beau gars for today and maybe tomorrow
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . .
Note: These Spanish/French expressions are untranslatable, but
their equivalent meaning is given as follows: -
Madre de dios - que Madonna! = Holy mackerel - what a looker!
siesta de toros = snooze time for the drunken guys
les beaux gars = cool dudes
toros = guys ( hitherto drunk and asleep )
lutte des chattes = cat fight
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . .
Entered in Debbie Guzzi ‘s Contest Bi-Lingual Poetry
Pi (e) Day Sestina
being the recollection of a conversation between myself as I was trying to enjoy a piece of
pie and my suddenly irrational, demanding, and surprisingly bilingual stomach on 3/14
I really want a frosted sugar cookie right now.
Now, don’t think I’m loca
but if you don’t get me one I’m going to get Chuck
Norris to roundhouse kick you in the face. His lust
y pectorals: tan, hairy and torsional, will be but a blur in your memory. Never underestimate
the power of the one who can even make pi
a rational number. Oh irrational love of sugar cookies! I can almost taste the sweet buttery
goodness of the frost
ing melting in my mouth like the frost
y ice crystals busy changing states of matter now
on top of the piece of pie
hastily served to you before properly thawed at the loca
l diner, piled high with enough fake whipped cream to satiate even the lust
iest of appetites. “Who would chuck, even if they could chuck, would chuck
away such a flawless embodiment of pre-prepared, packaged, processed, passed off as
home-cooked goodness in favor of a stale cookie, and on Pi(e) Day nonetheless?” you chuck
le. That snide remark is deserving of the bestowal of my best Queen Frost
ine stare, you know, cold and queenly and vaguely reminiscent of the Candyland character
with the same name, whose (il)lust
riousness is matched solely (not only in beauty but also in sugar content) by that of a frosted
sugar cookie. I hope you (k)now
how to take a hint. No? Well, then get that pie-filled fork out of my face while I spell it out
for you. Loca
te a frosted sugar cookie for me pronto! This piece of pie
disgusts me! I don’t care that it’s pi
day! You’ve got 3.14 seconds to get me a frosted sugar cookie before I up-chuck
all over everything in this immediate loca
le! Don’t make me get all Frost
y the snowman on you now
and have a meltdown! Wow, I need to stop and take a deep breath. I’m making myself
extremely (f)lust
They are bilingual,
fluent in a paradoxical
intersection of a line and a cloud.
Each language has a distinct cadence,
a unique inflection.
They can jump over the discontinuity,
the differential between
derivative and derivative,
integral and integral.
They put the rhythm in "logarithm"
and could remove the "can't" from "secant"
if words were defined
at the point of intersection.
American citizens, no matter what their occupation,
would love to go overseas for a vacation.
For all those people who have never been out of the country,
obtain a passport and book a flight. There is so much to see.
Go to Europe, Asia, or South America.
For something more exotic, try Australia or Africa.
There are many countries pushing their tourist industry.
Take plenty of cash because they just love our money.
However, before you go, be sure to understand what they say.
Learning to speak their language provides for a better day.
There may be thieves and shysters ripping you off in every way.
They say if you speak two languages, you are bilingual.
If you understand three languages, you are trilingual.
If you speak only one language, you are an American.
Linguistics is needed for each traveling woman and man.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
1.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
I was born Carl Robert Halling at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road which runs through Shepherds Bush in west London and which in the mid 1960s served as one of the great centres of the Mod movement, whose dandified acolytes were infamous for their vanity and hedonism.
I was raised in nearby Bedford Park, a comparatively genteel district close to the largely working class area of South Acton.
My first school was the Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud, and by the time I was 4 years old, I was already bilingual.
I wasted little time at the Lycee in establishing a reputation as a troublemaker, a popular one admittedly, but a troublemaker nonetheless, constantly in trouble.
I was popular, that much is certain, not just with girls but boys too and blessed with a vivid imagination but I was a near impossible pupil which caused my poor mother a good deal of heartache, and on at least one occasion she drove me home in tears.
I seemed born to controversy, being impatient, disobedient, mischievous, remorselessly attention-seeking, a true imp of a child, on which the full force of the innate depravity of Man appeared to have landed.
At the same time, I was friendly, sincere and open, a good friend, and well-liked.
My Judo teacher at the Budokan in Hammersmith once told someone no doubt with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that whenever he heard me he always knew it was Saturday.
I was no less a trial in the quaint little back streets of suburban west London.
My roughness could hardly have been helped by the popular music of the times.
By the time it came for me to leave the Lycee my scholastic standing had improved a little, and after some months spent at Davies Preparatory School, I received the most glittering school report of my entire young life; and was actually declared an excellent pupil.
The man who puts kids in cages
Laughs at the folks it enrages
Whilst taxpayers bleed
Republicans need
Bilingual pedophile Pages