Best Translates Poems
*Dedicated to Andrea Dietrich, Caleb Smith, Isaiah Zerbst, Anne Currin, and Eileen Ghali
I'll start with illustrious Andrea,
our talented sonneteer.
She peppers our poems with kindness,
with comments so bright and sincere.
Next, we have Mr. McCaleb,
our sweet gent from Arkansas
From KOs to boogers to nature,
he writes without limit or flaw.
Now, I must turn to Isaiah,
the master of meter and rhyme.
His poems are most reminiscent
of forgotten ages in time.
I cannot forget our Queen Anne,
who graces us all with her songs.
Her lyrics tug at our heartstrings,
yet she's upbeat, lovely, and strong.
Last but not least is Eileen,
the most spirited poetess.
She translates feeling to verse
and writes with such skill and finesse.
"Notes on a Wrist"
the pulse felt
under nibs
of fingertips
translates a life
the semicolan
stretches like
the devil
hungers
it can
wait a long time
eternally feeding you
drip by drip
ever present
the missing
hovers, like a
hummingbird
never sits
beak and feet
wet in the detail
tasting the temptation
to cut strings
fleeting
and fickle
like a child
switches graces
the keys
black and white
the forest contains
all your precious things
hard to leave
leaves, all their
autumn winter stories
sentences written
and spent
like veins
singing stinging
the body of work
temporary rent
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"There is a fable in the forest
whispered by branches as they blow,
a tale about the truth of leaving
things that no longer help you grow.
For on the surface it looks simple;
like you need only lace your boots,
but there is nothing quite as painful
as untangling your roots.
And proof is found in tree stumps
of the price some pay to flee,
that they would cut
their lives in half,
to cut the time before they're free.
Yet from the little left behind
Life has been known to grow again,
for unless you take your roots,
a part of you will still remain."
Persian Haiku 2
What a gorgeous view!
You and the flower garden,
I'm the butterfly.
Your eyes, the ocean;
The ocean colors your eyes.
Your hair is the wave.
Moon on the ocean,
Your face is the reflection.
Always be alone.
I live with my heart,
All flowers are beautiful,
I love daffodils.
What a discussion,
I had with all my flowers.
Their breath smells nice.
3/20/2018 Haloo
Note: Iranians/Persians Celebrate today, the first day of spring as their new year. We call this day Norooz or Nowruz, it translates as New Day. From my family to yours, Norooz Mobarak ....Happy New Year.
Donald Duck Chancellor of this fowl kingdom
wearing an upside down smile's raging hypocrite backwards
this deranged Duck twitters to and fro as his unhinged subjects
unwittingly applaud him onto a victory march that never appears equal
except in his alternate universe of oneness
Calamity Jane perchance is on the horizon
while war looms close by this feather prides himself
on his big show asking for a mirror to check his orange glow
he jokes and preens fading in and out so it would seem logical
tearing down all good morals he alienates with his constant magic escapades
Sleight of hand reflections move
with this fake news it gets exposed
the big top rotates under an eclipsed lie
fire breathing condemning all those against his way
entering the arena for the next late show
Now Big Bird has been caught fibbing
just when they thought everyone was safe
getting off the band wagon or so to speak
Just signing the pact with her feathered friend
letting on they are getting on so well for the world to see buddies
Almost joined at the hip like in their loyalty reigning over truth
in this ungodly circus of the vainest sort
Where the funfair clowns abound
under fabrications an orangutan watches on
beating his chest in an ape like manner and solid hands
he has no way to express words
puffing and panting swaggers
living under thee umbrella protected from the truth’s influence
Alvin and his chipmunks sing the national anthem
while the confederate flag waves goodbye over democracy
begins the three little pigs stages as they enter the building
their houses from clay flamed with truth
ransomed for vanities sake no good ending can come
Earthquakes separate the earth
floods come with grave disaster
hurricanes winds rise from the greatest source
even this cannot deter or distract this awful Duck
one mission under a selfish chant of
quack a doodle quack, quack a doodle quack, quack a doodle quack
which only translates to me
only me, me only me, me only me!
a co written piece by Donna Loughman and Liam Mcdaid
Donald Duck Chancellor of this fowl kingdom
wearing an upside down smile's raging hypocrite backwards
this deranged Duck twitters to and fro as his unhinged subjects
unwittingly applaud him onto a victory march that never appears equal
except in his alternate universe of oneness
Calamity Jane perchance is on the horizon
while war looms close by this feathers pride himself
on his big show asking for a mirror to check his orange glow
he jokes and preens fading in and out so it would seem logical
tearing down all good morals he alienates with his constant magic escapades
Sleight of hand reflections move
with this fake news it gets exposed
the big top rotates under an eclipsed lie
fire breathing condemning all those against his way
entering the arena for the next late show
Now Big Bird has been caught fibbing
just when they thought everyone was safe
getting off the band wagon or so to speak
Just signing the pact with her feathered friend
letting on they are getting on so well for the world to see buddies
Almost joined at the hip like in their loyalty reigning over truth
in this ungodly circus of the vainest sort
Where the funfair clowns abound
under fabrications an orangutan watches on
beating his chest in an ape like manner and solid hands
he has no way to express words
puffing and panting swaggers
living under thee umbrella protected from the truth’s influence
Alvin and his chipmunks sing the national anthem
while the confederate flag waves goodbye over democracy
begins the three little pigs stages as they enter the building
their houses from clay flamed with truth
ransomed for vanities sake no good ending can come
Earthquakes separate the earth
floods come with grave disaster
hurricanes winds rise from the greatest source
even this cannot deter or distract this awful Duck
one mission under a selfish chant of
quack a doodle quack, quack a doodle quack, quack a doodle quack
which only translates to me
only me, me only me, me only me!
a co written piece by Donna Loughman and Liam McDaid
Windswept
Over sheet music, harmonious movement of sand.
Droplets of rain dance - time swooning on sea and on land.
Cupid’s arrows climb, descend strings of the violin.
Heartthrobs, side by side, in best dress, on seasonal spin.
Fingers up and down long necks, in obeisance of song,
as bow ties glide along knightly, mounting music, strong.
Ultra concentration as the conductor gyrates,
creates, weights, debates, elongates, plaits and translates.
Unity in mass, jealousy laid aside, except
for the audience who longs to climb inside, windswept.
Ebb and flow of tears, patiently are kept and foreswear
allegiance to current marriage with hasty prayer.
Silver fox-french horns, don’t withhold their breaths, breasts pounding.
With lilt, rapturous, they’d give up their lives, resounding.
White pages, pristine ties, good looking manners of tides.
Hourglass climax expires. Silence shatters. Faith abides.
When symphonic waves crash on soundless shores,
Listen to the cadence of silent seas,
He's a virtuoso of voiceless woes,
orchestrating pre-written faith, at ease.
For every tainted tide, transpires a tune,
If you lend your ear to the unsung sighs,
perhaps sonorous currents too would croon,
amidst ringing reasons that fall and rise.
There's a fine song for every shipwrecked heart,
entrenched in rhymes from the soul of sand dunes.
Healing comes through searing sirens as art,
rhapsodizing themes of roaring runes.
As waters whistle, hushed air ricochets,
resonating the melody of a dulcet dove,
breeze beneath ripples rewinds and replays,
in divine dialects through language of love.
Whilst chorus of crickets swiftly unfold,
allow nature to compose musings of the ocean.
Words can only whisper deep scars untold,
in poetic crescendo, that translates intense emotions.
the magnetic allure
of a crescent moon
appeals to the isolation
of my soul from worldly ties
I relish the joy of gratitude
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Gogyohka is a poetry form developed by Enta Kusakabe
in Japan and translates literally to "five-line poem."
It is an off-shoot of the tanka form. It has no syllable rules,
and does not usually rhyme. Preferably, each line would be
a separate, usually short, phrase.
The Crescent City
Ancestral roots are calling me
to Crescent City near the sea.
A city with its past displayed
where long ago the pirates played.
The glowing lights of Vieux Carré;
Café du Monde’s belov’d beignets,
and Creole foods prepared with flare;
it’s been so long since I’ve been there.
The Cajuns live life with pizazz
and everywhere sweet sounds of jazz.
These dreams are where I long to be,
this Crescent City near the sea.
December 19, 2022
Vieux Carré (pronounced VOO kah-RAY) translates to “old square “ in English. The French Quarter, the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, is referred to as the “Vieux Carré.”
Beignet (pronounced bin-YEAH) is a French pastry.
"It was a mistake", she said.
A tiny life swiped in seconds as
gods creation is rendered a
mere cluster of cells.
Returned back to heaven
hoping the return policy
wouldn't deny.
It was a mistake; a stifled cry
A lifetime of progress,
innovation, and memories down
the drain.
The notorious "what if"
squashed with plan b; no hopes
of a future.
A stifled cry
She could have cured cancer or
delivered world peace.
She could've fed the hungry
and housed the poor.
She could've been a Honors
Harvard medical school
graduate and your pride and
joy.
None are the magical christmas
mornings, first days of school,
or birthdays.
Terminated are the memorable
first steps and momentous
coos calling for "mamma".
No more possibilities. Now a
stifled cry.
"It was a mistake", she said.
A moment of carelessness and
selfishness translates into a life
lost.
Permanent.
Sent back into the arms of god.
An easy way out. A stifled cry.
The Mighty One
(A Description of “Scene du deluge”)
He straddles jutting rocks beneath a pall
of sky. Beneath is swirling water, and
the crooked arm of one lone tree is all
he’s found to cling to with his left curled hand.
An older man, who also grasps the tree,
upon the young man’s sturdy back is borne.
His legs are dangling. Awful weight is he
for him who stands exposed, his clothing torn.
His wife hangs from his other hand. One breast
is clutched by her small babe, and from her strains
another child to keep from dark waves’ crest.
The burden of them all - one man sustains!
Can he, mere mortal, thwart their cruel demise?
Stark terror holds the answer in his eyes.
**Many years ago I visited the Louvre, and there I beheld a picture by Girodet of the romantic
era . This painting stood out for me because of its depiction of a family in such huge peril
that they were totally dependant on one man and only his strength could save them all. If
you copy and paste this link, I hope you might see this stunning picture. The picture's name
translates to "Scene of a Flood"
http://www.postershop.com/Girodet-De-Roussy-Trioson-Anne-Louis/Girodet-De-Roussy-
Trioson-Anne-Louis-Scene-De-Deluge-1165956.html
What magic lies in a kiss
that it can enchant the heart;
and imbue the soul with bliss?
The measure of it is such;
that it fuels emotions,
with feeling beyond its touch.
To kiss is to impart love;
sharing sensual feelings
and passions lovers dream of.
It's an intimate embrace;
a feeling many compare
to that of floating in space.
Like the tenderest caress;
it's physically stirring
and sexual; when lips press.
An unspoken promise made;
a kiss translates into love,
as your feelings get conveyed.
Song Lyrics I wrote to a melody played by vionlinist Diana Yakawa who's Father was among the 520 who died when Japanese Airlines flight 123 crashed into a mountainside on August 12, 1985. She was born 5 weeks later on Sep. 16th. Shiaumanu Taiyo translates to "The Never Setting Sun". her performance is on YouTube. (Diana Yukawa/Shizumanu Taiyo) It's haunting.
Your blood runs through me, it runs like rivers
that feed the mountains where last you lay.
You never held me, but I have held you,
in every sweet dream, you run to me.
Into the twilight, off to horizons,
where tearful memories, are yet to fade -
but now the promises of never setting suns
will always beckon me, and light my way
and always light my way...
37 second interlude
Your blood runs through me, it runs like rivers
that feed the mountains where last you lay.
You never held me, but I have held you,
in every sweet dream, you run to me...
Unburdened by mass,
star born
photons
hurtle
through vacuum voids.
They reach a planet
where green continents swim
in blue oceans.
It is night. A woman
looks up at the sky.
The photons travel
through the gelatinous matter
of her eye and die
on her retina,
sparking electric pulses
that race
along the optic nerve,
and her miraculous brain
translates:
I see a star.
She is not made of atoms,
but aftermaths—
the kind that linger in a room long after
the lights remember to flicker back on.
Her spine?
An origami of fallen yesterdays,
creased by collapse,
but folded forward into flight.
They call it resilience,
but she knows better—
it’s architecture,
a cathedral of nerve built from
"this will not break me,"
hummed on repeat until it didn’t.
She speaks fluent scar.
Not in pity,
but in translation.
She translates grief into gardens,
anger into architecture,
your silence into a symphony
with minor keys,
because sadness, too, deserves an audience.
Her empathy is not soft.
It is surgical.
It sees you,
sutures you,
and leaves you with just enough scar
to remember you survived.
And her creativity?
It’s less coloring-book, more quantum mechanics.
She rearranges particles of pain
into poetry,
invents emotions that haven’t been named yet,
spins metaphors out of moonlight
and missed calls.
She is the punchline of a cosmic joke
you didn’t know you were telling—
a glitch in the matrix
that decided to build a garden in the code.
Not here to be understood,
but to unmake the question.
Not here to fit—
but to fracture the mold
and plant sunflowers in the cracks.
She is not your mirror.
She is your prism.
Try to define her—
and she will refract.