Long Bilingual Poems
Long Bilingual Poems. Below are the most popular long Bilingual by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bilingual poems by poem length and keyword.
October seventeenth ninety sixty one ...
Born sixty one years ago,
the follow poem from your bro
transmitted courtesy flagship
named Jacques-Yves Cousteau
constituting countless ones and zeroes
instantaneously traversing cyberspace
as packeted, framed dataflow
binary digits bit of information
to acknowledge when
thee transitioned being an embryo
(approximately the second
to eighth week after fertilization)
approximately nine months prior,
whose birth marked debut
of bouncing daddy's little girl,
whose inquisitiveness nourished
birthed perception buzzfeeding
capital one earthlinked baby
fostering, kickstarting, and
orchestrating cognitive aptitude,
who throughout storied existence,
which kudos ye
proudly promulgate to and fro
hither and yon across
social media platforms
understandably, opportunistically, and
humbly letting family and friends
across the webbed wide world
know amazing accomplishments,
when ye did initially grow
from being precocious genetic pedigree
into a whip smart self confident
globe trotter, whose curriculum vitae
dwarfs (by powers of seven)
feeble accomplishments of mine,
went thee invested with a heigh-ho
positive state of mind
every endeavor undertaken
(in one physically gruelling instance)
biking, hiking, riding
to your private Idaho
(fast as a B-52)
versus humdrum life of one common Joe,
whose heightened perception
aside from singing the praises
of admiration toward youngest sister
after countless years, he failed to know
about her trials and tribulations
exercising your potential to the maximum
invariably feeling dog tired
with a dose of lumbago
thrown in for good measure
nevertheless adept as bilingual person
quite helpful travelling
to Spanish speaking countries
during your roaring twenties off to Mexico,
and just recently taking a jaunt
to Portugal donned accruing
vibrant sense and sensibility
treasuring richly pocketing nouveau
memories attracting natural outgrow
of ardent followers, whether online
or in flesh, who clamor for selfie photo
with thee and steadfast husband
unlike henpecked wife of mine
enjoyable as pesky miss Quito
who pesters me to get off computer
so she can binge watch Netflix
hence adieu as I hop on my cubii
off to complete
another stationary roadshow.
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
Who are you most longing to become?
How we answer this is different for an ancient rooted tree
than for a recent immigrant
searching for a niche of stable self-sufficiency.
Who we already have become together
feels more important to thriving groves of WiseElders
than to adolescent immigrants
actively learning creolizing bilingual skills
still coming together for survival.
So too, offering Sanctuary,
becoming Sanctuary,
inviting bicameral Sanctuary,
is rooted in Green complex nutrients
for feeding,
and warm wet watering
whispering easier
cozier
more accessible nutrients
for everyone--
but especially appreciated
by more recent emigrants
flowing into a new garden of hospitality,
of multicultural cooperation,
of shared cooperative residence
and patterns of safe,
sometimes exciting, new transport
toward healthiest wealth.
A gardener's intent
to both offer and share sanctuary
may provoke well-nurtured gratitude
in a recent annual immigrant,
but a more sleepy and self-satisfied entitlement
in mature seniority of perennials,
Yet, primordially feeling and speaking,
we are all immigrants newly becoming together
with each new dawn,
and determined to cooperatively rest
in grateful dreams
with each renewing dusk.
Who are we most belonging within
by becoming Green Sanctuary
together?
Some guilds of mutual interest
and investment
invite growing a cooperative sanctuary for food,
fuel,
fiber
Other teams choose cooperatively owned and managed shelter,
gardens,
farms,
transporting cars and trucks
and bikes and horses,
Others focus on cooperatively owned and managed soil,
observing that democratically co-invested compost,
like capital,
fertilizes healthy savings in a nutritional bank
for cooperative food constituents.
And so it goes,
whether Republican or Democrat,
Libertarian or Green,
Who we want to become together
is more cooperatively resilient,
more robustly compassionate
and co-empowering,
so less aloof
alone
smug and self-satisfied
about our competitive win/lose economic
and partisan histories of colonization;
When, truth become remembered,
we are all reborn naked emigrants
and needy immigrants.
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
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
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
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.
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
"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
Phone rings
I will miss you, will you miss me?
No
No? But I may never see you again
(Feelings too young to understand
My ears grew hot
My face grew hot
My stomach twists
Frustration? Guilt? Probably guilt
I think it was guilt
No. Fear. Most likely fear)
I will miss you
Lies
You are a liar.
You are a liar, Father
You are a liar.
And now I am a liar too.
¿Por qué mis sueños se rompen?
Is it your fault
I think it was your fault
Maybe mine
Or was it hers
His, hers, mine, yours, its
What possession is to blame?
I blame, I blame, I blame
Where are you?
What are you doing?
I will stalk no more
I will stalk no more
I will stalk no more
But I want to know if you are alive
Are you alive?
No hay nada más difícil que vivir sin ti
Pero no puedo recordarte y soy muerto
I am not bilingual
I am not
Did I grow?
Was I supposed to grow?
I sometimes dream that I can fly
The winds carry me through
But sometimes, I forget how to land
With the ground far below my feet
Everyone left behind
I fear that I will drift
Too high
Where it’s cold
And I can no longer breath
And then I awake
I am one
I am one
I am two
Sometimes with a smile
But mostly with fear
Anxiety and one
Is it my fault?
Is it my fault?
Is it my fault?
Do I let you do what you do
Did and will do
Me gustaría conocerte
Mi corazón, mi corazón daña
Follow me
Follow me
But keep a foot away
I do not trust you
I trust too much
I never trusted
They will find out
All of them
They will know
Will they love you still?
Will they love me?
Stop stop stop
stop stop
Why did you stop?
What did I do?
¿Hacer a quién?
Put down the phone
Read me as you will
Read me
Read me
You are done
As are these lines.