Skip to main content

Words / Mots / الفاظ

at first
there were words exchanged
between eyes
in the millions
they became emails
five in a day
four
three
two
one email of five paragraphs
four
three
two
one in a week
a month
a year
an eternity

*

d'abord
il y avait les mots échangés
entre les yeux
en millions
ils sont devenus des courriels
cinq d'un jour
quatre
trois
deux
un e-mail de cinq points
quatre
trois
deux
un dans une semaine
un mois
un an
une éternité

*

پہلے
الفاظ کی ادلا بدلہ ہوتی
چشم بچشم
لاکھوں کی تعداد میں
وے ایمیل بنے
روز کے پانچ
چار
تین
دو
ایک ایمیل پانچ دفعہ کی
چار
تین
دو
ایک ایمیل ہفتہ میں
مہینہ میں
سال میں
ازل میں

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Mother

Mother has many names. Anak Krakatau might be one of them, Or Uttarkashi or Qinghai, Haiti certainly is. She's the mother that swallowed Maui into her womb, the mother that disarmed Karna, who led Oedipus to sin. She plays pranks too, in that cheerful way unique to her. We find strange names to give them - tsunami, hurricane. Kalki is another name we've given her, for when she will be an old woman looking for some kind of elixir of youth. Perhaps some quack will mislead her to find it in our blood. She has a heart of gold they say - pure, molten lava, that sometimes erupts on her skin like a ripe pimple. She loves nothing more than the sound of babies crying - orphaned, bloodied, hungry, dying their carcasses feeding hyaenas. But hyaenas are her children too. But she is the green mother who feeds us, clothes us, protects us from the sun's ionizing radiation, we came from her loins, which is where we go.

Rat

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.