June 4, 2012

  • I haven’t written in so long, I forced myself to write something. Results:

     

    like a poison my body instinctively rejects,
    thoughts of you surge seeking expulsion,
    resisting my desperate attempts to swallow and stomach the bitter mix
    of bile and reality

    survival is hard, it is pain and struggle’s father and child.
    survival is the reward and punishment

    these days, I’ve been dreaming of beauty without vanity,
    but such a concept is planar, one dimensional,
    for light without shadow eliminates depth.
    beauty without vanity is too simple, too inanimate,
    so why do I dream of it and punish myself for what still exists?
    I pity vanity–misunderstood and underappreciated, and
    vanity returns the favor, finding me blind to that which I can feel the absence of,
    torn by illusion and truth alike

June 3, 2012

  • The Top 10 Relationship Words That Aren’t Translatable Into English

    Here are my top ten words, compiled from online collections, to describe love, desire and relationships that have no real English translation, but that capture subtle realities that even we English speakers have felt once or twice. As I came across these words I’d have the occasional epiphany: “Oh yeah! That’s what I was feeling…” 

     

    Mamihlapinatapei (Yagan, an indigenous language of Tierra del Fuego): The wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to start. 

    Oh yes, this is an exquisite word, compressing a thrilling and scary relationship moment. It’s that delicious, cusp-y moment of imminent seduction. Neither of you has mustered the courage to make a move, yet. Hands haven’t been placed on knees; you’ve not kissed. But you’ve both conveyed enough to know that it will happen soon… very soon.

     

    Yuanfen (Chinese): A relationship by fate or destiny. This is a complex concept. It draws on principles of predetermination in Chinese culture, which dictate relationships, encounters and affinities, mostly among lovers and friends.

    From what I glean, in common usage yuanfen means the “binding force” that links two people together in any relationship. 

    But interestingly, “fate” isn’t the same thing as “destiny.” Even if lovers are fated to find each other they may not end up together. The proverb, “have fate without destiny,” describes couples who meet, but who don’t stay together, for whatever reason. It’s interesting, to distinguish in love between the fated and the destined. Romantic comedies, of course, confound the two.

     

    Cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese): The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone’s hair.

     

    Retrouvailles (French):  The happiness of meeting again after a long time. 

    This is such a basic concept, and so familiar to the growing ranks of commuter relationships, or to a relationship of lovers, who see each other only periodically for intense bursts of pleasure. I’m surprised we don’t have any equivalent word for this subset of relationship bliss. It’s a handy one for modern life.

     

    Ilunga (Bantu): A person who is willing to forgive abuse the first time; tolerate it the second time, but never a third time.

    Apparently, in 2004, this word won the award as the world’s most difficult to translate. Although at first, I thought it did have a clear phrase equivalent in English: It’s the “three strikes and you’re out” policy. But ilunga conveys a subtler concept, because the feelings are different with each “strike.” The word elegantly conveys the progression toward intolerance, and the different shades of emotion that we feel at each stop along the way.

    Ilunga captures what I’ve described as the shade of gray complexity in marriages—Not abusive marriages, but marriages that involve infidelity, for example.  We’ve got tolerance, within reason, and we’ve got gradations of tolerance, and for different reasons. And then, we have our limit. The English language to describe this state of limits and tolerance flattens out the complexity into black and white, or binary code. You put up with it, or you don’t.  You “stick it out,” or not.

    Ilunga restores the gray scale, where many of us at least occasionally find ourselves in relationships, trying to love imperfect people who’ve failed us and whom we ourselves have failed.

     

    La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.

    When I came across this word I thought of “unrequited” love. It’s not quite the same, though. “Unrequited love” describes a relationship state, but not a state of mind. Unrequited love encompasses the lover who isn’t reciprocating, as well as the lover who desires. La douleur exquise gets at the emotional heartache, specifically, of being the one whose love is unreciprocated.

     

    Koi No Yokan (Japanese): The sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall into love. 

    This is different than “love at first sight,” since it implies that you might have a sense of imminent love, somewhere down the road, without yet feeling it. The term captures the intimation of inevitable love in the future, rather than the instant attraction implied by love at first sight.

     

    Ya’aburnee (Arabic): “You bury me.” It’s a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person, because of how difficult it would be to live without them.

    The online dictionary that lists this word calls it “morbid and beautiful.” It’s the “How Could I Live Without You?” slickly insincere cliché of dating, polished into a more earnest, poetic term.  

     

    Forelsket: (Norwegian):  The euphoria you experience when you’re first falling in love.

    This is a wonderful term for that blissful state, when all your senses are acute for the beloved, the pins and needles thrill of the novelty. There’s a phrase in English for this, but it’s clunky. It’s “New Relationship Energy,” or NRE.

      

    Saudade (Portuguese): The feeling of longing for someone that you love and is lost. Another linguist describes it as a “vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist.”

    It’s interesting that saudade accommodates in one word the haunting desire for a lost love, or for an imaginary, impossible, never-to-be-experienced love. Whether the object has been lost or will never exist, it feels the same to the seeker, and leaves her in the same place:  She has a desire with no future. Saudade doesn’t distinguish between a ghost, and a fantasy. Nor do our broken hearts, much of the time.

     
     by Pamela Haag from http://bigthink.com/ideas/41152?page=all
  • ma chérie, the beauty of language

    如果你可接受,我愿意属于你

    will you?

    yes, etched in the bones of the lover of my dreams,

    we both lose in consummate surrender

    of ownership of every last theory, thought, thing,

    save those true engravings

    and so, I dream, die,

    I disappear

    still loving, still in love.

    Will you?

     

    non temere

    ma chérie, tu m’appartiens

May 13, 2012

  • I will love you fiercely

    Do you know the meaning of fierce? I imagine your joy upon taking me home, laying me upon your bed, and calling me yours. But every joy has a price, and while my purpose  is to belong to you, you must also be mine. You must love me with my own passion as I love you, with flames flattering our nights together and sorrow souring the time we are apart. For I will love you fiercely. I will wait, will swallow my pride, will sacrifice, will love unconditionally. Fiercely. The kind of love will rip a person’s ribs apart and expose his weakly quivering heart. Will you let me reach in and pump yours with my own blood and passion? How hard will you love me? Hardly by comparison? Do you know what is to fight for instead of against? From there comes true strength, true love. If you believe in what it means to be human, then yes, I will belong to you.

May 1, 2012

  • Me @ Now

    Once upon a time,
    I though I saw a haze on the world,
    but it’s just my eyes.
    Lighter than the pupil’s deep,
    but darker than the light,
    sight is so hard to see, hard to feel,
    hard to tell.
    Where is the world I live in? I can’t find it.

    Clump by clump,
    I’ve torn out my hair
    and balded, good.
    I will make the outside match the inside.
    Vanity and greed are bare,
    and I am balding.

    My character is morphing
    ino the wrong story.
    Fairy tale turned fable.
    Born Cinderella,
    I’ve become the evil stepsister.

    I don’t know how to turn,
    and I’d rather be a pumpkin.
    Curious, I tasted, and now I’m stuck,
    a cat slaughtered slowly
    by filthy, filthy secrets,
    starting from the tongue.

    Where is my savior?
    Someone to scream STOP!
    so that I would hear and be saved.
    At this point, abandonment
    feels like the answer.

    Crisis he said, intrigued.
    Then he said I bored him, and left,
    back to his condo,
    back to his upper east side pedigree,
    back to his single world of superiority,
    but he’s right.
    I’m bored and lost,
    at a crack before the crisis.

    STOP! I scream, for the love of God, STOP!
    But my ears are hazy too,
    and instead, I wrote a bad poem today.
    Me made of bad poetry.
    While my parents want me to be nonfiction,
    I’m still a fable
    and evil stepsisters never make it to the ending.

April 26, 2012

  • Love at First Sight on the 7

    You could tell he loved her by the way he touched his face to her hair, eyes closed. His arm around her waist protected her from the push and pull of inertia on the barreling train, but even as he shut out inertia from his girl with his embrace, she only felt his gentleness. He was handsome, young, and had a look of someone with strong, admirable convictions. At first, I could only see her hair, which was dark like mine, long like mine, and layered unlike mine. Then I saw her nails, not long and fake, but painted and glittering. I wondered if he liked the way her nails looked. Then I saw her hands, white and delicate, extremely feminine. She never stepped out of his arms and held on to his neck, his back, his waist, as long as it was a part of him, she would hold on. His eyes closed for a long time, but I doubted he was sleeping. I imagined he was simply bathing in bliss, in love. What a lucky guy. What a lucky girl. When she turned her face to his chest, her profile showed thick mascara and a tall nose. I thought she would be Asian, especially since he looked like a half Asian. He had a sharpness characteristic of Caucasians, but they were softly smoothened, as if by an artists gentle fingers. No, as they sat down, I saw her face and she was beautiful.

    I snuck glances at them as much as I could. It wasn’t hard to realize that I was in love with their love. It was love at first sight. No one else shined through the crowd the way they did, but as brightly as they shined, they were blind to their own brilliance. That is bliss–amnesia-oblivion-inducing bliss.  

    And then they kissed, and I could not tear my eyes away. In the simple contact of their lips, they proved their purpose. Lips are not for sensing, not for speaking, not for eating, but for connecting. These are my lips, those are your lips, and this is our kiss. The air that has sunken to the depths of my lungs and nourished the life in my fingertips will now enter through your lips and permeate your body. In this way, I share with you life.  
    They were just reorienting themselves as separate beings when the train stopped at the final station. We walked off and lost each other in the crowd, only one of us left heartbroken. 

March 21, 2012

  • rash

    His wrinkles are my maze, sinking me deeper with time, turning me left, right, dancing me into his eyes. Darling, enfold my tenderness into your leathery trap. I’m half buried in you already. You have but to smile, to stretch those vining lines once more, and there I will settle to decompose.

     

    And then those pastel, speckled lips haunt my twilight dreams. Those lips have enshrined bliss beneath its roofs. Those lips have sanctified the unpleasant touching of saliva slicked tongues into the lust-flushing plunge of flesh into flesh. Those lips…I would run and swim and fly to die in worship of the taste of softness. Those lips taught me

     

    love is torment and the state of stuck. I am in love because I am mired in your muck. The viscosity of your memory clings in spite of gravity’s outrage, binding me to the past while forbidding mobility. Your muck is my love, and it has chewed, swallowed, digested my freedom.

March 16, 2012

  • Cold Rhymes

    He has taken my art, my poetry

    by breaking my heart,

    leaving me bereft,

    so lonely.

     

     

    Truth: beauty hurts more than bitterness

    like a shivering maiden in winter’s dress.

    Death’s sapphire, those azure lips,

    pale and frosted in numbness,

    curve smilelessly. Stretching, they rip.

    He who sees pain beneath her bloodless skin

    sees beauty exposed by her satin trim.

March 10, 2012

  • Erasure

    Your streak across my past
    so rich and deep
    tricked me into inappropriate boldness,
    into extending the brush
    into my future.
    there you were,
    a strong, heavy blaze
    in my future,
    but I suffer from indiscretion,
    and I’ve scrubbed at my dire mistake,
    never succeeding in erasure of
    this scarlet fantasy

    and then

    a miracle
    I am clean
    no more residual of you when I look forward
    so fresh, clean
    finished,
    finally

March 8, 2012

  • Spring

    The world is melting into pools that invade the sidewalks,

    turning dull asphalt surfaces into gaping skies,

    mirroring that which has not yet melted.