#poetry Tumblr posts

  • Auf einmal steht das Abreisedatum fest.
    Ebenfalls deutlich ist,
    Dass Vermissen bereits vorher beginnt,
    Während ich noch hier bin.
    Konkreter: Die Angst,
    Dass an all den Orten,
    Die man nicht vergessen kann,
    Erinnerungen, die dort im Gegenzug
    Verbleiben, so leicht sind,
    Dass sie verfliegen, ehe
    Die Zugvögel nach dem Winter zurückkehren.
    Gedanken, die bis jetzt leise waren,
    Wie ein Zwicken, das verstummt, wenn man
    Sich nicht den Kopf darüber zerbricht.
    Aber eben trotzdem da ist,
    Wie ein Widerspruch zwischen dem,
    Was man braucht und dem was man will.
    Wenn das Schließen von Wunden Schmerz
    Verursacht, weil Haut auch eine Grenze ist
    Und südlich der Grenze ein vages Fragment
    von einem selbst Begraben ist.
    Orte sind nur Orte,
    Die selbst den Schmerz des Abschieds nicht
    Spüren und ehe man sich versieht,
    Ändert das Wort “Heimat” seine Bedeutung.
    Man kann nicht viel tun,
    Außer Unsicherheit mit Hoffnung im Zaum halten,
    Dass hinter dem Schlussstrich mehr bleibt
    Als Phantomschmerz,
    Dass man kein kompletter Tor ist,
    Sein Herz offenzuhalten,
    Auch wenn man bereits
    mit einem Fuß zur Tür raus ist.
    Hoffnung,
    Auf die Gnade, dass der Teil von einem,
    Der bei diesem Abschied stirbt,
    An jenem Ort, auch weiterhin zu Hause ist.

    Kerim Mallée



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  • The pious proceed to our remembrance , while you prefer your estrangement .

    You have heard their progress while squandering your own reward .

    If you desire the company of the pious , open your heart to certainty .

    And if you would love a lovely outcome , then exercise your patience .

    If the nectar of intimate communion with Us delights you , pour away your liquor .

    If the sound of Our remembrance appeals to you , then break your flute .

    Take heed from the transformation (that takes place) in the dust and the shroud .

    Contemplate the tribulation and remember that company .

    Nothing stands between you and these evils but the sighting of the [last] farewell and loss .



    by : Salahuddin ‘Ali Abdul-Mawjood

    #poetry #Salahuddin 'Ali Abdul-Mawjood #Islam
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  • Love poem

    How did you sleep?

    How is your morning?

    Did you wake up smiling?

    I miss you so much, it is like i wake up mourning, and i know we cannot be but honey my mind is filled with sweet thoughts of you so much it is swarming…

    We have not spoken in a long while, and it feels like i am on trial, like everything is stacked against me in isolation and there is only so much I can take before I break and there is so much I wanna say…

    I want you to stay in my life everyday on loop like we’re on replay. I know I may be cold but I am a dog and you are my sleigh. Gen-etically there is none your equal, like you said, I placed you on a pedestal,“walk on water” . It was bearable but losing you is unbearable! Gosh! It’s terrible! Our cerebral? We were chemical. Now i am drowning, call the medical- attendant … I need-le-your attention please!!!

    Lift the suspention cause I am Scraping on the Rock formation. I am on the Bottom looking for the key I hid in this lines , it’s Krampe, I can’t breathe…

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  • image

    When love is beyond imagination❤

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  • By the River


    By the river I walked along

    On paths with natural planting.

    By the river I heard a song,

    As the wind was gently chanting.


    In chorus were chirps and whistles

    Of birds in the trees and thickets,

    And from the bushes and bristles

    The hum of insects and crickets.


    From among the watery weeds

    Ducks and geese clanged in formation.

    By the river I found the seeds

    Of creative inspiration.


    ~ Conny Jasper

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  • An Unamusing Musing

    I used to have an old, long gone friend named Mike who, if not ever a truly bad person, felt like alot of unfunny things could be on the table for him to joke about, but he still felt entitled to take hard ass stances on issues where these two views don’t add up. For example, posing in front of a Nazi flag for dear Michael was ok and so was him thinking abortion is murder somehow. I would describe the boy as rude, loud, extreme, obnoxious all at once, all on purpose. Simultaneously abrasive, yet opinionated and maybe even tolerant on his end. (It must be an active choice to tolerate him) Anyway, I distinctly remember being overly uptight when I joined the friend group that included him.

    So he’d have his piss poor takes and his entitlement to edge lordhumor and then he’d look on me and my dad with an immediate feeling of odd reverence. He was always fascinated with my dads voice on the phone, “like MLK he’d say, or someone iconic.” There were times he’d catch me being stoic and stare, like he’d gotten a snapshot from some movie still, and in an unhinged amount of awe, he’d tell me he could see me as a civil rights activist. “A Black Panther in the 70s” These both made me uncomfortable and dicey at the time, though I attributed it to my lack of social exposure for awhile later on.

    It boils down to that I didn’t want to be a token friend or designated by race, not at that time, when I believed there was only a respectable version of a black man (a complacent one). I still wouldnt line to be pointed out of a crowd as black before anything else but I fully identify with my blackness now.

    But it still bothers me. To look back on those words. Why? There is no rythm to these compliments, no reverence I feel from the words, only his looks. Only his pauses. I still feel that same unease long after my qualms have changed.

    As they should now that my dad and I discuss hot button topics. As I seek out education to build a platform from my beliefs. As I listen to stories of lives much like my own. As I hear the suffering of people just like mine. As my people are killed like sick dogs in the alleyway and no man, black or white may look away.

    My blackness permeates my skin and seeps its roots down deep, enriching my soul as it reaches outwards, as my ancestors speak through me and there suffering echoes in my every action. I am black. I am history. I am fighting and activism and even a product of mass death and unrighteous debt. I see what he meant. How could I not?

    Yet it still bothers me now that I’m disillusioned by the systems in place for me and mine. It still offers me no peace for the. simple fact that he can do what all men do and simultaneously do what most can’t.

    Most white people can see and feel the suffering of ancestors in my anger and in my sorrow. And their response is usually to dismiss it. “There are no reparations to be made it was years ago.” “It was normal at the time.” They see atrocities somehow immediately repaid.

    Michael was… tolerant. This is no compliment to the intolerable, only the perturbing and confounding truth. But this means that Micheal looked into the history that intertwined twixt my body and soul, and saw clearly that there were fights to be had. Changes to be sought out and made. But in viewing that aspect of all of me, he stopped at our past. And likened me in his visage to his perception of the age. Separate from the fight that is my blackness.

    This memory is not bittersweet. I find it wrong and more damning.

    Someone so callous looked upon me and saw this history in my skin and bones, they heard the hundred souls that spoke through my father and likened it to some past so far away to be awed as iconic, aesthetic and fictious.

    I am living history and neural rythm and to recognize that in me as literature rather than creed is the barrier that separates us all. I am not a man living in the same present when my blood flows by rite of the past. To be so close and assume otherwise, is a greater disrespect than to never know at all.

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    Cocaine and Abel - Amigo the Devil

    #The patron saint of estranged family members #Cocaine and Abel #Amigo the devil #My post#Biblical #Cain and Abel #Dark academia#Yearning#Lyrics#Poetry#Aesthetic#Spilled ink #It's the religious trauma #Religious themes
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  • One day, one rhyme- Day 2447

    We cartwheeled out of winter,

    Went flying into spring,

    Just to be slapped in the face

    With frost and hail that sting.

    It cannot last forever,

    So swiftly I must go-

    I’m off to build a snowman

    It’s winter 2.0.

    #rhyme#poetry#poets corner #poets on tumblr #twcpoetry #poets of tumblr #onedayonerhyme
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  • Day 5 of motivation and positivity at Wembley Central Station! A massive thanks to Ashok and Wembley Central Station for having words from The Poetry Project on display. Love it! #thepoetryproject #MentalHealthAwareness

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  • O you who challenge [Allah] with foulness , prepare your excuse .

    O you who continually violate your covenant , give up your treachery .

    O you who are perpetually indifferent , set your affairs in order .

    O you who prefer the temporary to the permanent , change your ways .

    O you who amuse yourself in the days of ease , by Allah , you will not be left [like this] .

    O you who stand with fond wishes , you have wasted your life .

    O you exulting in your place , remember your grave .

    O you carrying the burden of sins , won’t you lighten your load ?



    by : Salahuddin ‘Ali Abdul-Mawjood

    #poetry #Salahuddin 'Ali Abdul-Mawjood
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  • Love me with your worst intentions

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  • Nazim Hikmet


    it’s 1962 March 28th
    I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
    night is falling
    I never knew I liked
    night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
    I don’t like
    comparing nightfall to a tired bird

    I didn’t know I loved the earth
    can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it
    I’ve never worked the earth
    it must be my only Platonic love

    and here I’ve loved rivers all this time
    whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
    European hills crowned with chateaux
    or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
    I know you can’t wash in the same river even once
    I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see
    I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
    I know this has troubled people before
    and will trouble those after me
    I know all this has been said a thousand times before
    and will be said after me

    I didn’t know I loved the sky
    cloudy or clear
    the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
    in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish
    I hear voices
    not from the blue vault but from the yard
    the guards are beating someone again
    I didn’t know I loved trees
    bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
    they come upon me in winter noble and modest
    beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish
    “the poplars of Izmir
    losing their leaves…
    they call me The Knife…
    lover like a young tree…
    I blow stately mansions sky-high”
    in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief
    to a pine bough for luck

    I never knew I loved roads
    even the asphalt kind
    Vera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from Moscow to the Crimea
    Koktebele
    formerly “Goktepé ili” in Turkish
    the two of us inside a closed box
    the world flows past on both sides distant and mute
    I was never so close to anyone in my life
    bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
    when I was eighteen
    apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the wagon they could take
    and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
    I’ve written this somewhere before
    wading through a dark muddy street I’m going to the shadow play
    Ramazan night
    a paper lantern leading the way
    maybe nothing like this ever happened
    maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
    going to the shadow play
    Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather’s hand
    his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
    with a sable collar over his robe
    and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand
    and I can’t contain myself for joy
    flowers come to mind for some reason
    poppies cactuses jonquils
    in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika
    fresh almonds on her breath
    I was seventeen
    my heart on a swing touched the sky
    I didn’t know I loved flowers
    friends sent me three red carnations in prison

    I just remembered the stars
    I love them too
    whether I’m floored watching them from below
    or whether I’m flying at their side

    I have some questions for the cosmonauts
    were the stars much bigger
    did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
    or apricots on orange
    did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
    I saw colour photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don’t
    be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract
    well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to
    say they were terribly figurative and concrete
    my heart was in my mouth looking at them
    they are our endless desire to grasp things
    seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad
    I never knew I loved the cosmos

    snow flashes in front of my eyes
    both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind
    I didn’t know I liked snow

    I never knew I loved the sun
    even when setting cherry-red as now
    in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colours
    but you aren’t about to paint it that way
    I didn’t know I loved the sea
    except the Sea of Azov
    or how much

    I didn’t know I loved clouds
    whether I’m under or up above them
    whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

    moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
    strikes me
    I like it

    I didn’t know I liked rain
    whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
    heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
    and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t know I loved
    rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
    by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
    is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
    one alone could kill me
    is it because I’m half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
    her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

    the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
    I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
    sparks fly from the engine
    I didn’t know I loved sparks
    I didn’t know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
    to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
    watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

    19 April 1962
    Moscow

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  • One of these days, I’m going to lose you. I know I am.

    It won’t be a choice, and it won’t be voluntary. You’re the only thing I’ve hung onto this long. But that’s okay, I’ve never needed a reason to live, and personally, left all alone I know I will die.

    Like Darwin said, the weaker ones are weeded out, fizzle like alkaseltzer into nothingness. One of these days, I’m going to die. I know I am. And you won’t be there to see it. I will have left you somewhere deep inside me, unable to let go after you carefully placed me in a box on the side of the road.

    Maybe the hot Arizona sun will be what kills me. Or the flash floods I so often experience. Life is a never ending mystery, and I grow to hate it more with each year. I’ve always wanted what I can’t have, and now that you’re deteriorating, I can barely stand it. You are my most valuable, my biggest treasured gem, and I’m watching your skilled fingers file yourself into something different. Something that will no longer love me.

    You won’t understand, but that’s okay. I didn’t need an entourage. I’ve always needed others but they can’t sustain me. I am too much for anyone to hold for too long. Like a coal from the fire, I will burn through your flesh, and char your bone until you drop me. Someday I will tumble back to the earth and finally be put out. I know I will.

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