Old Boy poem – A. Van Jordan poems

If one rainy night you find yourself
leaving a phone booth, and you meet a man
with a lavender umbrella, resist
your desire to follow him, to seek
shelter from the night in his solace.
Later, don’t fall victim to the Hypnotist’s
narcotic of clarity, which proves
a curare for the heart; her salve
is merely a bandage, under which memories
pulse. Resist the taste for something still
alive for your first meal; resist the craving
for the touch of a hand from your past.
We live some memories,
and some memories are planted. There’s
only so much space for the truth
and the fabrications to spread out
in one’s mind. When there’s no more
space, we grow desperate. You’ll ask
if practicing love for years in your mind,
prepares you for the moment,
if practicing to defend one’s life
is the same as living? You’ll
hole up, captive, in a hotel room
for fifteen years and learn to find
a man within you, which will prove
a painful introduction to the trance
into which you were born. Better
to stay under the spell of your guilt,
than to forget; you’ve already released
your pain onto the world; don’t believe
there’s some joy in forgetting.
There’s no joy in the struggle to forget.
And what appears as an endless verdant field,
only spreads across a building’s rooftop;
your peaceful sleep could be a fetal position,
which secures you in a suitcase in this field.
A bell rings, and you fall out of this luggage
like clothes you no longer fit. Now what to do?
You remember when you were the man
who fit those clothes, but you’ve forgotten this
world. Even forgotten scenes from your life,
leave shadows of the memory,
haunting your spirit
until, within a moment’s glance,
strangers passing you on the street,
observe history in your eyes. Experience
lingers through acts of forgetting,
small acts of love or trauma
falling from the same place. Whether
memory comes in the form of a stone
or a grain of sand, they both sink in water.
A tongue—even if it were, say, sworn
to secrecy; or if it were cut from one’s mouth;
yes, even without a mouth to envelop
its truth—the tongue continues to confess.

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Poems in English 

• Untitled XIX by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled XIV by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled XIII by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled XII by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled XI by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled X by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled VIII by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled VII by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled V by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled IX by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled IV by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled III by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled II by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Untitled I by Yunus Emre by Yunus يونس امره Emre Юнус Эмре
• Love Compared To A Game Of Tables by William Strode by William Strode
• Keepe On Your Maske (Version for his Mistress) by William Strode by William Strode
• Keepe On Your Maske And Hide Your Eye by William Strode by William Strode
• Justification by William Strode by William Strode
• Jacke-On-Both-Sides by William Strode by William Strode
• William Strode – William Strode by William Strode

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Doska or the Board – write anything

Search engines:

Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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