her story is my story is your story

Purple_rock_crabs_(Leptograpsus_variegatus)_lurking_in_a_crevice_under_Lion_RockMy poem, her story is your story is my story, was featured today on SWWIM

“…when criminal justice is criminal warfare and we are all under this rock heaving against it with our might intact…”

anagram poem

A feelers motile Harlot the monies Hoist your lily, tortoise A foreseen heist Smite the lithe, slap a blond Hem of a serif’s unrest Softer, forest Flies flies sheen heresy Flies flies sheer limn Emit time from dust motes File that elf fore it molts The rime of serfs Softer, forest Etherise the line of seethe Hello fins

Heart Spell (co-opted from ad I see in the subway)

A heart with wings

A heart for discover.com

A heart for the gluttonous

A heart for the homeless woman

with two kids and a heart

saying “every little bit helps”

A heart for the lonely, hungry

A heart for the oil companies

A heart for cancer and its bodies

A heart for virus and survivors

A heart for bankers

A heart for farmers

A heart for mothers and soldiers

and fathers and children

A heart for teachers

A heart for plankton

A heart for baristas

A heart for anarchists

A heart for capitalists

A heart for the sea urchin

A heart for the shark

A heart for algae

A heart for tree bark

A heart for cosmopolis

A heart for socialites

A heart for the housewives of New Jersey

A heart for poets

A heart for Boston

A heart for prisons

A heart for free bodies

A heart for binaries

A heart for the dialectic

A heart is comfort

A heart covers the wound

A heart for the paradox

false translation

I thought it would be fun to practice doing false translations, so I took the writing prompt from NaPoWriMo as a jumping off point for Day 16. But, I’m posting it today because life.

Since I first learned about this exercise while studying with Diane di Prima, I’ve become more compelled by this idea of the vagaries of translation: from language to language, from perspective to perspective, from identity construct to identity construct. How all we are and see and do alters our perception so that really, everything becomes a translation filtered through our human, our animal skins.

I do not especially like this poem. In fact, it irritates me and I almost feel shamed by it. I’m posting it anyway because fuckit. (original poem follows)

Bimbo, nestled placenta

Bimbo, in cup of media

Morbid curtain of Pele

Enduring the putana

Rose red, flame of what disgrace

Red of your bloody body tongue

Appending the fat

Bimbo, ladled out there.

Bimba nella
placenta, bimba
sotto coperta,
nella corteccia
morbida di pelle,
indurita dal
bosco, rossa
come scottata,
rossa che nuoti nel
tuo sangue,
appena fatta, bimba
qui scodellata.

© Elisa Biagini
From: Cappuccio Rosso
Publisher: Einaudi