reading poetry in different languages: aesthetic impressions
Spanish: juice dripping from your mouth as you bite into fresh fruit; honeyed skin incessantly kissed by the sun; long laughter and shadows of summer; a red rose on a bedside table in a white room, where a single petal falls; the silhouettes of lovers sitting at the end of a dock, everything the deepest blue.
French: a river running smooth as silk; pale mornings, watching cigarette smoke slip away like a scarf in the wind; a drink which singes your throat as it slips down into your core and warms you; hot tears stinging your face, then the cold water that washes them away; the agony of orgasm.
German: storm clouds rolling in; the fear of god in the eyes of painted sinners; a long black coat for hiding every secret; shoes clacking on a wooden floor; purple veins on eyelids; the dial tone ringing and ringing when no one is taking your call; an uncapped pen which has bled all over the page.
Irish Gaelic: a whip of raven black hair; lying awake with only the moon to console you; high sand dunes punctuated with brushstrokes of green, green grass; how a first kiss feels so bright, like walking on air; the crash of the ocean, always running into the soft limitless arms of the shore.
Pashto: pomegranates, always and always, and the way they open endlessly; a woman blossoming in front of herself; a purple sunset over mountaintops; children singing songs together under the shade of a fruit tree; a bucket splashing water over your feet; whispers in the dark, a taunting dialogue.
Arabic: olive trees swaying in the wind; a grandmother ticks at her hand painted prayer beads; the bloodied martyr; an intimate, warm orange; a shepherd stretched out in the shade; between buildings, lovers steal a glance; an embroidered robe; minarets touch the sky; bare feet on scorching sand.
Urdu: rain glistening on a lonely street, the eyes of a hurt dog, the smell of warm wood and old cherished books; the velvety touch of rose petals, kulfi in your mouth, heavy silver at your wrists; open windows, a room lit by moonlight; handing your father a glass of tea, caressing your lover’s neck, hearing your name included in your loved one’s morning prayer.
Bangla: the scent of earth wet by rain; the green watery rice fields; the rumbling dark rain clouds; the cold wind blowing on my wet skin; singeing through my wet clothes; the vast mighty rivers; the smell of chamomile flowers; the cotton sarees; the smell of old books; creeking old Mahogany furniture; my mother’s comforting hand caressing me.
Sindhi: a lion’s roar heard from miles away; ripples of water surmounted by the hot summer rain; the sound of bangles clanking together; a grandparent’s sigh of contentment; a slice of watermelon generously sprinkled with masala; fresh milk delivered from the cattle, warmed on the stove; the smell of henna and perfume and incense.
Polish: the whispers of falling leaves; the tale of bloodied fingers and bitten lips; not begging for freedom/ fighting for it; the scent of gasoline; burning in [me]; being reborn after another fire / ashes that created holy empire; world that is torn in half/ but it’s ours/ another spring has come / another spirit that didn’t die
Portuguese: People hang gliding like colorful birds in the Brazilian skies; the salty and sticky bodies on the beach; running as fast as you can in the hot sand till you reach the water; hills filled with trees and a big window wide opened; distant relatives remembering the old days playing by the pool; big piles of books and a soft, refreshing breeze; the smell of fresh coffee and baguettes and butter; phonographs playing samba from the 60’s; the calming sensation of knowing you’re loved; tangerines; your bare feet on the grass; painting your nails yellow; drawings on napkins and strawberry jam; going home late at night
mandarin: bowed heads, perfectly winged eyeliner, blood red lips curving into a quiet smile, the trickling sound of tea being poured into china, complicated fabric embroidery, jade beads cascading to the floor, huddling up in the biting cold of winter, running to catch the bus in the morning, the glisten of calligraphy ink, the swift strokes of a brush, hair piled up and secured by a wooden comb, the laughter of family dinners
