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
