tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79186857056704727022024-03-13T12:48:28.683-07:00third wordMaralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-26806568008942850342012-03-12T19:23:00.002-07:002012-03-12T19:23:16.670-07:00till the soul<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
once<br />
when i pressed my ear<br />
against the ground<br />
on land<br />
that used to provide<br />
for a matriarchal indigenous people<br />
two thousand years ago<br />
i could hear<br />
the open mouths<br />
and outstretched arms<br />
of indistinguishable shadows<br />
traveling at a thousand miles per hour<br />
from depths immeasurable<br />
and at the same time<br />
as if they had already arrived<br />
to wait<br />
for someone to listen<br />
<br /></div>Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-61459423379666237082012-02-28T22:43:00.000-08:002012-02-28T22:44:53.454-08:00today my mother tells me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
"it's been 36 years<br />
since my mother passed<br />
<br />
and just as long<br />
that i can't remember her<br />
at all<br />
<br />
not even her voice"<br />
<br />
and i think<br />
how sad<br />
to be that out of touch<br />
with yourself</div>Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-17734884687243730992012-02-06T23:56:00.000-08:002012-02-07T00:00:35.633-08:00tonguage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
take this distance<br />
spit<br />
back<br />
words that make sense<br />
derive meaning from instinct<br />
and not logic<br />
take this loss<br />
of language<br />
i live<br />
in my always immigrant<br />
state<br />
stepping on land<br />
my bones have not yet<br />
turned to dust for<br />
take this song<br />
that lives<br />
inside my throat<br />
let me scream<br />
the english<br />
alphabet<br />
out<br />
<br />
i cannot speak<br />
my truth<br />
in the master's tongue<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-19851388986989859692012-02-03T00:14:00.000-08:002012-02-03T00:59:24.149-08:00of longing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xMU0JbYOME3vf2unZIkOXGHg3ojTc5pMFFajpZmlrQ0L_kD3VaL2woLHhAoolAHsJAbTklGHMw6cAEZ63bBu5X4c2npdMbg5u4tnDcx9Qu3704iza_8gV4nEQu6adufn-eHDsy5vNau6/s1600/P1010205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4xMU0JbYOME3vf2unZIkOXGHg3ojTc5pMFFajpZmlrQ0L_kD3VaL2woLHhAoolAHsJAbTklGHMw6cAEZ63bBu5X4c2npdMbg5u4tnDcx9Qu3704iza_8gV4nEQu6adufn-eHDsy5vNau6/s320/P1010205.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
i dream of devouring<br />
the red fruit<br />
mouth<br />
that breathes<br />
release into a home<br />
i do not go into<br />
in your absence<br />
made of night<br />
and being unable to see<br />
only knowing<br />
my own ocean<br />
of skin<br />
only<br />
when you are the moon<br />
letting me back in</div>Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-13456930454078719482012-01-20T23:19:00.000-08:002012-02-03T00:30:49.072-08:00kitchen queen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>my father told me to not look at the door for an answer</i><br />
<i>the day my husband beat me, </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>told me to find myself a corner in the house</i><br />
<i>and cry.</i></div>
<br />
she puts down the eggs and tarragon wrapped in lavash,<br />
mixed with salt as regretful as tears,<br />
and pepper as passionate as life.<br />
<br />
<i>we were told to be good all our lives,</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>and what about us was not good?</i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
she has brought out the tea, the cheese. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
she will cut it for you, place it on your bread,<br />
spread the butter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
she will pour your cup full, add sugar,<br />
tell you to sit out of the sun, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ask if you need the heat on, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
if she can give you a sweater.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>we acted like fools and were treated like fools,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>who wouldn’t want a wife like that?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
she recently dyed her hair completely blonde,<br />
trying to appeal to her husband's taste for russian<br />
more delicate women,<br />
women less raw and wild than herself. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
</div>Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-90987285661329182692012-01-11T00:49:00.000-08:002012-01-16T21:01:36.000-08:00poem to a photograph<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fllHEf8luj-L624CfyWYxw1EzpzqHSVJsDkhmVl4fAN00FSNz4dwJAU1KUOmSoJDx9z9OnIQGKKhg5Gy6QYxlEWtsHUszaOiQiTe-utW8y2OZBTjA2nAPvz7RtWh1MNzSUoxhumx8LSg/s1600/caged+dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fllHEf8luj-L624CfyWYxw1EzpzqHSVJsDkhmVl4fAN00FSNz4dwJAU1KUOmSoJDx9z9OnIQGKKhg5Gy6QYxlEWtsHUszaOiQiTe-utW8y2OZBTjA2nAPvz7RtWh1MNzSUoxhumx8LSg/s320/caged+dead.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
p h o t o b y s v e t l a n a a n t o n y a n<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>caged dead</b><br />
<br />
they say<br />
the dead are turning<br />
in their graves<br />
unable to rest<br />
their earth turned bones <br />
constantly gutted<br />
by bombs<br />
shells <br />
drills<br />
for coal<br />
for copper<br />
for gold<br />
for diamonds<br />
for oil<br />
<br />
they say<br />
the dead are turning<br />
in their graves<br />
can't sleep <br />
to the weeping<br />
of their children<br />
losing lands<br />
above their heads <br />
rivers<br />
of dead fish<br />
discadred<br />
on shores <br />
apricot trees<br />
forced<br />
to produce fruit<br />
fast<br />
<br />
they say<br />
the dead are turning<br />
in their graves<br />
burning<br />
from poisons<br />
seeping into dirt<br />
chemicals<br />
plastic<br />
pesticide<br />
heavy<br />
metal<br />
oil spills<br />
under ocean<br />
floors<br />
<br />
they say<br />
the dead are caged <br />
in their graves <br />
chained to<br />
a memory<br />
produced<br />
and reproduced<br />
by their children<br />
and their children's<br />
children<br />
and generations<br />
after that<br />
forgetting<br />
to break<br />
cycles<br />
of the living<br />
and seek wisdom<br />
from the dead<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7918685705670472702.post-63899167605311252442012-01-06T11:14:00.000-08:002012-01-06T11:16:02.312-08:00definitionz<h2><a style="color: rgb(64, 60, 41);" href="http://thirdworldvoices.tumblr.com/post/12729597110/definitionz"><br /></a></h2> <p>if i am the <strong>third world</strong> then the way we have gotten used to is no longer the way because i am before the number one, i am zero, round and circular, i complete the cycle, i am before numbers were made up, before a billion dollars was not enough, before the tallest building was trying to reach god, i was underground where it all began, before development brought metal cranes into every city i have grown up in while i was growing up, before development dug into the earth to rip me out and throw me across the atlantic ocean to the new world, the developed world, where third world neighborhoods struggle under the will of gods sitting in the sky of 100 story buildings scraping the sky to scream bombs at other third worlds to steal metal/gold/oil/rock/children/women/rights.</p> <p>if i am the <strong>third world</strong> then the number scale has shifted to a new system where infinity is no longer an option and the number 3 is the <strong>new wor(l)d</strong> for change, for <strong>development</strong> by a new definition which states that:</p> <p>nothing will be made right without destruction of what development has come to mean: the desire for better/faster/easier/more and more.</p> <p>we need a new vocabulary, even if it comes about by borrowing from our own tongues, or once we begin to make words up because we are free to create the world we inhabit which is already made up of words that constantly break us </p> <p>down</p> <p>if the mouths of words are shut we can only hear mumbling lies and begin to turn into those lies.</p> <p>if i am the third world then i am moving instead of accumulating, instead of collecting, instead of acquiring, instead of occupying, instead of colonizing, instead of stealing, instead of cheating, instead of killing, instead of raping, instead of beating, instead of lying, instead of running while standing still and never reaching or knowing any true satisfaction or joy or love or peace.</p> <p>if i am the third world then i am in the right place to begin to understand where to go from here</p>Maralhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16591375282082339599noreply@blogger.com0