I chose a doozy of a prompt (Read Write Poetry) for my first submission. We were to take a poem in an unfamiliar foreign language OR one of our own poems translated (online) into a foreign language AND THEN transliterate it–give it meaning based on how it looks, not its true translation. I chose the second option, and translated then transliterated one of my own poems. There is a bit of profanity. I don’t intend to offend; it just suited the transliteration. I’m not completely satisfied with my result, but it was fun (and work) and there are some good bits in it. For more poetry, try Jingle‘s Thursday Poet’s Rally. My poem is a pretty good match for the prompt at One Single Impression, so I’ll be posting it there too.
Core no wretched note.
Tithe no kissed hand, that’s a
pink, ya fuck. I know kids at old
assume woe. Boo . . . not my Jake. Keyed up with sores. Na, you ain’t done.
I don’t know, Sue. Sucka’s no guy’s guys. Yeah you, gore-gal, are master.
It’s a no-gripe woe. He fooled no eye in the pits.
Hits you, right? It’s true.
Shriek? Gee, whoa . . . shy, she’s too shy. Yo’ cab sir.
Hot in hand could take the night,
age at any man united to a cross.
Say sure-nuff, my, my. No way. The moon must kiss.
Soon genie foot could be a knee . . . catch a tale spell.
What a shite! A sewer gone to cacophony.
Take master no bluebonnets, no calumny.
My door peak? No hint. Whoa, no shit. A near holy roll, no
shear couch, no cougar mockingbirds.
Seraph-yoke woke her shy miss.
What does she want? Coke or caring hands?
Care not. No sugar. Caring not deadens.
When ten go cruisin’ nowhere, mad guys couldn’t work Monday night.
Must a shut the key.
I’m more khaki-war zooed. You okay? Subtle . . . no coat to wash–it’s torn.
Care fo watcha been? Now in the pits, to a gin soaked name woke up.
She’s in woe.
Ah, you foot the tab, couldn’t you?
Couldn’t you Zen? What a Sugar Honey! Call mirror couldn’t give anymore.
Cut. No problem. New kiss.