If God were to say, "Dear, would be my pleasure
to grant your heart's desire within reason"

I wouldn't hesitate, I wouldn't give a second thought to my decision

And I would hope God wouldn't think I was asking too much or being selfish, when I ask for this unique gift

A gift of speech, of words, of understanding of all languages, a gift coveted by interpreters, scribes and poets alike

In my imagination there is no better gift, than a gift of understanding of all languages, every spoken tongue

O' to have a special gift, an exceptional ability to communicate verbally  with any individual alive, and animals, too

Would I find this overwhelming, or would this just be way too cool?

Everyone dreams in a language
receives the same message
and interprets it differently.

Poetry's
one of those messages
dreamt of in languages
and
seen in wild images.

Mirage's mirror me in
this dream
a sweet symphony
and it all comes back to me
but somehow
differently.

When you love someone for long enough,
You begin speaking their language.
You find yourself saying the same things,
Even stumbling over the same words;
I used to think it was silly the way she'd
Say "Spiracha" instead of "Sriracha,"
But love has a way of changing
The way you think,
Translating your old ways of
Thinking into something new.  
Intercultural.  Bilingual.

Not a phrase you will ever know
A phrase from a language too unknown to show

I speak many languages
From Chinese to French
Not one fluently but more than the last

I could tell you in many languages
From Chinese to Hungarian
Not one fluently would help more than the last

I could answer in many languges
From Chinese to Spanish
Not one could help answer your question more that the last

I could lie in many languages
From Chinese to Filipino Tagalog
Not one should mean anything more than the last

Not a phrase you will ever know
A phrase from a language too unknown to show

I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated by sea-sick phrases

Somewhere a long way from our
shore a man or woman, very desperate
to find their way on board a ship
going in the right direction

When those who could speak
a second or even third language
were called forward
this person’s mind reached far,
back to french lessons at school,
every country visited and greeting noted
and piped up: I speak very good French!

But French speakers were common
Try harder! shouted a polite man
I can speak Zulu!? silence...
Pashto is very useful…
Ah! my mother tongue,
I dream in that language
Yes I am still in touch with my mother
with whom I speak, of course,
in Pashto

Setting sail on the lonely sea
There is nowhere to hide
besides the engine room,
And in there you will be used as fuel
Put to good use




*—Well I did think once that I was being summoned to an underwater land but in fact it was a ruse, a trick to rob me of wallet

Chant with me. The words. Mea
Culpa. I am sorry it’s almost always
English.  Je suis desolee.
But, the Power
of our club is your language and mine are blood kin.
I may not understand your meaning, but if you’re writing:
I will get your Drift.

Even the sturdiest trees in my backyard quiver like mad in the breath of a strong breeze. I am like them, as I panic over the thought of watching you brush effortlessly past my shoulders, the way hurricane wind has the power to sweep a grown man off his feet. I am cautious, tiptoeing around the idea of your absence like fallen power lines in the rain, trembling as I carry the precious moments I have spent with you in the safety of my own coat pockets so they will never feel the agony of electrocution. I am electrified, as I seek shelter from the storm within the comforting warmth of your arms. There are places where the sun flutters her fiery eyelids against waves that kiss shorelines like familiar relatives. There are places where park benches call us by name and ones that long day and night for our feet to grace their unexplored streets. There are words that hang in the atmosphere like hot air balloons waiting to carry us to newborn horizons. It is strange, how there are places where the skies do not bleed threats or cry in languages we cannot understand. How I know that we are metal statues standing embraced in a field during a lightning storm, and yet I would rather get struck with the energy of a thousand prayers if it meant that I could stay, frozen in time, for an eternity we are not guaranteed.

Too much lost in translation
Transportation
Communication
This game requires no imagination

I find no elation
Of why it’s called Chinese Whispers
Since it’s English that we’re whispering
Since I can actually whisper in Chinese.

I suppose it dates back to the 17th century
When Europeans and the Chinese tried to meet
And tried to speak
And proceeded to fail
To no avail
They still could trade

So today we have this game to play
Unknowingly proving in many ways
Even to this day
We still cannot understand
What others try to say
Like whispering Chinese to English speakers.

I have exhausted my ink, my pen, my hand.

My tongue has unlearned all languages,
all terms of endearment and soft sayings.

I am no longer flesh, no longer blood,
but have transformed myself into wind:

a wind that has traveled the oceans for you,
a wind that has discovered Africa's worth,

that has lifted me into an African skirt
where the origin of everything began.