Repressions Quotes
Quotes tagged as "repressions"
Showing 1-6 of 6
“Now prisoners will come back home, and two Russias will look each other in the eye,
the one that put in prison and
the one that was put in prison.”
―
the one that put in prison and
the one that was put in prison.”
―
“Chicken Roast
Puff your plume in anger and fight, cock,
delight the owner of knife
smear sting with pollen and flap your wings
As I said: Twist the arms and keep them bent
roll the rug and come down the terrace
after disturbed sleep
Shoeboots-rifle-whirring bullets-shrieks
The aged undertrial in the next cell weeps and wants to go home
Liberate me let me go let me go home
On its egg in the throne the gallinule doses
asphyxiate in dark
fight back, cock, die and fight, shout with the dumb
Glass splinters on tongue-breast muscles quiver
Fishes open their gills and enfog water
A piece of finger wrapped in pink paper
With eyes covered someone wails in the jailhouse
I can't make out if man or woman
Keep this eyelash on lefthand palm-
and blow off with your breath
Fan out snake-hood in mist
Cobra's abdomen shivers in the hiss of female urination
Deport to crematorium stuffing blood-oozing nose
in cottonwool
Shoes brickbats and torn pantaloons enlitter the streets
I smear my feet with the wave picked up from a stormy sea
That is the alphabet I drew on for letters.
(Translation of Bengali original 'Murgir Roast')”
―
Puff your plume in anger and fight, cock,
delight the owner of knife
smear sting with pollen and flap your wings
As I said: Twist the arms and keep them bent
roll the rug and come down the terrace
after disturbed sleep
Shoeboots-rifle-whirring bullets-shrieks
The aged undertrial in the next cell weeps and wants to go home
Liberate me let me go let me go home
On its egg in the throne the gallinule doses
asphyxiate in dark
fight back, cock, die and fight, shout with the dumb
Glass splinters on tongue-breast muscles quiver
Fishes open their gills and enfog water
A piece of finger wrapped in pink paper
With eyes covered someone wails in the jailhouse
I can't make out if man or woman
Keep this eyelash on lefthand palm-
and blow off with your breath
Fan out snake-hood in mist
Cobra's abdomen shivers in the hiss of female urination
Deport to crematorium stuffing blood-oozing nose
in cottonwool
Shoes brickbats and torn pantaloons enlitter the streets
I smear my feet with the wave picked up from a stormy sea
That is the alphabet I drew on for letters.
(Translation of Bengali original 'Murgir Roast')”
―
“Preparation - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury
Who claims I'm ruined? Because I'm without fangs and claws?
Are they necessary? How do you forget the knife
plunged in abdomen up to the hilt? Green cardamom leaves
for the buck, art of hatred and anger
and of war, gagged and tied Santhal women, pink of lungs shattered
by a restless dagger?
Pride of sword pulled back from heart? I don't have
songs or music. Only shrieks, when mouth is opened
wordless odour of the jungle; corner of kin & sin-sanyas;
Didn't pray for a tongue to take back the groans
power to gnash and bear it. Fearless gunpowder bleats:
stupidity is the sole faith-maimed generosity-
I leap on the gambling table, knife in my teeth
Encircle me
rush in from tea and coffee plateaux
in your gumboots of pleasant wages
The way Jarasandha's genital is bisected and diamond glow
Skill of beating up is the only wisdom
in misery I play the burgler's stick like a flute
brittle affection of thev wax-skin apple
She-ants undress their wings before copulating
I thump my thighs with alternate shrieks: VACATE THE UNIVERSE
get out you omnicompetent
conchshell in scratching monkeyhand
lotus and mace and discuss-blade
Let there be salt-rebellion of your own saline sweat
along the gunpowder let the flint run towards explosion
Marketeers of words daubed in darkness
in the midnight filled with young dog's grief
in the sicknoon of a grasshopper sunk in insecticide
I reappear to exhibit the charm of the stiletto.
(Translation of Bengali poem 'Prostuti')”
―
Who claims I'm ruined? Because I'm without fangs and claws?
Are they necessary? How do you forget the knife
plunged in abdomen up to the hilt? Green cardamom leaves
for the buck, art of hatred and anger
and of war, gagged and tied Santhal women, pink of lungs shattered
by a restless dagger?
Pride of sword pulled back from heart? I don't have
songs or music. Only shrieks, when mouth is opened
wordless odour of the jungle; corner of kin & sin-sanyas;
Didn't pray for a tongue to take back the groans
power to gnash and bear it. Fearless gunpowder bleats:
stupidity is the sole faith-maimed generosity-
I leap on the gambling table, knife in my teeth
Encircle me
rush in from tea and coffee plateaux
in your gumboots of pleasant wages
The way Jarasandha's genital is bisected and diamond glow
Skill of beating up is the only wisdom
in misery I play the burgler's stick like a flute
brittle affection of thev wax-skin apple
She-ants undress their wings before copulating
I thump my thighs with alternate shrieks: VACATE THE UNIVERSE
get out you omnicompetent
conchshell in scratching monkeyhand
lotus and mace and discuss-blade
Let there be salt-rebellion of your own saline sweat
along the gunpowder let the flint run towards explosion
Marketeers of words daubed in darkness
in the midnight filled with young dog's grief
in the sicknoon of a grasshopper sunk in insecticide
I reappear to exhibit the charm of the stiletto.
(Translation of Bengali poem 'Prostuti')”
―
“Once we are firmly on the path of forgiveness, we will generally find that this process spontaneously leads to lifting repressions and healing memories. It is a natural and helpful coincidence of being interested in forgiveness. Further, we will find that our happiness, lightness, joy, and peace will noticeably increase with every repressed hurt lifted and painful memory healed.”
― The Love of Being Loving
― The Love of Being Loving
“Once we are firmly on the path of forgiveness, we will find that it leads to lifting repressions and healing memories. Our happiness, lightness, joy, and peace will noticeably increase with every repressed hurt lifted and painful memory healed.”
― The Love of Being Loving
― The Love of Being Loving
“Вялікую радасць перажыў Лабановіч, калі яму прыслалі першы нумар першай беларускай газеты. Ён чытаў і перачытваў кожны артыкул, кожны верш і карэспандэнцыю. Усё гэта было так нова, так нязвыкла. Найбольш сардэчны водгук на зʼяўленне беларускай газеты пачуў ён ад сялян свайго сяла Мікуцічы, куды знарок хадзіў пачытаць людзям напісанае іх простым, родным мужыцкім словам. І сам Лабановіч стаў гарачым і адданым прыхільнікам і прапагандыстам свайго роднага слова, на якім друкавалася газета. Але кожны нумар газеты падпадаў пад рэпрэсіі царскіх чыноўнікаў і цэнзуры. Газету затрымлівалі, штрафавалі, канфіскавалі і, нарэшце, зусім забаранілі, а рэдактара засудзілі на год заключэння ў крэпасць. Замест забароненай пачала выходзіць газета болей памяркоўная, з ліберальна-буржуазным ухілам. Аднак і гэту рахманую газету царскія чыноўнікі заціскалі рознымі прыдзіркамі, прыгняталі штрафамі і белымі плямамі.”
― На ростанях
― На ростанях
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