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whatever language or dialect
man speaks or writes
God understands

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Body and Language

Speak the unspoken language as she speaks to me.
Through the concept of her motion must have meaning.
The alpha of her power awakes in the sensual eye.
Skinned canvas of limbs and muscles artful in presentation.
Music of her body with stealthy tones climbing the walls of air.
Lines and curves and grooves manifests sensations and reactions.
Forward heat within her beautifully expressed in outward forms.
She feeds the stomach of my desire portion to portion some so
generously.A primal beacon for all things live and captivating.
A communication method about her that heightens pleasure and
slows down time.

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Phil Collins

I do that in whatever language of the country I'm in, because the audience appreciate it.

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As If You Know!

the next stranger you meet
will be god...
in whatever color, whatever form,
speaking whatever language...
act as if you know!

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Johannes Vilhelm Jensen

Whenever one reads of the determination of the species, or opens a book on natural science and history, in whatever language, one inevitably comes across the name of Linne.

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There Is A Poetry Of Mediocrity

There is a poetry of mediocrity-
One simply utters whatever is on one's mind
In whatever language it happens to come-
One says the simplest thing in the plainest way
One expresses the moment-

Anyone can write the poetry of mediocrity
And everyone can read it-

I know what it is
I have written it often
And you are reading it now.

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Buddha Thought

undressing in the light
i find you
whether your face be black
or brown or white
whatever language you speak,
whether you're male or female,
old or young, fat or skinny

whatever you call God,
or whether you believe in God
whatever you hold to be truth

struggling and fighting
for food, shelter, and dignity
loving your family
or all alone

angry, sad, loving, joyous,
with or without hope
with all your mistakes,
your triumphs, your bruises

i find you
and so find myself!

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Music sings

Music sings
The songs of a thousand – words –
Cannot express the feelings of the universe –
Yet – Music – can
Say – express – everything

Only Symphonies – choruses – Tones –
Say with fervency – passion – the Heartache
What none else can convey –
The Music – the universal
Language that Everyone speaks -

People singing – wanting – Loving –
Grasping – searching – Probing
For the glimpse of Heaven none can get
Except through Love – Death -
Or Music.

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(Computer Poem) A Languages Design

Learning yet another language.
The computer speaks in formulas and equations
Decoding it down to the very design.
Working backwards and seeing what you find.
Read the books and invent it as your own.
Make a claim so bold.
Look I think you found gold.
Perfection in the code.
With a vision sewed.
You put it up with an upload.
You have just shared it with all the world.
Never appreciated as the work you put into.
The click without understanding what that took.
Never a second look.
No template will do.
For as an artist work.
It must be done from scratch.
A skeleton at first.
Ugly is it curse.
But slowly it changes.
Warped and molded into something new.
It is as it is to you.

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Talking Iwth A Stranger

he says he is in china
teaching, then he says
not teaching only,
he is researching on the
roots of language,
mandarin he speaks
and bisaya too,
a man of the world
from the island
where i live
and call
home,
he is a stranger and i tell him my name, my work,
i show myself with what i write and he takes time to read all
until
he sees something wrong and he corrects it,
my choice of words
my spelling, the do's and dont's in poetry in writing a letter to a friend
in composing an eulogy
a song of departure
a poem of regret, the last thing he says was that he once fished
and that the sea has become his home, and then
i knew him, but i will not tell him who he is.

it is enough that we have become friends.

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Building Bridges

the human heart builds bridges...
that the ego seeks to destroy.
whether you strike a match,
and light a candle,
light a fire in the stove,
or light a lantern...
you are creating light....
light by any other name is light.
we are all born seeking the same thing,
in that way we are the same.
the paths we take, the choices we make,
the battles we fight, the society we live in...
make us different.
the real journey is in seeing through
the differences...
whether you call your father daddy,
father, pops, the old man, or Bill...
he is still your father!
whatever color your skin, whatever language you speak,
whatever your sexual orientation or your religion...
you are still human!
the sacredness of life is in the shared experience...
when we extend the hand, it is to all,
without discrimination or reservation!
real change and real dialogue occur when
the ears are grounded in the heart's work....
building bridges!

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Res Ipsa Loquitor (2)

let the poems
without mouths
and teeth
without lips
and tongue

let these poems
speak for themselves
let them be
take them for whatever they are
their appearances
let them smell the way they exude themselves
let them be
let their essence be within themselves

even without our own thoughts impressing
imposing dictating
destroying
annihilating

let the poems be like dew
dissolving to the warm rays of the sun

the poems-in-themselves
even without the necessary
english-ness...

let the poems have no shame
in whatever language
in whatever form

let the lousiness be a poem in itself
let the ugliness make you feel its ugliness
let the beauty be there
side by side with everything: darkness and light
evil and good
order and chaos
stars and explosives
pins and touch
holiness and profaneness

etc and the exclusive
specifics and generalities
you and them


and let your feelings go beyond all these
in that field where anything does not matter
where there is no more bother
but just this companionship
this togetherness this wonder
this bewilderment without end

this forever-ness, this eter
nity.

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Anne Brontë

The North Wind

That wind is from the North, I know it well;
No other breeze could have so wild a swell.
Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,
The faintly dies,
And softly sighs,
And moans and murmurs mournfully.
I know its language; thus is speaks to me
'I have passed over thy own mountains dear,
Thy northern mountains - and they still are free,
Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear,
And stern and lovely, as they used to be
When thou, a young enthusiast,
As wild and free as they,
O'er rocks and glens and snowy heights
Didst often love to stray.

I've blown the wild untrodden snows
In whirling eddies from their brows,
And I have howled in caverns wild
Where thou, a joyous mountain child,
Didst dearly love to be.
The sweet world is not changed, but thou
Art pining in a dungeon now,
Where thou must ever be;
No voice but mine can reach thine ear,
And Heaven has kindly sent me here,
To mourn and sigh with thee,
And tell thee of the cherished land
Of thy nativity.'

Blow on, wild wind, thy solemn voice,
However sad and drear,
Is nothing to the gloomy silence
I have had to bear.

Hot tears are streaming from my eyes,
But these are better far
Than that dull gnawing tearless [time]
The stupor of despair.

Confined and hopeless as I am,
O speak of liberty,
O tell me of my mountain home,
And I will welcome thee.

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Nazim Hikmet

Regarding Art

Sometimes, I, too, tell the ah's
of my heart one by one
like the blood-red beads
of a ruby rosary strung
on strands of golden hair!

But my
poetry's muse
takes to the air
on wings made of steel
like the I-beams
of my suspension bridges!

I don't pretend
the nightingale's lament
to the rose isn't easy on the ears...
But the language
that really speaks to me
are Beethoven sonatas played
on copper, iron, wood, bone, and catgut...

You can "have"
galloping off
in a cloud of dust!
Me, I wouldn't trade
for the purest-bred
Arabian steed
the sixth mph
of my iron horse
running on iron tracks!

Sometimes my eye is caught like a big dumb fly
by the masterly spider webs in the corners of my room.
But I really look up
to the seventy-seven-story, reinforced-concrete mountains
my blue-shirted builders create!

Were I to meet
the male beauty
"young Adonis, god of Byblos,"
on a bridge, I'd probably never notice;
but I can't help staring into my philosopher's glassy eyes
or my fireman's square face
red as a sweating sun!

Though I can smoke
third-class cigarettes filled
on my electric workbenches,
I can't roll tobacco - even the finest-
in paper by hand and smoke it!
I didn't --
"wouldn't" -- trade
my wife dressed in her leather cap and jacket
for Eve's nakedness!
Maybe I don't have a "poetic soul"?
What can I do
when I love my own children
more
than mother Nature's!


Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)

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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 47

A padshah was casting a glanced of contempt upon a company of dervishes and one of them, understanding by his sagacity the meaning of it, said: ‘O king, in this world we are inferior to thee in dignity but more happy in life. In death we are equal and in the resurrection superior to thee.’

Though the master of a country may have enjoyment
And the dervish may be in need of bread
In that hour when both of them will die
They will take from the world not more than a shroud.
When thou takest thy departure from the realm
It will be better to be a mendicant than a padshah.
Externally the dervish shows a patched robe and a shaved head but in reality his heart is living and his lust dead.
He does not sit at the door of pretence away from people
To fight against them if they oppose him
Because when a millstone rolls from a mountain
He is not an A’rif who gets out of the way of the stone.

The way of dervishes is praying, gratitude, service, obedience, almsgiving, contentment, professing the unity of God, trust, submission and patience. Whoever possesses these qualities is really a dervish, although he may wear an elegant robe, whereas a prattler who neglects his orisons, is luxurious, sensual, turns day into night in the bondage of lust, and night into day in the sleep of carelessness, eats whatever he gets, and speaks whatever comes upon his tongue, is a profligate, although he may wear the habit of a dervish.

O thou whose interior is denuded of piety
But wearest outwardly the garb of hypocrisy
Do not display a curtain of seven colours.
Thou hast reed mats inside thy house.

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That Money Speaks Every Language

That money speaks every language has often been said before
And what also applies to money is much always wants more
And that moneyed people rule the World is something we all know
The more money they accumulate the more their power does grow.

Compared to those in poverty the millionaires seem few
And in saying that money speaks every language is not saying anything new
For every millionaire there is thousands in poverty
It is money and the lack of it that causes inequality.

That with money speaks every language most surely would agree
That's how it was and that's how it is and that's how 'twill always be
The poor sad pauper of the street to greatness none inspire
It is those who have heaps of money that others do admire.

Their dreams of success and wealth and fame so many do pursue
And that money speaks every language so happens to be true
For the poor of the poor suburb success seems far away
And the gap between the haves and the have nots is widening by the day.

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In Marriage, Love Speaks

in marriage, words are useless
with a mere wink, the other knows what the other wants.
with a mere touch, their world merge
like birds having their own song as language
love, love, and the gaze, this is all that speaks.

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Poetry Is The Language Of Our Deepest Feeling

POETRY IS THE LANGUAGE OF OUR DEEPEST FEELING

Poetry is the language of our deepest feeling
It makes Beauty even of our Darkness
And shares with others our Light.

Without Poetry we would be less in life-
With it,
The inner anguish the soaring of the soul
Our real lives whatever they may be-
Find Meaning in Expression..

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My Own Language

it is not as sweet as English
neither romantic as French
neither lyrical like Spanish
nor authoritative as Greek
nor mystical as Latin
nor progressive as Chinese
nor deep as German nor
friendly as Thai and
neighborly as Bahasa

but my own language
lies inside my heart and so
lovely still that i speak it

as musical as the language of my soul
as lyrical as the movement of my body
as heavenly as my God that speaks to me.

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The Language Of Anything

everyone
speaks for
itself, the leaf
when it falls always
has something
to say
and says it
painlessly, and so does
the waves that break
their liquid
bodies ashore
spreading
into foams
may murmur
but goes back again
to where it must
go and
then belong

we too
in our own joys
and sorrows
say something
in words and yet
some do not
really understand
what we feel,

the world
knows each language
and keeps
on listening still......

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Whatever It Is

Whatever It is that I am thanking...
And however It knows what It does.
I am grateful to have It know my existence!
Grateful that It enters my heart and my soul,
Grateful that It knows!

Whatever It is that forgets and forgives...
And removes stumbling blocks from my life as I live.
Whatever It is before language came to be,
In my mind I carry It...
And in 'It' It carries me!

Whatever It is that I am thanking...
And however It knows what It does.
I am grateful to have It know my existence!
Grateful that It enters my heart and my soul,
Grateful that It knows!

Grateful It knows whatever It is...
So grateful It knows It within me grows!

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