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O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”

Speech: “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Romeo and Juliet, spoken by Juliet)

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name.

Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy:

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot

Nor arm nor face nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O be some other name.

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Romeo and Juliet, spoken by Juliet)

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name.

Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy:

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot

Nor arm nor face nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O be some other name.

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

shakesphere Sonnet #78

Sonnet #78 Posted: LXXVIII. So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing And heavy ignorance aloft to fly Have added feathers to the learned's wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine and born of thee: In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance.

i am a yam by me

i am
a yam!
you are
a car!
my sister,
the blister.
my brother,
the other.
i can't
but chant.
you want
to grunt.
bump
trump.
we are
you were
a bird,
a nerd.
flirting love,
hurting shove.
i mend
the end

241. [“Farewell” is on my tongue] by Paulus Silentarius

241. [“Farewell” is on my tongue]   Paulus Silentarius

Translated by William Roger Paton “Farewell” is on my tongue, but I hold in the word with a wrench and still abide near thee. For I shudder at this horrid parting as at the bitter night of hell. Indeed thy light is like the daylight; but that is mute, while thou bringest me that talk, sweeter than the Sirens, on which all my soul’s hopes hang.

Where I am Not by Omar Sakr

Where I am Not   Omar Sakr

I ask the new migrant if he regrets leaving Russia. We have dispensed already with my ancestry. He says no. For a time, he was depressed. He found with every return he missed what he left behind. A constant state of this. Better to love by far where you are. He taps the steering wheel of his car, the hum of the engine an imperceptible tremble in us. When he isn’t driving, he works tending to new trees. I’ve seen these saplings popping up all over the suburbs, tickling the bellies of bridges, the new rooted darlings of the State. The council spent a quarter mil on them & someone, he—Lilian—must ensure the dirt holds. Gentrification is climate-friendly now. I laugh and he laughs, and we eat the distance between histories. He checks on his buds daily. Are they okay? They are okay. They do not need him, but he speaks, and they listen or at least shake a leaf. What a world where you can live off land by loving it. If only we cared for each other this way. The council cares for their investment. The late greenery, that is, not Lilian, who shares his ride on the side. I wonder what it would cost to have men be tender to me regularly, to be folded into his burly, to be left on the side of the road as he drove away, exhausted. Even my dreams of tenderness involve being used & I’m not sure who to blame: colonialism, capitalism, patriarchy, queerness or poetry? Sorry, this is a commercial for the Kia Sportage now. This is a commercial for Lilian’s thighs. He didn’t ask for this and neither did I—how language drapes us together, how stories tongue each other in the back seat and the sky blurs out of frame. There are too many agonies to discuss here, and I am nearly returned. He has taken me all the way back, around the future flowering, back to where I am not, to the homes I keep investing in as harms. I should fill them with trees. Let the boughs cover the remembered boy, cowering under a mother, her raised weapon not the cane but the shattering within, let the green tear through the wall paper, let life replace memory. Lilian, I left you that day, and in the leaving, a love followed. Isn’t that a wonder and a wound? Tell me which it is, I confess I mistake the two. I walk up the stairs to my old brick apartment where the peach tree reaches for the railing, a few blushing fruits poking through the bars, eager to brush my leg, to say linger, halt. I want to stop, to hold it for real, just once but I must wait until I am safe.