My Ode to You, Wonder Women

I never admired Wonder Woman

Not because she is a female but because of what she represents

The ideal that one woman stands as a champion above them all

Wonder Woman may have strength comparable to Greek myths but she pales in comparison to what I see everyday

I’ve heard the songs dedicated to women that fail to emphasize what I see

That woman are more than pretty eyes and thick thighs

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“Picking Flowers” by Trash Riot

More than full lips and slender hips

More than protruding chests and ample breasts

When I look at a woman I see the very embodiment of greatness

I see a person that constantly has to endure sexualization thrust upon her by an ignorant society

I see a person that does thrice the work for a quarter of the recognition and yet continues to press on

I see a never-faltering pillar still standing, not in spite of the opposition thrown against her, but because of it

Yes Ladies, you do run the world Continue reading “My Ode to You, Wonder Women”

If I remember everything,

You’ll say I misremembered this or that.

But I do remember some things

And if you’ll indulge me just this once:

 

Rive Gauche-bound with erotic notions

Rapacious and acquisitive,

Impassioned and satisfied.

Sitting close together,

Tangled like the vines of the Tuileries.

 

Lethal doses of carnality,

Fiery and foolhardy,

Tender and coy.

Steam plumes,

Billowing like the trains of the Gare du Nord.

 

Lofty eyes and

Dulcet voices

My personal muse in Montparnasse.

-poem by Peter Lengyel 

Want more? Stay tuned for his upcoming site. 

Grappling With the Language of Love

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We often hear about how hard it is to be articulate in a foreign language, but when I began to study Arabic, what took me a long time to learn was not how to speak but how to listen.

Looking back, I see that my inability to listen well cost me my first love.

The man I loved was an Iraqi doctor. Young like me, he had been forced out of his country by war and had come to Syria to work in a refugee camp. This was in 2008, before the revolution.

I was in Syria to study Arabic. We met in that camp, and for the next year we were constantly falling in and out of love, breaking up and getting back together, pouring out our hearts and fighting, mostly because of all he wanted to tell me was that I didn’t understand.

Continue reading “Grappling With the Language of Love”