A Translator’s Daily Prayer (!)

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Lord, help me to relax about insignificant details beginning tomorrow at 7:41:23 am PST.

God help me to consider my customers feelings, even if most of them ARE hypersensitive.

God help me to take responsibility for my own actions, even though they’re usually NOT my fault.

God, help me to not try to run everything. But, if You need some help, please feel free to ask me!

Lord, help me to be more laid back, and help me to do it EXACTLY right.

God, help me to take things more seriously, especially laughter, parties, and dancing.

God, give me patience, and I mean right NOW!

Lord, help me not be a perfectionist. (Did I spell that correctly?)

God, help me to finish everything I sta

God, help me to do only what I can, and trust you for the rest.

(And would you mind putting that in writing?)

Lord, keep me open to others’ ideas, WRONG though they may be.

Lord, help me be less independent, but let me do it my way.

Lord, help me follow established procedures today.

On second thought, I’ll settle for a few minutes.

Lord, help me slow down

andnotrushthroughwhatIdo.

Amen.

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And then she wrote…

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Another very quickly thrown-together poem. I promise I’ll try harder next time.

As always, x

No feeling is greater

Than a pen nestled snuggly between one finger

And the next

Whether its purpose is for doodling

Taking notes

Or simply writing text

A sturdy object

Elegant yet strong

It writes

Takes no notice

Of brightest days

Or darkest nights

Is there to jot down

Ideas, thoughts

And still

Must never be recharged

But works gladly

At your will

The pen is humble

Never asks for much

Is grateful merely

Of its owner’s touch

One day it will stop

Abrupt mid-word

And die

Then to the unassuming pen

We must sign

Our last goodbye.

Poetry smoetry

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As it is currently Poetry Month, I have decided to try my hand at writing verse. This will probably not be the last poem I write, so please feel free to comment and critique. Also, I’m not claiming that this is any good at all, I just like the medium of verse and want to encourage others to give it a go too! Thanks for reading 🙂

That girl

To call me a loner is to be misinformed

You, in your ignorance, have jumped the gun

Like all the others

You have seen this girl and thought

That she prefers it this way

Chooses to be on her own

You, in your ignorance, are so wrong.

This girl is not a loner

She is alone

Not by choice, but by circumstance

She wishes it were not the case

She longs for time spent

With other people

Longs for company, for talk

For someone to ask- how are you?

And actually wait to hear her response

Actually, I’m not so good

This girl goes to and fro

Alone

Eats, alone

Sleeps, alone

Lives, alone

Sometimes it feels as though

She hasn’t opened her mouth

To say a word for weeks

She forgets what her own voice sounds like

She hears others, passing by

Everything is blurry though

She hears the words, but does not stop to listen to them

What is the point? They will not talk to her here

Her feet keep moving beneath her

Bring her where she needs to go and back

The time taunts her

She counts the seconds, every one of them

Knowing it will be a long time, still

Before she is back home again.

You may call me loner

But I, I call myself brave.

We’re keeping Kleenex in business!

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Just a quick update:

Sent mum the poem for Mother’s Day (which was yesterday in Ireland).

She loved it!

She cried tears of sadness because I wasn’t there to hug her and cried tears of pride that I’m her daughter.

Then I cried- because when she cries, I cry.

All in all, it was a rather wet-faced day 😛

Love, xx

Whaddya think?

 

Our Family

Our Family

Ok, I’m looking to run something by you guys; it’s a poem I wrote for my mum for Mother’s Day. I just want to get some opinions and see what people think. Hope you like it 🙂

A snapshot of  you-

Sit down for a moment and open the photo album of your motherhood

The first page is a picture of you, wearing big, comfy pants with an elasticated waistband

You’re standing with one hand on your tummy, smiling proudly

The second page is a picture of you with a tiny baby in your arms

She is pink and squishy-looking, and you are beaming

The next few pages are littered with hectic pictures:

First bottles, colourful babygrows, friends and family visiting us

Then we move from the white hospital to our new home

The pictures taken show toys scattered everywhere, endless nappies in the bin,

You look tired, like you haven’t slept in two years, but you are still so happy

All of a sudden you are back in stretchy pants and luminous patterned tops again

You tell the little girl that she is getting a little brother

She secretly plots his downfall

Until she sees the new pink and squishy blob

And then she wants only to hold him and play with him

There are pictures of you with both of us on your lap

Stuck between a rock and a hard place; who would be your favourite

But you were more diplomatic than that

You loved us both equally

Even when we drove you mad

When we made a mess where you had just cleaned- you loved us

When we woke you every hour on the hour in the middle of the night- you loved us

When we wouldn’t eat what you put in front of us- you complained, but you loved us

The pictures of our childhood are a wonderful adventure

Of planes and foreign lands

Of cars and a land more familiar

Of beaches and sticky ice-creams that went everywhere but in our mouths

For every place we went, you brought us there safely

You put up with are we there yets and I’m hungrys

Even though you probably wanted to turn around and say-

Yes, well I’m hungry too and I want to fall asleep in the back, but I can’t…

You never did

You gave us everything instead

New bikes, dolls, trucks, marbles, skipping ropes, a swings and a slide

And when we got older and the wish-list got longer and more expensive

You gave us everything still, and more

The best clothes, perfumes, musical instruments which we couldn’t play, gadgets and gismos

The lot

The photo album captures the moments we didn’t even know were there

You worrying when we were late back

You frustrated when we wouldn’t do what you said, even though you were always right

You watching over us when we slept

Of course there are pages of tantrums and fights and arguments

Of sulking faces and slamming doors, when things didn’t go our way

But there are pages too of uncontrollable laughter, so much that we cried

Pages covered with happy memories and smiles and that warm feeling in your tummy

Dinners we’ve shared together, crosswords we’ve done, car journeys we’ve taken with one another

That passed in no time due to the fun we had on the way

The photo album is bursting with pictures of you and of the three of us- your family and greatest fans

It is far from finished yet; there are still countless blank pages waiting to be filled

With pictures of exams and graduations, travel and study, work and play, holidays and birthdays,

Christmases and New Years’ gatherings, smiles and tears

But flicking through everything so far, our hearts are so grateful and proud

That we get to call you mum.

Phoney Phonetics

misunderstanding

“One reason why I cannot spell,
Although I learned the rules quite well
Is that some words like coup and through
Sound just like threw and flue and Who;
When oo is never spelled the same,
The duice becomes a guessing game;
And then I ponder over though,
Is it spelled so, or throw, or beau,
And bough is never bow, it’s bow,
I mean the bow that sounds like plow,
And not the bow that sounds like row –
The row that is pronounced like roe.
I wonder, too, why rough and tough,
That sound the same as gruff and muff,
Are spelled like bough and though, for they
Are both pronounced a different way.
And why can’t I spell trough and cough
The same as I do scoff and golf?
Why isn’t drought spelled just like route,
or doubt or pout or sauerkraut?
When words all sound so much the same
To change the spelling seems a shame.
There is no sense – see sound like cents –
in making such a difference
Between the sight and sound of words;
Each spelling rule that undergirds
The way a word should look will fail
And often prove to no avail
Because exceptions will negate
The truth of what the rule may state;
So though I try, I still despair
And moan and mutter “It’s not fair
That I’m held up to ridicule
And made to look like such a fool
When it’s the spelling that’s at fault.
Let’s call this nonsense to a halt.”