By Cornelius Eady
I’m here
to tell you
an old story.
This
Appears to be
my work.
I live
in the world,
Walk
the streets…
to tell you
an old story.
This
Appears to be
my work.
I live
in the world,
Walk
the streets…
Explore Poems: Anaphora
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- By James CagneyI come from the kidnapped,
the assaulted—
my country’tis of reparations as in-store credit
... - By Sara Abou RashedWhen I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.
Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love... - By Kimiko HahnIf you could hear, at every jolt, the building quiver—
If you could hear fossils stirring—
If you could hear sand from the fathoms rise—
If you could hear calf thrum to whale—
If you could hear dogs stand still as a deer before... - By Ava CipriHere is the encyclopedia where I learn first position
Here is where I begin ballet: at 12, in a class of 6-year-olds
Here is where I get my period
Here is where I substitute dance for childhood
Here is studio “B” where I practice
Here... - By Patti SmithI feel like
I feel like shit
I need a
I need a drink
and not vinegar neither
I don’t want to die
I feel like a freak
don’t let me cut out
I wasn’t cut out
to go out virgin
I want my cherry
squashed man
hammer amour
love me
live me
hour to... - By Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinhayou mean well, but
when I say I hurt when I say some part of
my body hurts and you say oh, did you do something?
I hear what did you do? As is, it's your fault,
there's... - By Tishani DoshiGirls are coming out of the woods,
wrapped in cloaks and hoods,
carrying iron bars and candles
and a multitude of scars, collected
on acres of premature grass and city
buses, in temples and bars. Girls
are coming out of the woods
with panties tied around their... - By Anne SextonFirst Psalm
Let there be a God as large as a sunlamp to laugh his heat at you.
Let there be an earth with a form like a jigsaw and let it fit for all of ye.
Let there be the darkness of... - By Eloisa Amezcuabecause we know distance too well
because the blood bank didn’t have enough blood for nana & her new knee
because I see your car a car like yours parked across the street from my apartment
because the same night awaits us all
because... - By Traci BrimhallI must be the heavy globe
of hydrangea, always bowing
by summer’s end. Must be salt,
like sadness at a burning city,
an ethical disobedience. I must be
a violet thorn of fire. These days
I don’t taste good, but I must
be singing and boneless, a... - By Larry NealHoly the days of the prune face junkie men
Holy the scag pumped arms
Holy the Harlem faces
looking for space in the dead rock valleys of the City
Holy the flowers
sing holy for the raped holidays
and Bessie’s guts spilling on the Mississippi
road
Sing holy... - By Richard BlancoSeventeen suns rising in seventeen bedroom windows. Thirty-four eyes blooming open with the light of one more morning. Seventeen reflections in the bathroom mirror. Seventeen backpacks or briefcases stuffed with textbooks or lesson plans. Seventeen good mornings at kitchen breakfasts...
- By sam saxgoodbye city. goodbye stoop. goodbye rush hour traffic plume.
goodbye feminist qpoc weed delivery group. goodbye cheap noodle
spot on the corner. goodbye drag bar next door serving the messy
deep into the dead eggplant evening. goodbye drunks screaming
about literally nothing below my... - By Natalie Scenters-ZapicoI’ve stopped asking:
¿Why?
I’ve let a man whistle
... - By Danez Smithyou save me half a bag of skins, the hard parts, my fav, dusted orange with hot
•
you say we can’t go to the bar cause you’re taking your braids out
i come over, we watch madea while we pull you from... - By Justice Ameerthe bo’y wakes up
the bo’y looks at itself
the bo’y notices something missing
there is both too much and not enough flesh on the bo’y
the bo’y is covered in hair
what a hairy bo’y
some makes it look more like a bo’y
some makes it... - By John Lee ClarkA Deaf Blind poet doesn’t like to read sitting up. A Deaf Blind poet likes to read Braille magazines on the john. A Deaf Blind poet is in the habit of composing nineteenth-century letters and pressing Alt+S. A Deaf Blind poet is a terrible...
- By Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it... - By Tracy K. SmithOne of the women greeted me.
I love you, she said. She didn't
Know me, but I believed her,
And a terrible new ache
Rolled over in my chest,
Like in a room where the drapes
Have been swept back. I love you,
I love you, as...