By Martha Silano
Because why not? Why not take the smashed pinecone
of my life, render it in purple? Why not dream of…
of my life, render it in purple? Why not dream of…
Explore Poems: Elegy
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- By Kevin PruferThe brutality of those two men
who broke into her apartment
and murdered her boyfriend,
... - By Layli Long SoldierHere, the sentence will be respected.
I will compose each sentence with care, by minding what the rules of writing dictate.
For example, all sentences will begin with capital letters.
Likewise, the history of the sentence will be honored by ending each one... - By Federico García Lorca1.
La cogida y la muerte
A las cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
Un niño trajo la blanca sábana
a las cinco de la tarde.
Una espuerta de cal ya prevenida
a las cinco de la tarde.
Lo demás era muerte... - By Federico García LorcaTranslated By Sarah Arvio1
The Goring and the Death
At five in the afternoon
At the stroke of five
The boy brought the white sheet
at five o’clock
A basket of lime all ready
at five o’clock
The rest was death and only death
at five o’clock
Wind carried off the cotton balls
at... - By Tracy K. Smith200 cows more than 600 hilly acres
property would have been even larger
had J not sold 66 acres to DuPont for
waste from its Washington Works factory
where J was employed
... - By Lucie Brock-BroidoHow odd that she would die into an August
night, I would have thought
she would have gone out in a pale clear
night of autumn, covered to the shoulder
in an ivory sheet, hair
fanned out across the pillow perfectly.
Fame will go by, and,... - By Gabriel RamirezI couldn’t be who I am
today if it wasn’t for you
being dead. It was time
for glitter, nail polish, and locs.
Glitter in my nail polish.
Glitter in my locs.
You wouldn’t have
loved me loving myself;
my joy rendered
inconvenience.
Sucked teeth keeping me
your grandson.
My love for... - By Rachel Tzvia Back1
The cyclamens have a hard time
breathing in July.
The sun ravages them and earth
is too dry.
Still, try remembering March light
and the tight
deep-buried bulbs that somehow
do not die.
2
The children are scattered
like weeds.
The children are scattered dust-colored
dirt-covered
like weeds. Mid-summer grey reigns,
and rain
exists not... - By Rachel Tzvia BackIn the south we are busy now
slaughtering each other, there's no time
for flowers––
Slowly summer will
scalding pass, autumn will
arrive unnoticed.
If only rain would come to
send us all indoors––
There to stand
at ruined thresholds and
watch the yellow sky
weep and weep
for all our dead. - By Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do... - By Tristan TzaraTranslated By Heather Greenthen the clouds rolled in
young is the night that is to say
a cellophane softness ensued
which blew across the sky like wisps of straw
their firearms—a job well done
young is the night
and when the circus tent begins to blaze
beneath the eyes speak... - By Assotto Saintwhere
do you find
strength
to climb
down the hill
to your lover’s
grave
what
do you bring
but thirteen years
of memories/
how do you deal
with his death
when your gasps
loom
in the autumn air
like circling crows
spasms rock
your body
like squirrels
shake the scarlet oak
& purple dogwood
branches
while through the buzz
of a helicopter
the roar
of an... - By Patti Smithnotebook
divine love is so.
invisible.
notebook
november 1. all souls day. rimbaud-o. go
to hell. picasso knows. how he really fucking
knew knows. where can he go now.
notebook
picasso hoax: don’t nobody tell when he dies.
continue let time continue and move like myth.
till suddenly somebody rings... - By David St. JohnWho keeps the owl’s breath? Whose eyes desire?
Why do the stars rhyme? Where does
The flush cargo sail? Why does the daybook close?
So sleep and do not sleep.
The opaque stroke lost across the mirror,
The clamp turned.
The polished nails begin the curl... - By Jeanne LarsenIf I claim this poem presents the tundra
swans we saw at first light, you might,
wrongly, think of Yeats at Coole.
Or 9-&-50 other suppositions. In fact,
the blue slate of this lake reflected formerly
some blockchain constellations. Alas
now for mimesis; a star necklace... - By Thylias MossBecause all energy went into making him breathe
dawn was not noticeable
though on the beach it was bigger than anywhere
else, awakened stars stowing away in sand,
low-tide sparkle of a cosmos the sea will take away,
subtraction is basic, the boy's body when... - By Audre LordeI have not ever seen my father’s grave.
Not that his judgment eyes
have been forgotten
nor his great hands’ print
on our evening doorknobs
one half turn each night
and he would come
drabbled with the world’s business
massive and silent
as the whole day’s wish
ready to redefine
each... - By Cody SmithRemember when we almost drowned in ’03, the woods
so thick we only knew the rainstorm by sound of thunder
and violence of the... - By John KinsellaPollination against the seed to grow canopy
and mark place in shades of green—dry here to reflect
in glassine quartz chips in the off-red dirt where trees tree
as the forest is difference there green-inflected light you nurtured far
where volcanic would give name...