By Shereen Akhtar
In our first house-let in London, she drew on the tablecloth to create
a calligraphic feast. Our friends…
a calligraphic feast. Our friends…
Explore Poems: Travels & Journeys
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- By BashōTranslated By Lucien StrykWake, butterfly—
it's late, we've miles
to go together. - By Xiao Yue Shan1
listen carefully—there is land or there is water,
and a time where
you may mistake one for another.
there… - By Li-Young LeeI can hear in your voice
you were born in one country
and will die in another, and where you live is where… - By William Butler YeatsI
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music... - By Jorie GrahamThe blades like irises turning very fast to see you completely—steel-blue then red where the cut occurs…
- By Ada LimónIs it okay to begin with the obvious? I am full of stones—
is it okay not to look out this window, but to look out another?
A mentor once said, You can't start a poem... - By CAConrad“this is your
captain” Frank says from the cockpit
“all passengers wishing to bail out
any time during our flight
it
is
too
late
I have shredded the parachutes to confetti
in celebration of our arrival” - By Richard BlancoQue será, el café of this holy, incorporated place,
the wild steam of scorched espresso cakes rising
like mirages from the aromatic waste, waving
over the coffee-glossed lips of these faces
assembled for a standing breakfast of nostalgia,
of tastes that swirl with the delicacy... - By Tristan TzaraTranslated By Heather Greensenseless here’s the man with the crystal contractions
with the rumor of sand with a doll’s past tense
at the hollow step in a bed of distress
nevertheless present at the passage of spring spring Tristan Tzara wrote this poem during the summer of... - By Ahmad Almallahthe world is not as bad as our
neighbors
made it to be that day—
we’ve seen worse days—
and how beautiful
they were, these days... - 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 Lorine NiedeckerNothing worth noting
except an Andromeda
with quadrangular shoots—
the boots
of the people
wet inside: they must swim
to church thru the floods
or be taxed—the blossoms
from the bosoms
of the leaves
*
Fog-thick morning—
I see only
where I now walk. I carry
my clarity
with me.
*
Hear
where her snow-grave is
the You
ah you
of... - By Hart CraneI
Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.
And in answer to their treble interjections
The sun beats lightning... - By UnknownOft him anhaga are gebideð,
metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ,
wadan wræclastas. Wyrd bið ful aręd!
Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig,
wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre:
“Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce
mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nan
þe... - By John Gillespie Magee Jr.Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence.... - By Katie WillinghamDiagram of a diagram: if properly decoded,
... - By Katie HartsockIn order to assess the situation,
a good wall is necessary
for strategic leaning
and contemplative exhalations
cast in smoke.
Across the state highway,
the strip mall sits for sale,
its parking lot lamps
empty umbrellas of spit and shine.
In this dead of the country
night, a passing trucker
shifts... - By Robin BeckerThe desert is butch, she dismisses your illusions
about what might do to make your life
work better, she stares you down and doesn’t say
a word about your past. She brings you a thousand days,
a thousand suns effortlessly each morning rising.
She lets... - By Robin BeckerThink of the fox skins belted to the backs of the dancers
at Santo Domingo Pueblo, a thousand fox skins leaping.
The first year I heard the bells around their waists.
The second year I heard the drum inside my belly.
The third year...