The narrative of greatness in this country has been inflated to compensate for our narrative of shame.
— Claudia Rankine
They say of me, and so they should,
It’s doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come-
Inseparable my nose and thumb!
— Dorothy Parker
Have I spent too much time worrying about the boys
killing each other to pray for the ones who do it
with their own hands?
Is that not black on black violence?
Is that not a mother who has to bury her boy?
Is it not the same play?
The same plot & characters?
The curtain rises, then:
a night emptied of music
It always drives the crowd to their feet.
of boy after boy
after sweet boy — their endless, bloody bow.
They throw dirt on the actors like roses
until the boys are drowned by the earth
& the audience doesn’t remember
what they’re standing for.
I had said I wasn’t going to write no more poems like this
I had confessed to myself all along, tracer of life, poetry trends
That awareness, consciousness, poems that screamed of pain and the origins of pain and death had blanketed my tablets
And therefore, my friends, brothers, sisters, in-laws, outlaws, and besides — they already knew
But brother Torres, common ancient bloodline brother Torres is dead
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a single word: Home.
— Mahmoud Darwish
Unfortunately, It Was Paradise: Selected Poems
If you tell her I was an old friend, she will only hear
half of what you say. She will recall how you looked at places
with a tinge of regret and a shade of nostalgia. She will remember
how you skipped a certain song ― a reminder of something you’ll find an excuse
not to tell her every time the car radio is on.
Read the whole poem by A. A. Dizon at the link below:
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on,
answering our own wave…
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
National Poetry Day (UK) is on Thursday 8th October 2015
That is tomorrow & the theme is Light. What will you share? Leave a hint in the comments below.
Celebrate with @PoetryDayUK: it will be our 21st birthday! #NationalPoetryDay
BY HENRY DUMAS
BY MAYA ANGELOU
Everybody for hisself.
Curse and cry and then jump two.
That’s what hopping’s all about.
I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don’t belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn’t happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold
— William Carlos William
Worst Day Ever?
Today was the absolute worst day ever
And don’t try to convince me that
There’s something good in every day
Because, when you take a closer look,
This world is a pretty evil place.
Some goodness does shine through once in a while
Satisfaction and happiness don’t last.
And it’s not true that
It’s all in the mind and heart
True happiness can be attained
Only if one’s surroundings are good
It’s not true that good exists
I’m sure you can agree that
It’s all beyond my control
And you’ll never in a million years hear me say
Today was a very good day
Now read it from bottom to top, the other way,
And see what I really feel about my day.
Not long afterwards, the poem was entered into a poetry competition on PoetryNation.com, making it into the semi-finals before ultimately being passed over.