Poem
By Jorie Graham
The blades like irises turning very fast to see you completely—steel-blue then red where the cut occurs…
Category
Mixed
Showing 1-20 of 154 results
- PoemBy Peter O’LearyIn a wind
the lake's scissoring surface
and the Sun's vernal glare
the gulls cut to curls
in their turns… - PoemBy R. L. SwihartThe young man says, “Alan can
do anything he wants”
“Not fly,” I say
The young man returns
a puzzled look… - PoemBy Stephen Ratcliffelight coming into fog against invisible
top of ridge, blue jay on redwood fence
in foreground, sound of wave in channel
starting from this concept,
anything that is not
on... - PoemBy Frank X. Walker...walk into a bar in America.
Butterworth says, I’m being repackaged.
Ben says, I’m being rebranded.
Jemima says, I remember
when they branded my mama on her back.
The bartender says, I could stand in the middle
of Main Street and kill somebody
and I wouldn’t... - PoemBy Ama Codjoe1.
He had a caribou's face. Once he let me
lick the sadness there. It tasted of salt
and moss-covered rocks. He grew the beard
of a mountain goat. He scaled the face
of a mountain. Lying beside him, I stared
into the face of faceless... - ArticleBy Sarah ArvioMetaphor in Lorca is a form of gorgeous shorthand.
- PoemBy Walela NehandaCrip (noun): slang for a disabled person/the whole of
the disabled community/
a school of thought
Example: “I’m on crip time”
Meaning: Time bends differently when the universe that is
my body dictates it
Crip (noun): a Black gang that originated in... - PoemBy Jane HirshfieldOn the fifth day
the scientists who studied the rivers
were forbidden to speak
or to study the rivers.
The scientists who studied the air
were told not to speak of the air,
and the ones who worked for the farmers
were silenced,
and the ones who worked... - PoemBy Tom Andrews1.
Day brings a steady
hand, a sure breath every other day ...
My brother again on the edge of his bed,
sitting up with his eyes closed,
his palms pressed, a brief prayer.
... - PoemBy 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... - PoemBy 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... - PoemBy Terrance HayesBroken Earth
Year of Release: 1939
Running Time: 11 minutes
Cast: Clarence Muse and unidentified boy
I am the sick boy in the shack when the camera opens
On the sunrise and wispy silhouettes of the plow
And the fool mule and my father working a... - PoemBy Cedric Tillmanyou know I ain’t mess w/you ’cause of yo’ friends
wouldn’t have you caught slummin’
know you hood 'cause you said
I look the same
and I said
you look the same
and I said “it don’t crack, doit?
and you said “Uh, OKAY?”
that’s that thing right... - PoemBy Ahmad Almallahthe wound is bleeding into white
the wound is threading clouds
across the eye, across its view
and how can it be
that I am
caught
... - PoemBy Victoria ChangJan.4.2022
A call is just a call. I pick it up.
Jan.6.2022
I lift blankets looking for my father.
Jan.7.2022
When I take off the patch, your eye is gone.
I spend the day in other people’s tears.
Jan.9.2022
Someone says your eyelid almost came off,
the doctors tried... - PoemBy D. A. Powell“Anyway, it isn’t forever,” Chris said,
“eventually you’re dead.” And we laughed
Besides, everything is better now. Not us
but implants, blenders, children, heart attacks.
There’s never been a better time to be alive
than when you are. If you are. Black-throated
blue warbler says chewchewchewchewchewww
drawing... - PoemBy A. Van JordanLately, my friends ask me, out of love,
have I written about my mother,
who suffers under the storm of Alzheimer’s disease,
and I tell them, “I don’t write about my family,
never directly, at least.” To write this poem seems so
out of character... - PoemBy Kara KrewerUnder which she pruned
the peach trees and a tiny gateway
opened in her spine. That pain
distilled there like a drop
of molten glass. And was the first of many
chambers to form.
There was her bedroom,
where she bloomed
in the white fog of sleep
and so... - PoemBy Jennifer Bartlettto walk means to fall
to thrust forward
to fall and catch
the seemingly random
is its own system of gestures
based on a series of neat errors
falling and catching
to thrust forward
sometimes the body misses
then...