Poem
By Pamela Sneed
The only antidote I may have to Trump’s election
is in a small ferry to Robben Island
one that shuttles…
is in a small ferry to Robben Island
one that shuttles…
Category
War & Conflict
Showing 1-20 of 1,424 results
- PoemBy Damilola OmotoyinboEven the temple testified to the fragrance
of her hymns—before she was slain
right on the pulpit. While… - PoemBy Olga LivshinDecember. In Odesa,
power stations, shelled.
Your father’s friend
shivers in his apartment
crammed with … - PoemBy Michelle Phương Hồ
On my windowsill, there are insects whose skeletal remains
remain intact. Fruit flies or gnats… - PoemBy Edward SalemGod said (and already you can tell
I’m making this up),
If you lift a rock, I am there.
If you lift a finger… - PoemBy Kinsale DrakeIn the years of scorched earth,
Kit Carson’s pale-knife face
bayonetting the sky, his blood thirst,
… - PoemBy Rowie Shondeen ShebalaWell she actually said
if you were an Ewok I would rescue you and name you Sunshine
build you a tiny… - PoemBy Shaina A. NezKéyah ‘ashdladiingo bił háhoodzooígíí Bidahnaat’a’í shił nilįįgo biniinaa bich’į ‘ádíshní Háálá ‘á…
- PoemBy Cameron BarnettThis is how the story begins: a touch, a bump, a hot mouth,
jostled skin in an elevator, escalation, … - PoemBy Meredith StrickerEvery morning opening the newspaper, I am faced
with the thin line that divides disaster and deprivation
from a world of luminous wealth. Tuesday, January 29th,
for instance, bodies, many of them children, lie on the ground
They drowned in the canal trying to escape a weapons depot fire
and explosion in Lagos. Their heads are twisted in straw and dust
near the feet of on-lookers whose cries we cannot hear - ArticleBy André Naffis-Sahely
New collections by Frank X. Walker and E. Hughes use documentary techniques to dramatize a tumultuous era in Black American history.
- PoemBy Chaelee DaltonConsider the market. Consider the gross domestic product of Korea. Call it Kimchi.
Ferment culture in… - PoemBy Anastasia Taylor-LindIt’s 9/11 the first time you stay.
In the morning you bring Taliban poems back to bed.
I drink cardamom…