By Sri Chinmoy
Within, without the cosmos wide am I;
In joyful sweep I loose forth and draw back all.
A birthless, deathless…
In joyful sweep I loose forth and draw back all.
A birthless, deathless…
Explore Poems: Quatrain
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- By Joyce KilmerNow by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should… - By Marwa Helalsay i ‘well
particular in one no to
backed ive time first the isnt this
disaster a of out us - By Emily BrontëO transient voyager of heaven!
O silent sign of winter skies!
What adverse wind thy sail has driven
To dungeons where a prisoner lies?
Methinks the hands that shut the sun
So sternly from this morning's brow
Might still their rebel task have done
And checked a thing... - By William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes,
Or again does return... - 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 Natalie E. IllumA swimming pool hotter than bathwater.
Chlorine haze. My mother along the edge
encouraging me, with my Curious George, to swim.
Though I liked the Man with the Yellow Hat better.
Chlorine hazy and my mother at the edge.
Swim teacher says my legs are... From the magazine:
Might Have Been July, Might Have Been December
By Robert WrigleyMore oblique the eagle’s angle
than the osprey’s precipitous fall,
but rose up both and under them dangled
a trout, the point of it all.
Festooned, a limb on each one’s
favored tree either side of the river,
with chains of bone and lace of skin
the...- By Langston HughesHold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
- By Ursula K. Le GuinAUTUMN
gold of amber
red of ember
brown of umber
all September
MCCOY CREEK
Over the bright shallows
now no flights of swallows.
Leaves of the sheltering willow
dangle thin and yellow.
OCTOBER
At four in the morning the west wind
moved in the leaves of... From the magazine:
Back Up Quick They’re Hippies
By Lani O'HanlonThat was the year we drove
into the commune in Cornwall.
“Jesus Jim,” mam said,
“back up quick they’re hippies.”
Through the car window,
tents, row after row, flaps open,
long-haired men and women
curled around each other like babies
and the babies themselves
wandered naked across the grass.
I...From the magazine:
Charlottesville Curriculum
By Sarah GambitoI am afraid of your transcendental death.
When people say think of a man. I think of a brown man.
Sometimes the earth grows khella because she can feel our suffering.
Yooooooing beneath Costco tikis.
When people say think of a man. I think...From the magazine:
Sedition — a letter to the writer from Meri Mangakāhia
By Anahera GildeaHere’s what I had in mind, kōtiro, this
clipping at words like overgrown maikuku —
return the blankets of domestic life; don’t fold
washing or wear shoes, polish these rerenga kē.
Eh. But this world.
I s’pose neither of us planned to be in politics,
never did...From the magazine:
Letter from the Estuary
By Erik KennedyTwo feet of snow at my parents’ place, in another season.
Here, the cicadas sing like Christian women’s choirs
in a disused cotton mill. Belief is a kind of weather.
I haven’t seen proper snow for three years.
The new urban forest for native...From the magazine:
Agnus Dei
By Steven ToussaintMust be a stumbler, bleeder,
as some floccus remains here, carded
into ragged sleeves by barbed wire.
I’d believe in a God who can learn
to work new spindles, new pupils
uncomprehending the reasons
light rosins in winter, and still
spill clumsily, bleeding.
Now drizzle caught
in oily pockets...From the magazine:
All the American Poets Have Titled Their New Books “The End”
By Cornelius EadyHow many books now have the word Last
In their title? Or worry, or some dangling variation
Of mistake? Or empire burning, or
The fools have fucked it up?
Who the hell listens? They roar and
Wriggle, up and down the page,
They screen-print what’s coming...From the magazine:
God Letter
By CM BurroughsDo I have to dress up or can I wear jeans? Dear Joaquin,
casual Sunday is a plus! Can a woman be fully present in heels?
Remember the other day at the shops, we saw the T-shirt that
read “Blessed” across the front?...From the magazine:
Winter, Hospital Bed
By Robert AdamsonMemory was the room I entered down a long corridor
Thrown by the white drugs of pain though pain
Was adrift on a glassy stream of green tide
Where images flickered and ran on
I didn’t write poetry for publication
In those days but to...From the magazine:
The hard part
By Clare JonesThe new root of the fern is the part you eat in famine.
Harsh words are spoken, but they’re not the ones that make you turn.
Where the muscle’s smooth. That’s where it doesn’t fray.
The hard part is what comes easy. The...