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If you grew up in America, it might surprise you to learn that a poet has ever had that sort of impact. Poetry here is best known for the simple, sentimental verses found in Hallmark cards and the lyrics of pop music. The word "poet" probably calls to mind some weirdo in a beret.
Basking and glowing ever more The swath of light with harmonious glare This is what the light of sun should be Instead the way it glows is similar to being burnt
was it all wasted? the days you spent sleeping on the sand under hot sunlight that burns and scorches your skin
There once was a young man named Darwin Who spent five years tossed to the far wind He wrote a book for his peers After only twenty short years And now he's as pop as George Carlin.
When I was just quite small I was given A beautiful panda bear paintbox Inside the most cheerful ovals I ever did see With it I decided I would paint my world Just as it should be Bright, shiny, free Green leaves and yellow suns
As I lay Forced to watch Unable to avert my eyes She informs me If I should look away I will see her anyway Hear her screams Writhing Crying Strips of herself tear apart and fall As if burned I am sickened by it all
Today provided evidentiary proof Catalyst status It is what I shall learn to embrace A new role S'been brought into glaring relief Focus No longer abstract S'real as rain
What was it That we expected Relief Just a little I suppose In its stead Forlorn reaching justification Coming and going I see this Independent film Inside your head Each frame lovelier than the last
She stands there Her feet firm On unstable ground Her weight distributed to the front of her feet Wind blows hard In bright darkness At waters edge Moon, water, wind Roar Knowing they are special Chosen The lady chose This night This moon This place
Flitter and flutter from flower to flower dancing the 'air-waltz' of butterflies. Dipping and flitting from hour to hour, nature's choreographer soaring in the skies.
Look at little Miss Saneeki Snail. Wherever she goes she leaves a trail. She thinks nobody sees her crawl. She thinks she isn't seen at all.
Don't tick me off. Don't make me mad. Don't get me angry, or make me sad. I'm not afraid, and certainly not scared. I'm not a pushover, so don't even go there.
As I sit in my chair I feel my body tire while the rest of my being seen and unseen is busy closes in and around itself self enveloped a metamorphosis is taking place right under my own nose literally I rejoice in this becoming as I die here alone I am not afraid I thankfully and …
Let me be as proud of my failures as I am my triumphs, I would not be the person I that I am without both, For failure has built my strength and character, Without failure I would have not known triumph.
would you fight for love? what's the worst thing that can happen if you let someone in? all the way?
April is National Poetry Month, a time when communities across the United States popularize poetry. In New York, restaurants place poems inside diners' menus. All over, transit systems are "advertising" poems on buses and in subway trains.
This is a folk song Take me down to Norris Hall And let me see the crime My eyes hold the sounds of guns The crooked smell of time Well half the mountains Filled with pain With coal and diamond tongues And when the sun sets down the hills The death smokes up our lungs
In a recent article on the Poetry Foundation, The New Yorker lobs the latest volley in an ongoing intellectual debate.
Until the time of Ibsen, and birth of modern drama, any play worth the name needed to be something more than people talking on stage much as they would in their own living rooms. It had to be in verse.
Thanksgiving Day, Nov. 28, 1986 William S. Burroughs For John Dillinger In hope he is still alive Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons, destined to be @!$%# out through wholesome American guts — thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison —
Jay-Z Adresses Roc-A-Fella Split on Kingdom Come
Civics in rhyme, one more time By Gene Weingarten Foley's Folly Higgledy Piggledy Congressman Foley's lewd IMs to youngsters show He's quite the louse. No one's applauding, but Oxymoronically This sleazeball's conduct might
Code of Honor
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