To be honest, I don’t remember What I’ve come here for Surely, it must have been an important reason One doesn’t just make a vagabond of oneself for no reason When I remember I will finish this poem. . .
Tag Archives | Poetry
In his life he neither wrote nor read. In his life he didn’t cut down a single tree, didn’t slit the throat of a single calf. In his life he did not speak of the New York Times behind its back, didn’t raise his voice to a soul except in his saying: “Come in, […]
In the prime of our youth We dreamt of hope Testimonies of a new world Anthems of a new tomorrow A world in which no one Suffered sorrow or knew of hunger On this side there were multitudes On the other the elite On this side the hungry, the naked On the other the treasures […]
The mark of Cain won’t sprout from a soldier who shoots at the head of a child on a knoll by the fence around a refugee camp — for beneath his helmet, conceptually speaking, his head is made of cardboard.
(for Ash and his birthplace) Within the rubble, Child’s face, doll’s face, unblinking Blushing in red dawn Russell Ragsdale is a chef in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Visit his blog: Yuckelbel’s Canon.
In one sigh, Death in a third world, A hand lies withered and curled, Peals of death rain down on a child, Artists of life are ruined and defiled, My ovaries sag with hate, I am death to procreate, In one sigh. Ros Csikc-Cyr is an activist. Her poetry offers a perspective on issues […]
Living is no laughing matter: you must live with great seriousness like a squirrel, for example — I mean without looking for something beyond and above living, I mean living must be your whole occupation. Nazim Hikmet, “On Living,” 1947