Love Poetry For Couple

I I came up out of the subway and there were people standing on the steps as if they knew something I didn't. This was in the Cold War, and nuclear fallout. I looked and the whole avenue was empty, I mean utterly, and I thought, The birds have abandoned our cities and the plague of silence multiplies through their arteries, they fought the war and they lost and there's nothing subtle or vague in this horrifying vacuum that is New York. I caught the blare of a loudspeaker repeatedly warning the last few people, maybe strolling lovers in their walk, that the world was about to end that morning on Sixth or Seventh Avenue with no people going to work in that uncontradicted, horrifying perspective. It was no way to die, but it's also no way to live. Well, if we burnt, it was at least New York. II Everybody in New York is in a sitcom. I'm in a Latin American novel, one in which an egret-haired viejo shakes with some invisible sorrow, some obscene affliction, and chronicles it

Every day I am born like this� No chingues. Nothing happens for the first time. Not the neon sign that says vacant, not the men nor the jackals who resemble them. I take my bones inscribed by those who came before, and learn to court myself under a violence of stars. I prefer to become demon, what their eyes cannot. Half of me is beautiful, half of me is a promise filled with the quietest places. Every day I pray like a dog in the mirror and relish the crux of my hurt. We know Lilith ate the bones of her enemies. We know a bitch learns to love her own ghost. from: https://goo.gl/g1exB5 Erika L. S�nchez

The creative process is a process of surrender, not control. Mystery is at the heart of #creativity . That, and surprise. JULIA CAMERON #amwriting #writing #writingtips � Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) April 24, 2018

Men flow like rivers from the mountains clear and strong into the pits of South Africa to pull gold from the earth. As they descend into dark chambers their families become memories, like the sun. They claw through the flesh of mother earth searching for veins to exploit, while their own blood and souls are ravaged. For when their bodies are spent, twisted or lifeless, the clean white-shirted man picks up his phone and orders another river of men from the mountains. According to Work for Justice, the Lesotho-based newsletter in which this poem first appeared, "Men Flow Like Rivers" was written by Basotho participants in a training workshop for community workers. From Work for Justice. No. 24 (March 1990). Reprint with acknowledgement. http://lifeiswasted.blogspot.com

Those nominated alongside Adichie were Cleo Wade, Jon Ronson, Jonny Sun, Kevin Kwan and Rebecca Traister. https://t.co/4XECnRJqyU � The Guardian Nigeria (@GuardianNigeria) April 19, 2018 Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

A small appreciation for Sam: https://t.co/XO1moQkFc2 via @steemit ???????? � Yahia Lababidi (@YahiaLababidi) April 15, 2018 Sam Hamill

"Essay on the One Hand and on the Other" by James Richardson https://t.co/fD411u1yqL � Rethabile Masilo (@Poet_Rethabile) April 13, 2018 James Richardson

Teach this poem by June Jordan for #NationalPoetryMonth : https://t.co/Hxzb4cmFHg pic.twitter.com/Kob3vCHHrE � Poets.org (@POETSorg) April 2, 2018 June Jordan

Out Today: New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tano) edited by Kwame Dawes and Chris Abani pic.twitter.com/Q5GGEnFMnV — Dusky Literati (@duskyliterati) April 10, 2018

"You can sit there, tense and worried, freezing the creative energies, or you can start #writing something�� https://t.co/qZnofWNyAg #amwriting #creativity #writingtips � Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) April 10, 2018

They�ve covered miles of terrain between Selma and Montgomery, walking in an exodus from fire that burns us. It is like there will be no other chance for them to walk again, bear down on the doors of town hall positioned between phallic pillars, as the heat of the sun fails to deliver what suns are meant to share, behind the back of the march, now out of Alabama and onward unto Tennessee and beyond to the Carolinas�a whole world walks with them, bundled in wishes and demands they carry on their shoulders, till at last they climb the stairs and drop their concerns at the door. For dogs and boots have no way of stopping that kind of gift, the diversity in their one face, not hoses and not even knuckles or spit can change anything. And since that door is locked, they make a gate into the next century. The rest of the story is what would finally unfold. Canopic Publishing, 2016

Belgian colonists in Rwanda used Eye colour and nose length to distinguish and divide the Population. They considered the Tutsis to be superior to the Hutus thus reinforced the Tutsi�s position of power making the Hutus resentful. They thought the Tutsi to be natural leaders. pic.twitter.com/GkonSB8tqp — AFRICAN HISTORY (@africanarchives) March 30, 2018

"There's a reference in Paul which says it's disgraceful for a man to wear long hair, so it looks pretty sure that people of that period had to have reasonably short hair. The traditional depictions of Jesus with long flowing golden hair are probably inaccurate." Deciding on skin colour was more difficult, though. But the earliest depictions of Jews, which date from the 3rd Century, are - as far as can be determined - dark-skinned. "We do seem to have a relatively dark skinned Jesus. In contemporary parlance I think the safest thing is to talk about Jesus as 'a man of colour'." This probably means olive-coloured, he says. [ source ] No one took time to tell me that the picture of the blue eyed, blond haired 'Jesus' hanging from the wall in my parent's living room was actually the family member of some European artist from the 16th century who was commissioned by the leaders of the white church to paint the Son of God in the image of a whi

Dark August , by Derek Walcott Stars of Stone , by Rustum Kozain You, Therefore , by Reginald Shepherd Roses and Revolutions , by Dudley Randall A Girl , by Ezra Pound Confession , by Geoffrey Philp Feeling Fucked Up , by Etheridge Knight Blood , by Naomi Shihab Nye After Midnight , by Louis Simpson Telephone Conversation , by Wole Soyinka Woman , by Nikki Giovanni Adolescence II , by Rita Dove Come , by Makhosazana Xaba Silet , by Ezra Pound Seeing the Eclipse in Maine , by Robert Bly Kingdom of Rain II , by Rustum Kozain Those Winter Sundays , by Robert Hayden Digging , by Seamus Heaney Cleaning , by Kwame Dawes (click on the link to access the poem) The Schooner Flight , by Derek Walcott Not my Business , by Niyi Osundare Evening Hawk , Robert Penn Warren Sunflowers , by Pamela Mordecai Like Rousseau , by Amiri Baraka Epitaph , by Dennis Scott