Love Poetry For Couple

Enjoy. I find however that Max should have used background music that is actually from Lesotho, or is Sesotho, as opposed to music from our neighbours. Somehow like showing France off and playing German music in the background, or showing Mexico off and playing country music in the background. Secondly, as someone else pointed out, the kid at 6:20' is mentally 'handicapped'. Max, you didn't have to wrap up the experience with, "That was a little strange". Anyone could have seen that the kid wasn't your average kid. Otherwise, nice. And thank you for the video. Mosotho horseman Photo used with Mr Pierce's permission ( https://goo.gl/CW9AKo )

Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving� a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls, an emblem of impossible prophecy: a crowd dividing like the furrow which a mule has plowed, parting for their president; a field of snow-flecked cotton forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens that the young plowman ignores for his unforgotten cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch are a tense court of bespectacled owls and, on the field�s receding rim is a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him while the small plow continues on this lined page beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado�s black vengeance, and the young plowman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles, tendons, till the field lies open like a flag as dawn�s sure light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower. I've been told many times, directly and indirectly, notably by Geoffrey and Rustum , both of whom I admire, that if I read any one thing, then I must

"I like men and women both. But I don't like that word: homosexual, gay or faggot . I don't know what I am. I love men and women the same, but if you ask me which is better ... I like women. I keep thinking how strange it is ... I kill a man and most people understand and forgive me. However, I love a man, and to so many people this is an unforgivable sin; this makes me an evil person. So, even though I never went to jail, I have been in prison almost all my life." � Emile Alphonse Griffith Emile destroying Paret, after the latter had taunted his sexual orientation. From 'The Guardian': The night boxer Emile Griffith answered gay taunts with punches Emile Griffith

When time arrives, and life's alive, after toil has poured glycerine all over my black face, and I'm pocket-happier after weekend pay, with braaivleis that gives off incense, I wonder what to do with thoughts that bloom in me from love�s innocence. At night, when I walk down Kingsway's life of men, smelling of soap, the same blood that again and again boils, questions the hope of my name, because centuries have loved us hardest, the moon-cool and calm-eyed poise that claims the best in things. My inner sense is in total control of me. Street lamps hang fuchsia heads and I hear in that rhythm always others denying instinct, I hear it in the church�s roar, inside its deep, purple core; I hear in my head its brittle voice asking me to stay away from others, but never extinguishing my spark, this eagerness of body. I hear it on mouths of folks on the way to and from work, and on park benches at lunch when the sun bears down on us its power, and we drink warm water and laugh at

A poor idea well written is more likely to be accepted than a good idea poorly written. ISAAC ASIMOV #amwriting #writing #writingtips pic.twitter.com/FvkijN88jo � Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) May 25, 2018 Isaac Asimov

A poem by the National Poet of Wales to honour the Inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America on 20th January 2009 Venus in the arc of the young moon is a boat the arms of a bay, the sky clear to infinity but for the trailing gossamer of a transatlantic plane. The old year and the old era dead, pushed burning out to sea bearing the bones of heroes, tyrants, ideologues, thieves and deceivers in a smoke of burning money. The dream is over. Glaciers will melt. Seas will rise to swallow golden islands. Somewhere a volcano may whelm a city, earth shake its skin like an old horse, a hurricane topple a town to rubble. Yet tonight, under the cold beauty of the moon and Venus, something like hope begins, as if times can turn, the world change course, as if truth can speak, good men come to power, and words have meaning again. Maybe black-hearted boys in love with death won�t blow themselves and us to smithereens. Maybe guns will fall silent, the powerful

I You used to be able to drive (though I don't) across the wide, pool-sheeted pasture below the house to the hot, empty beach and park in the starved shade of the acacias that print those tiny yellow flowers (blank, printless beaches are part of my trade); then there were men with tapes and theodolites who measured the wild, uneven ground. I watched the doomed acres where yet another luxury hotel will be built with ordinary people fenced out. The new makers of our history profit without guilt and are, in fact, prophets of a policy that will make the island a mall, and the breakers grin like waiters, like taxi drivers, these new plantations by the sea; a slavery without chains, with no blood spilt� just chain-link fences and signs, the new degradations. I felt such freedom writing under the acacias. II Bossman, if you look in those bush there, you'll find a whole set of passport, wallet, I.D., credit card, that is no use to them, is money on their mind and is not every time you&

in Motetema, Limpopo Province I feed the teachers, morning to late light, a feast of stories. as the sun sifts the room one ladles a question onto my plate. it lies there like the pap we ate at lunch. Who did you inherit story-telling from? a big meal question. he watches me chew. first response, inside, I say, No one. It started here. but this Lazarus has raised a ghost. I take his question down to my gut to search for one who hands down gifts. who multiplies fish and bread. I answer his gaze. when I tell, the story comes from somewhere else, through me. You see this? he slowly nods and smiles. a match strikes a woodpile. Europe and Africa blood and belonging reconcile in the telling. it is the ancestors who story through me. a night fire ignites my belly. Dorian Haarhoff

Cells along my gullet dance to James Brown, gulp the whisky I pour on them and fornicate. They�ve grown angrier with me over the weeks. And though I resist, they know my life is done. I�m bound by a power they have over me, it is their secret, the one ace up their sleeve. I get upset with them sometimes, and go: "I know you�re in there" . But they crank up their R&B and fornicate even more, though they are my cells and I am their kingdom. I live in spaces they fail to occupy. Needless to say, I�m also their tomb, poised at the edge of a life where time emerges and then dies. �Rethabile Masilo

Curtis Mayfield

Call for Submission: Second Issue https://t.co/rENC4hPJC4 pic.twitter.com/jjbL3kgpoa � Africa in Dialogue (@africa_dialogue) May 15, 2018 What!!!?

Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. �Genesis 1:28 Her flaming hair in God's whole power, even as heat swells the atmosphere damp; he hums a jingle and continues to spin pedicel to fibre, four-leaf clovers, daisies, grinning. 'Six days,' he says aloud� this has took long enough already. They�re in a motel room with centrefolds on the walls (from filthy magazines), and behind her Adam waiting with the stump of himself in his hands like someone holding a tree-trunk with veins, the brine of Eve in him, even as she tosses her hair to turn him into a creature whose need is to mate with her now. In her head a new light shines on the flowing strands of her reddish tresses which are translucent like queues of fireflies bugs in a world she shares with a fruit, this man, a serpent, and no obdurate people to curse her when the pleasure begins to deform her glad face.

The beauty of a child can become lost In the beauty of all those children. �Tj Pfau This is the story of Motlatsi In another Africa, perhaps in an alternate universe. Lives a beautiful dark child With skin like smooth chocolate. Each morning he rises from his bed And eats the mealie pap his grandmother Prepares as she does every day. Today is like all the other days. She stirs, The corn meal in the pot goes around, And bubbles and thickens. Afterward, His grandmother takes his small soft hand In her large hand, and together they scatter Corn to the chickens in the yard. This is the story of Motlatsi. In another Africa, perhaps in an alternate Universe, lives this beautiful dark child With skin like smooth chocolate. He chases the chickens in the yard on his Tricycle. The bell on the trike sings A warning: I am coming! Watch out! I come! A pin-tailed Whydah cries from the broad leaves And green thorns of the Kahretsana. This is another part of the story Of Motlatsi, in another Africa, i

Aaron bajo su paraguas

After you left In the space That empty rooms Unveil, I felt nuts. You had gone Early to work And I felt nuts, Between smokes Or after meals (I ate from tins), I spent that whole Day feeling nuts. Till you arrived And I went to open The door with My other hand.

Her eyes are Palestinian Her name is Palestinian Her dress and sorrow Palestinian Her kerchief, her feet and body Palestinian Her words and silence Palestinian Her voice Palestinian Her birth and her death Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish

Julius Chingono Today I was fortunate to stumble upon a vendor sorting out grapes for sale. He separated the good from the bad on a plastic sheet spread on the pavement. He gave me the ones that he thought were foul. I sorted the grapes in my mouth. I spat out those that were bad but my tongue did not find the grapes all that bad. It's just that the broken ones had less juice and the over-ripe had an odour. 1. Po�frika interview with Julius Chingono:  here 2. Another poem by Julius Chingono on Po�frika: ' It denotes ' 3. Another poem by Julius Chingono on Po�frika: ' False tooth '

Read Rethabile Masilo 's answer to What is the most common language spoken in Lesotho? on Quora

People come with spades to the gathering, often another chapter in the life of someone; anything which gazes east-west is a rock to tell us of the peace of silence. There�s much magic in desiring peace (and obtaining it), as much as there is with love-making, the magic of dressing up, and dressing down, using toys or just kissing with the wild tongue or both. Even against poverty a head rears up, even against the promise of a broken life; it stands like a stretched arm holding a 10-pound stone saying good luck at daunting me next time; saying... come, I want to tell you about my little country, our kingdom. It started with the magnet used by our fore-parents to pull us out of rotting days which in secret they put here� touches his heart � under our name, like corpses in a churchyard beneath the centuries-old soil of our people. Bushels and bushels of blood-splashed bodies waiting to be stuffed into the waiting earth: you will just have to accept that this country is a tomb. But come, t

Shailja Patel 1. Did you move into writing poetry gradually, or did any one thing push you over the edge? Poetry chose me, when I was very young. I've been making up poems since before I learned how to write. ----- 2. Please tell us about Migritude . Is it a play? A poem? A monologue? Migritude is an epic journey, in four movements. I coined the word Migritude as a play on Negritude and Migrant Attitude . It asserts the dignity of outsider status. Migritude celebrates and revalorizes immigrant/diasporic culture. It captures the unique political and cultural space occupied by migrants who refuse to choose between identities of origin and identities of assimilation, who channel difference as a source of power rather than conceal or erase it. The four works that make up the Migritude Cycle draw on my Hindu spiritual heritage. They reference the earliest religious teaching imparted to Hindu children: that of the First Four Gods. The Hindu child is taught that her first god is her Mothe

1. Have you always been "poetic"? An interview at Geoffrey Philp's blog dates your first poem back to when you were 9. What was the first poem you placed in a magazine? Did that/those "first" poem/s make it into any of your books? Always, if that means seduced by rhyme and rhythm and the power of images. My father didn�t read us bedtime stories � he read us poems from an anthology called THE BEST LOVED POEMS OF THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. Some poems told stories, and some of those were fit for children, like �The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat�, but others were very grown up poems, like Longfellow�s �The Day is Done�. Shortly before his death, I read his favourites back to him from the same book, weeping the whole time. The first poem I published was in BIM, an important literary magazine founded in 1942 in Barbados by Frank Collymore, which has just recently been revived. There were very few publishing outlets for us in the region at the time so many of us in the Cari

Michelle McGrane Born in 1974 in Zimbabwe, Michelle McGrane spent her childhood in Malawi, and moved to South Africa with her family when she was fourteen. Her third poetry collection is forthcoming in 2010. She lives in Johannesburg, South Africa, and blogs at peony moon . Here's what was said: Will you share some of your memories of Malawi with us? My memories of Malawi remain a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, smells and tastes. I remember going to the Saturday morning market in Limbe with my mother: the glowing pyramids of fruit and vegetables set up in rows on concrete slabs, the yards of tiny dried fish, kapenta, laid out in the sun, the heaps of colourful spices in yellow enamel bowls, bunches of ripe bananas. Baskets of all shapes and sizes. Straw brooms. Wooden carvings. Miniature wire cars and bicycles. Brilliant bead jewellery. It was an Aladdin's treasure trove. There were hot weekends spent at a cottage on the shores of Lake Malawi. We slept with white ga

1. In your opinion, what is the worst thing that has happened to writing in the past ten years? That is such a general question. I wouldn't know where to begin. The world is so big. I know some good things are happening in Caribbean writing. More authors are being published, and that is something about which we can all give thanks. 2. If there were one thing that the 'learning' and 'beginning' writers should do, what would it be? There is a Buddhist story about full cups and empty cups. Be empty. 3. Poets spend a lot of time perfecting their craft, and then perfecting each piece. So, where's the money? The riches are in the kingdom of heaven... 4. How long did you work on your first book? Do all your books take about the same time to "finish"? My first book took me about ten years to write. Then, I began to write steadily. Hurricane Center took me one year to write because I purposely set out to write a poem a week. Made my wife crazy, but I did it. Th

1. In your opinion, are the times we live in good or not for literature? If not, what do you do to "make it"? If so, in what way? I'm not sure. From a writer's perspective, one's own time is one's own time, meaning, I live now and can't compare, in lived experience, to another time. Having said that, I imagine all times are good for literature from a writer's perspective - all times must have in them the stuff, the grist for the writer's mill. Have the past 20 years then been good for writing, especially for the monkish art of poetry? I think so, especially as we face a world from which it is probably better to withdraw if you're a poet, into your cell or tower, which is exactly where the writing happens. As to the production side, I don't know. In SA, big publishers publish less poetry, but small independents still have heart and courage to do so. Literature in general seems to be booming - books are published, reviewed etc. Lets forget th

1. Did you move into writing poetry gradually, or did any one thing push you over the edge? It was a dance from when I was a child, a kind of secret that I didn�t know how to share, until my dances got longer and louder and would not be silent anymore. The essay, "Laying in the Tall Grasses, Eating Cane: How I Became a Writer," in my collection Eros Muse (Africa World Press, 2007) goes in more details about my development as a writer, and perhaps more effectively chronicles how I found my voice... but I would have to say now on recollection, that in many ways my life was poetry, so capturing it was not only easy but inevitable. ----- 2. Do you work on just one poem at a time, or do you work on several at the same time? I'm always working on several things at once, not just poetry, but prose and essay and stuff. If I don�t my head will explode. Ideas come at me like bullets on a battle field, and sometimes my head does feels as if it has been blown open, brain and matter