Love Poetry For Couple

 Their guilt is not so very different from ours: �who has not joyed in the arbitrary exercise of power or grasped for himself what might have been another�s and who has not used superior force in the moment when he could, (and who of us has not been tempted to these things?)�     varadero-bol.com trophaeenschau-alpnach.com alkawtarmarrakech.com radikifruits.com glitzerbombe.com mediprintbiomedical.com chinaresgrp.com   so, in their guilt, the bare ferocity of teeth, chest-thumping challenge and defiance, the deafening clamor of their prayers to a deity made in the image of their prejudice which drowns the voice of conscience, is mirrored our predicament but on a social, massive, organized scale which magnifies enormously as the private dehabille of love becomes obscene in orgies.

Dennis Vincent Brutus (born November 28, 1924, Salisbury, Rhodesia) is a South African poet. A graduate of the University of Fort Hare and the University of the Witwatersrand, Brutus was formerly on the faculty of the University of Denver and Northwestern University. Dennis Brutus was an activist against the apartheid government of South Africa in the 1960s. He worked to get South Africa suspended from the Olympics; this eventually lead to the country's expulsion from the games in 1970. He joined the Anti-Coloured Affairs Department organisation (Anti-CAD), a group that organised against the Coloured Affairs Department which was an attempt by the government to institutionalise divisions between blacks and coloureds. The Anti-CAD was affiliated to the Trotskyist Fourth International in South Africa. He was arrested in 1963 and jailed for 18 months on Robben Island. https://ello.co/faqk24   https://torgi.gov.ru/forum/user/profile/1085532.page   https://www.behance.net/gsgsga

She decided to hoe the garden, though tired and only able to shuffle when she walks; that place, in front near her gate, is a shrine to beauty�a woman�s monument. A few minutes afterward she found a cat, buried between two flower gushes, its open mouth snarled with the tines of its teeth, eyes dangling outside near its face like grape nuts. In Lesotho we inter cats in yards of people we hate; it is said the owner of that garden dies when the cat rots, and its fur comes off in the hand, like the hair of a cancer patient. She called Ntate Mosia, her gardener. A man of The Word, he poured prayer and incantation on the beast, before lifting it out of its grave and holding it up by the tail. They filled its grave with mulch and sand then went inside to wash and scrub their hands with caustic soda, and more prayer, never wondering how that cat might have died, but heartened by the knowledge that there would be no new deaths. Its killer had loved it enough to believ

Mexico rises into view like a textbook description of a dead civilization; from the poem Roadside , by Esteban Rodriguez   O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done; from the poem O Captain! My Captain! , by Walt Whitman   I saw the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness from the poem Howl , by Allen Ginsberg https://wyminki.tumblr.com/post/638197406108975104/christmas-2020-xmas-greetings-new-year-wishes https://wrecking-queen.tumblr.com/post/638197599907840000/happy-new-year-2021-marathi-wishes-sms-messages https://wood159.tumblr.com/post/638197956544184320/happy-new-year-2021-marathi-wishes-sms-messages https://uwiscseagrant.tumblr.com/post/638198235808317440/merry-christmas-gifs-images-and-memes-to-share    The first boy to kiss your mother later raped women from the poem Your mother's first kiss , by Warsan Shire   All you violated ones with gentle hearts; from the poem For Malcolm X , by Margaret Abigail Walker   All night long I hear the sleepers

Now you are strong And we are but grapes aching with ripeness. Crush us! Squeeze from us all the brave life Contained in these full skins. But ours is a subtle strength Potent with centuries of yearning, Of being kegged and shut away In dark forgotten places. We shall endure To steal your senses In that lonely twilight Of your winter�s grief. https://www.flickr.com/people/192846511@N02/ https://www.pinterest.com/armybombver4net/ https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1027313364969404690/ https://imgur.com/user/armybombver4net/about https://imgur.com/gallery/SQ4GaRn https://imageshack.com/user/armybombver4net https://diigo.com/0kdkd7 https://500px.com/p/armybombver4?view=photos https://www.behance.net/armybombver4 https://pixabay.com/users/armybombver4-21365829/ https://soundcloud.com/armybombver4 https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-586kq-10232b1 https://anchor.fm/army-bomber4/episodes/The-Armybombver4-net-Season-1-Episode-1-e1007us https://www.buzzsprout.com/1771280/episodes/8

I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center. I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and you enter it as easily as breathing in   https://www.mimanualdelbebe.com/usuario/laquita-384916 https://emiliowvqm828.angelfire.com/index.blog/1677954/how-to-master-new-year-greetings-in-6-simple-steps/ http://www.divephotoguide.com/user/shbr

Dear Ol' Dirty Bastard: I too like it raw, I don't especially care for Duke Ellington at a birthday party. I care less and less about the shapes of shapes because forms change and nothing is more durable than feeling. My uncle used the money I gave him to buy a few vials of what looked like candy after the party where my grandma sang in an outfit that was obviously made for a West African king. My motto is Never mistake what it is for what it looks like. My generosity, for example, is mostly a form of vanity. A bandanna is a useful handkerchief, but a handkerchief is a useless-ass bandanna. This only looks like a footnote in my report concerning the party. Trill stands for what is truly real though it may be hidden by the houses just over the hills between us, by the hands on the bars between us. That picture of my grandmother with my uncle when he was a baby is not trill. What it is is the feeling felt seeing garbagemen drift along the predawn avenues,

Chinua Achebe The novelist Chinua Achebe, a fine stylish and an astute social critic, is one of the best-known African writers in the West and his novels are often assigned in university courses. Nigerian novelist and poet, whose works explore the impact of European culture on African society. Achebe's unsentimental, often ironic books vividly convey the traditions and speech of the Ibo people. Born in Ogidi, Nigeria, Achebe was educated at the University College of Ibadan (now the University of Ibadan). He subsequently taught at various universities in Nigeria and the United States. Achebe wrote his first novel, Things Fall Apart (1958), partly in response to what he saw as inaccurate characterizations of Africa and Africans by British authors. The book describes the effects on Ibo society of the arrival of European colonizers and missionaries in the late 1800s. Achebe's subsequent novels No Longer at Ease (1960), Arrow of God (1964), A Man of the People (1966),

My father was born the same year as Vonani�s, and died a few years after his: old age? Diabetes? The weight of a heart swollen from atrocities. Their blackness is the skin of an encyclop�dia to the continent. They speak about us when the sky throws boulders in our path, and we duck and seek a means of cracking those impenitent stones. Our mothers live there with them, even as they remain here breastfeeding the unfortunate of the world, the luckless who populate the streets of history. How to be men is how to love. The day I read Vonani�s book of longer poems under my breath as I staggered home was a day of miracles. I put its pages in front of me and went from La D�fense to Porte Maillot without an accident, without some driver swerving to avoid me and yelling fils de pute! to the cold shoulder of my ears. I flew from Paris to Polokwane that evening, aware of the scent of home, aware this was my chance at cutting the long goodbye, and was whisked off, when I land

the name descended when you came so I would be able to give it to you with all the lives in you, without knowing what poems your head knows by name, or namesake, or nickname, above a rise of the churchyard where I will utter your name. You are the one on whose head that name will hang, a name in which I am well pleased. I know it won't be the same as what the locket on your neck contains, far from eyes but dangling near the heart beyond any number of doubts that are in this place. Because in mystery it comes, you see, one length of time that separates and then nothing, a meal that arrives with all the grains of its salt in place, hours before the first light born to dawn. Its sound gnaws me today, this which will not be a word by which you are designated, but instead the sweat of love placed in you, and more: the joy of naming you. One wants to say: this will hurt, beware� yet it must be done: I must excavate you to find you. It will not be like pulling a dove out of a hat to pleas

Nthakoana Ngatane

�for Morabo Morojele You may think it odd and may even wonder, and perchance give a moment up to ponder goats and why they die to donate skin we use to coat drums with; drums have no god to look up to (or to be looked down on by), instead they have sound pounded to a rhythm that goads us on to dance; plus this man who beats them, his hands faster than Karajan�s. Sap from grass that feeds goats is now in the breath of people who stretch that gift of skin over mouths of stumps so dialogue from years ago conducted in the shade of some tree may be spoken through it again; this tempers the underlying grief that leads one from a cage. Because as soon as he has played you know, by yourself (with no prompt from anyone), that the stump around which a symphonic membrane is stretch�d owns a gullet, a larynx and, behind everything, a voice whose resolve thrums freedom.

The kingdom is packed, and there is no more room for doubt. And so you go, you pick yourself up like a hoe and walk the few blocks to the booth to try and look after your crops; and come out. When you do, after the holy duty has been done, you sit outside a bit with the smile of a high moon curving up your face, a feeling you will keep in one of the pockets of your depth where the mind designs the future of children, one that none can know, like a lucky penny they will one day find as they turn old clothes inside out to see if they're worth keeping, whether they need to be washed, ironed and starched, or thrown onto the big heap of history with the rest. You are giddy, warm inside, during this midst of the harshest winter of time. Nothing will move you from that season you are holding, for it is your summer of 69. You have carried your child, clinging to you, with long strides, to the nearest clinic, the way you will bear today�s deed for the rest of time. A ballot means so much mo

You can't run away from yourself �Bob Marley What she is singing I don't know, on a street so long, so daft, like a passage with tall walls�no one knows what her song means, and we show no interest in it� yet with her small voice of children she sings the song of a hymn. Why are you singing this? I ask. She looks at me and sings about my clothes, the look on my face and the climate that is getting ready to crash upon us, and goes on about my vehicle and the house I live in; when I look up, the answer from the sky is tears of the kind she has been singing about, and so we run everywhere, every woman, child and man, run away, like one enormous bang, from the sound of her song. At the Chat Noir Photo by Sabine Dundure