Love Poetry For Couple

They hanged him on a clement morning, swung between the falling sunlight and the women's breathing like a black apostrophe to pain. All morning while the children hushed their hopscotch joy and the cane kept growing he hung there sweet and low. At least that's how they tell it. It was long ago... [ continue ...] Appreciate the poem further  here . Dennis Scott

The fist clenched round my heart loosens a little, and I gasp brightness; but it tightens again. When have I ever not loved the pain of love? But this has moved past love to mania. This has the strong clench of the madman, this is gripping the ledge of unreason, before plunging howling into the abyss. Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live. Derek Walcott

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 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...

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...

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. 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...

Ay, ay, ay, I am black, pure black; kinky hair and Kafir lips; and a flat Mozambican nose. A jet black woman, I cry and I laugh at the thrill of being a black statue; of being a piece of the night, where my white teeth flash like lightning... [ continue there ...] Julia de Burgos

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...

all saturday evenings should be like this, caressing your thigh while reading neruda with his odes to matilde's arms, breasts, hair--everything about her that made him a part of this bountiful earth-- lilies, onions, avocados--that fed his poetry the way rain washes the dumb cane with desire or banyans break through asphalt-- this is the nirvana that the buddha with his bald monks and tiresome sutras never knew or else he'd never have left his palace and longing bride-- the supple feel of your leg in my hands for which i'd spin the wheel of karma a thousand lifetimes, more Geoffrey Philp