Love Poetry For Couple

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...

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...

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

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

Geosi Gyasi : When did you start writing? Geoffrey Philp : I was sixteen and in love with the girl next door. I tried to write poems that would impress her. It didn�t work, but I kept on writing. [ MORE ] Geoffrey Philp

A killing moon peeks through leaves of trumpet trees in full bloom for Lent, their barks crisscrossed by wild strokes of a machete when my son tried to help me weed our garden, overrun with dandelions, branches, leaves, a bounty of seed and thorns, side by side, under clusters of suns bursting through the branches. Shadows flicker across the wall upstairs, over Buzz Lightyear's grin, Mr. Potato