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

Kwame Dawes

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...

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