Love Poetry For Couple

INTERVIEWER : I know you�ve written about this, but could we begin with the beginning, how you became a poet? KIZER : I began writing poems when I was about eight, with a heavy assist from my mother. She read me Arthur Waley�s translations, and Whitman, and Robinson Jeffers, who have been lifelong influences on me. My father read Keats to me, and then he read more Keats while I was lying on the sofa struggling with asthma. A sort of intellectual seduction: there I am, lying on the sofa breathing with difficulty, while Father pours Keats into the porches of my ear. If Daddy had only read Keats�s letters! They�re so wonderful, but Keats is someone you can�t let yourself be influenced by. There�s that interesting group of poets who are fatal to your style: I�d say Keats, Gerard Manley Hopkins and Dylan Thomas. The Waley led me to my own interest in Chinese and Chinese translations, which has been a major theme in my life. And Whitman, of course, I idolize, though I�m more attracted to met...

Silences fill the air. The silence of a jobless face. That of wings as a bird flies off with a darner in its beak, and in the mind's eye the darner flees. Things that are silent require colour, to feel and be seen again; the sound an artist sees with her hands. On this tarred road that feeds the city of Gary, Indiana, only burnt-out cars remain of the riot for freedoms (that are now coming). A silence holds the street with an afro and its white teeth of dissidence or innocence, depending on which side one is. A woman hurries home with colours of a hoopoe in a bag. Red and dark green stalks sticking in the heat. Sacks of potatoes and carrots at our feet. We dance, never knowing what it is they seek who, every time we gather, come to disperse us, the grand silence being of course the first time any body was able to walk in reverse. �from "Things that are silent", Pindrop Press , 2012 Michael Jackson

INTERVIEWER : Do you feel you�re in command when you�re writing? GINSBERG : Sometimes I feel in command when I�m writing. When I�m in the heat of some truthful tears, yes. Then, complete command. Other times�most of the time not. Just diddling away, woodcarving, getting a pretty shape; like most of my poetry. There�s only a few times when I reach a state of complete command. Probably a piece of Howl, a piece of Kaddish, and a piece of The Change. And one or two moments of other poems. INTERVIEWER : By command do you mean a sense of the whole poem as it�s going, rather than parts? GINSBERG : No�a sense of being self-prophetic master of the universe. �more at  The Paris Review Allen Ginsberg

Henry Tanner painted The Banjo Lesson in 1893 after a series of sketches he made while visiting the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina four years before. Tanner had been studying and working in Paris until he developed a bout of typhoid fever and was advised to return to the United States to recover his health and dwindling finances. While taking up a teaching post at Clark University in Atlanta, Tanner�s doctor told him to take in some mountain air. His trip to North Carolina opened his eyes to the poverty of African-Americans living in Appalachia. �https://smarthistory.org/tanner-banjo Henry Ossawa Tanner

Donald Trump

We are alone again tonight (she said) , despite how people stand with us or stand together apart. There is no sense we seek to make of old events. Things are what they are. Life was careless with our condition. Though sleep sends old men up the stairs in a storm to their room & they fall, flail, feel the devil on their legs, I am happy that for now, under our shelter, you are with me�even if your voice gets lost among stars in the galaxy outside. Can you hear me now? (he said). Tokoloho is in dad's arms. Mbera (nickname) is in the black-arm, red-front sweater

Suddenly I realised That my phone was more Than a calling tool All my lifetime memories were in there My beloved earphones That secured every beat of my life The clinging sound of the rands and nairas Echoed in my head Thinking if I could make it home tonight But I lost my major key The one that opens closed doors Then it struck me that my lipstick Enlightened and brightened my lips A spark and some moisture Enough to give someone a kiss My heart sank when I only Found one piece of my favourite shades Realising that I could no longer flex And that I lost all my fleek The damp pages of my visa Made me feel so helpless How would I reach my destinations? Without my passport? Bonolo �Bonita� Makhooane is a 15-year-old originally from Khubetsoana in Maseru, Lesotho. She is currently a student at Morija Girls� High School. Bonolo enjoys playing basketball, dancing and listening to music. She hopes to one day work as a professional lawyer. Bonolo Makhooane