You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
The pink-lipped sky stoops
To kiss the silver-bodied eucalyptus,
The pale sun slowly sinks
At the darkening sight of betrayal.
And I?
What have I to say?
What have I to regret?
Oh rose you were meant
To lend fragrance to my life,
When I said nothing happened
I lied to you.
It happens, it happens every day,
on bridges, in open spaces.
Because I yielded to love
I walk, for some an object of shame,
for others a mirror. Whoever looks at me
is turned to stone,
frozen.
I miss you when I start my day
I miss you and your every way
I miss you wherever I go
I miss you in my work I do
I miss you when Am gonna sleep
I miss you in my thoughts so deep
I miss you in my sweetest dream
I miss you on opening my eyes
I miss
Poor harlot, Mary Magdalene,
Into the feast with trembling crept,
Past frowns that stabbed her with their hate
And falling at His feet she wept.
Self-righteous Simon spurned her there
And marveled that her sinful touch
Displeased Him not, but he forgave:
“Though sinning sore she love’d much.”
Brave, grateful Mary Magdalene,
When Peter all his faith had lost,
Pressed on
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey’s end in lovers’ meeting–
Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,–
In vain your bangles cast
Charmed circles at my feet
I am Abiku, calling for the first
And repeated time.
Must I weep for goats and cowries
For palm oil and sprinkled ask?
Yams do not sprout amulets
To earth Abiku’s limbs.
I begin with the name of the Compassionate,
and pray for the faithful one,
that I may set forth the story of that which happened long ago.
One day, Muhammad, the Friend, and Miqdad, at Mecca,
outside the town were going for a walk.
When they were walking, the rain came down upon them,
and they went to seek shelter and
Take me home
Where your elders
Can see our love
Stash me not away from the sky
Where your elders we say
I am not a highbrow suitor
As my elders
Known everything
About our relationship
They said, ‘You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.’
The man replied, ‘Things as they are
are changed upon the blue guitar.’
– The Blue Guitar (Wallace Stevens)
I do my best to tell it true
a thing exceeding hard to do
or tell it slant as Emily
advises in her poetry,
and, colour blind,
One early morning,
When the moon was up
Shining at the sun,
I went to Elmina Junction
And there, and there
I saw a wretched ghost
Going up and down
Singing to himself:
‘Shall I go
Nature is a world of fascinated things,
which is never boring.
Gives freshness to the humans and birds,
Hence, adds life to the whole world.
It gives beauty to the land,
In whatever direction you stand.
Let no moment be spent without nature
Which is a dream place for creatures.
The tune of Adowa
Drives Yaa to frenzy,
Her legs alternate–
they close,
they cross,
they open,
they part.
Oh, what a dancer,
The dancer of Adowa.
Her trunk goes–
to the left,
to the right,
to the front,
to the back.
A Hero Wakes
Jason Carpenter; Terry Gonzales
.
A slap is heard across the room,
Jarring Jason to the world of living.
“Wake up pig! Your execution’s stayed.”
Terry shouts through his misgiving.
.
Terry screams, and rants, and raves
Sounds of nonsense; demons and fire.
Lunatic squeals of a drugged up man,
It would appear he couldn’t be higher.<br
Verse 1
Tell me where is fancy bred, {he}
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd? [nour-ish-ed]
Reply, reply.
It is engender’d in the eyes, {she}
With gazing fed;
and fancy dies, and fancy dies {together}
In the cradle where it lies.
Hanging day.
A hollow earth
Echoes footsteps of the grave procession.
Walls in sunspots
Lean to shadow of the shortening morn.
Behind an eyepatch lushly blue.
The wall of prayer has taken refuge
In a piece of blindness, closed.
Its grey recessive deeps.
Fretful limbs.
And glances that would sometimes
Conjure up a drawbridge
Raised but never lowered between
Their gathering and
Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
No sentence of banishment can prevail against it.
It establishes the universal ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
It puts what should be above things as they are,
Is an
The child and the old man sat alone
In the quiet, peaceful shade
Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown
In the deep, thick forest glade.
It was a soft and pleasant sound,
That rustling of the oak;
And the gentle breeze played lightly round
As thus the fair boy spoke:-
‘Dear father, what can honor be,
My apparition rose from the fall of lead,
Declared, ‘I am a civilian.’ It only served
To aggravate your fright. For how could I
Have risen, a being of this world, in that hour
Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor is
Your quarrel of this world.
You stood still
For both eternities, and oh I heard the lesson
Of
