“later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.”
― Warsan Shire
RESIGNATION
Beautiful view of city and backlands. I like the poem better starting in the middle. The whole poem is at the bottom.
Julia Runcie
HOW THE RIVER
…
I know the city is not less simply
because I want less of it.
But how different it is, now,
to wade across the tumbled creek
when once I crossed
the out-flung arms of bridges
and was speechless at their beauty
and never for a moment thought
of how the river lay
beneath the bridge.
.
.
The whole poem:
Julia Runcie
HOW THE RIVER
Strange that for so many years
I walked among the peopled buildings
and did not think of mountains.
I took my comfort
in the streetlight
and the stoplight.
I lay not wakeful
for the owl’s low hooting in the canyon.
I know the city is not less simply
because I want less of it.
But how different it is, now,
to wade across the tumbled creek
when once I crossed
the out-flung arms of bridges
and was speechless at their beauty
and never for a moment thought
of how the river lay
beneath the bridge.
Never Again, arbeit macht frei
remember, remember, we’re all in this together
labour isn’t working, yes we can
lest we forget, ich bin ein berliner
remember pearl harbour
half the sky
new labour new danger
arbeit macht frei
long live the indissoluble union
of the working class, kolkhoz peasantry, and national intelligentsia!
educationeducationeducation
we’re all in this together
ain’t no black in the union jack
are you thinking what we’re thinking
taking our country back
labour isn’t working
smite the leftists and save israel!
one heart, one mind, one korea
i’ve never voted tory before
ich bin ein berliner
Never Again
“I hear only the quiet earth, thawing underneath”
Obi Nwakanma
MY PRINCE
Heather Bell
I HAVE THIS FANTASY
I have this fantasy
that I am dressed in a leather jacket
smoking a cigar
just standing there
holding Kafka or Adrienne Rich
by the spine
when an old boyfriend walks up with his
yellow-haired wife and says
Hey, remember me? Sean.
And I reply, casually
Sean? Maybe. The Sean with the big dick or the Sean with the small dick?
And his eyes dart around because he wants to say
Big dick.
but then he’s admitting to me seeing his dick at all
with his wife standing right there
who is holding a ratty looking purse
and what I think is a dead raccoon or
maybe her jacket
So he says
Sorry, I might be mistaken.
but damn, I look so good standing there in my cheetah-print leggings
and puffy hair and the sort of eyeliner that looks professional
that he repeats
But I really think we might have known each other at some point.
And I grin a little, lean in,
and whisper just loud enough for his wife to hear
Small dick, eh?
And I go home and I put on my pink bathrobe and sit on the couch and
I feel triumphant and my kids are running around with scissors
and the leggings are thrown over the loveseat
like a flag
—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014
Oh, silver tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!
In a Harlem cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.
Oh, singing tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!
Were Eve’s eyes
In the first garden
Just a bit too bold?
Was Cleopatra gorgeous
In a gown of gold?
Oh, shining tree!
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!
In a whirling cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
.
From: The Oxford Anthology of African-American Poetry.
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The Little Dandelion by Lula Lowe Weeden
The dandelion stares
In the yellow sunlight.
How very still it is!
When it is old and grey,
I blow its white hair away,
And leave it with a bald head.
.
.
The african-american poet Lula Lowe Weeden started writing poems as a child to immediate success. Her poems are intricate and direct.
.
“Caroling Dusk: an Anthology of Verse by Black Poets.” Edited by Countee Cullen.
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My breasts are like martinis
[…]
When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can’t. He’ll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.
Spring is short
what is there that has eternal life
I said and
made her hands seek out
my powerful breasts
[trans. Janine Beichman] Akiko
Willa Cather. The Hawthorn Tree
ACROSS the shimmering meadows–
Ah, when she came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land–
Ah, when she climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breasts,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine–
Not what she said to me!
Words, Wide Night by Carol Ann Duffy
.
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words..
.
From: Poems on the Underground, edited by Chernaik, Herbert and Benson.
Buy NEW and USED at abebooks: Poems on the Underground!!!
Established in 1970, Glad Day Bookshop is the world’s oldest LGBTQ bookstore and Toronto’s oldest surviving bookstore. In 2012, a group of 23 community members pooled their funds and bought Glad Day Bookshop to save it from closing.
“Our best strategy for survival is adding new revenues streams like food and drink – which means a larger space.
We’ve picked out a great spot on Church Street that would allow us to be a bookstore & coffee shop during the day and a bar at night.
It is wheelchair accessible, with an accessible washroom.
It has a cute patio, a small space for performances and walls for art.
We will be a space where everyone feels welcome, sexy and celebrated.
We will be a queer-owned, indie place on Church Street. We will amplify the love, creativity, sexuality, diversity & liberation that Glad Day Bookshop is known for.”
“those things
which yo so laughingly call
hands are in fact two
brown butterflies fluttering
across the pleasure
they give my body”
.
— Nikki Giovanni ”The Butterfly
Mariah L. Richardson
Butter Cream
She walks
like soft cake
butter sweet
and light
my appetite whet
the day
cold
snow
I was seeking
her spring whirrs
hums like the land
black and wet
inside her sanctuary
I stand stare
nervous windows sweat
to spite the cold
blackened trees
bare branches
etching
the grey, grey sky
I dream of
curling curving
into a cadence
take her in until
we occupy
the same place
the same space
caressing her
I touch myself
I feel delicious
rose chiffon light
echoes off my skin
brushing close
she says through
Cheshire grin
“if I like it,
I lick it.”
bouquet of
myrrh sandalwood
wafts and billows
faux ming vase
bursting of cattails
and pussy willow
tease in the corner
atop
the big, big bed
royal purple
gold sheets
satin raw silk
gregorian chants
whisper lusty devotions
my mouth goes dry
my eyes wide
damp palms grasp
headboard slats
for hands to hold
“breathe”
she says as
she parts me
“breathe”
her breath warms
I am made soft
wanting wanting
dancing on my skin
I stretch/contract
clutch pillow
to the place
she tastes me
I hear the color red
feel golden and sun
piercing through
eyes sliding back
fluttering behind
closed lids
“open your eyes
see,”
she sighs
I ride and ride
surrender deep
into eyes reflecting
rain and fire and all
that is song
I ride and ride
her breath
my breath
my breath
I try to catch
in earth cracks
and breaks
lava spews and
monsoons and cave- ins
and rapture
revelations
jesus
coming
coming
outside a pewter sky
flocked by crows
mirror our black bodies
rising
Established in 1970, Glad Day Bookshop is the world’s oldest LGBTQ bookstore and Toronto’s oldest surviving bookstore. In 2012, a group of 23 community members pooled their funds and bought Glad Day Bookshop to save it from closing.
“Our best strategy for survival is adding new revenues streams like food and drink – which means a larger space.
We’ve picked out a great spot on Church Street that would allow us to be a bookstore & coffee shop during the day and a bar at night.
It is wheelchair accessible, with an accessible washroom.
It has a cute patio, a small space for performances and walls for art.
We will be a space where everyone feels welcome, sexy and celebrated.
We will be a queer-owned, indie place on Church Street. We will amplify the love, creativity, sexuality, diversity & liberation that Glad Day Bookshop is known for.”
Awesome poetry from all over. 