Reading: Fatherland by Mansur Rajih
Mansur Rajih (b. 1958) is a Norwegian poet and human rights activist with Yemeni roots. I found this translation of one of his poems online: Fatherland Do not despair, my friend: The light that shines on our land will remain chaste. We still have time. Maybe next year, the year after- it will be enough. ...
Music
I am sitting in a convenient store my coffee is getting cold the word triumvirate pops up it's a word that doesn't belong here yet, it snaps into its place: what is real is what is the case suddenly, I wanna be crazy old the laughing belly of our truth and I wanna be profoundly ...
To be a bad poet
who is not invited to exotic poetry festivals in cultural capitals, not celebrated for his otherness, not for the soothing justice that emanates from his professionally __translated words, not for the clapping of the audience when he reads and they see the scaffolding of a pristine soul To be that poet who loves the colors ...
Poem , in which we are not immortal but our identities dissolve in- to one another and we are only a little bit afraid to call it love
Reading: The Shirt by Robert Pinsky
Robert Pinsky (b. 1940) is one of America's greatest poetry critics. He was elected Poet Laurate of the US in 1997. Today I read a social poem about sweatshops, written long before the incident in Bangladesh on 24 April 2013. The Shirt The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along ...
When we’re old and done
When we're old and done How will our love feel? Will we be Anxious, afraid we missed out on What we could have done? Afraid of Looking back and feeling like dry sand? Life seems funny and meaningful when the people Around us are younger and we, unwittingly We become authorities on living They say ...
Reading: Theory of Prosody by Philip Levine
Philip Levine (1928-2015) was an American poet. As a boy, he worked in the factories of Detroit and was fascinated by the events of the Spanish civil war. He was among the most important poetic voices of the industrial poor of the twentieth century. I read a seemingly playful piece of his that is not ...
identity
strap me down on a vivisection table study my humors, my bile, my spleen I'm keen to know who I am and if I'm able but don't forget to stitch me up again.