The Things I Carry
I carry with me,
the spirits of Queens
I carry with me,
the wake of Death
I carry with me,
all that I am
So that I will not be afraid
Poems
Susanna Rich Performs
UABTV presents Susanna Rich, an amazing English professor at Kean University, best-known for her poetry readings and performances in and out of the classroom. She gives two sensuous selections from her book Television Daddy.
A Break Up Letter From Tinker Bell
ADD Poetry presents Rozlind Silva and her hilarious expression of love and frustration for Peter Pan.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
–Dylan Thomas
Train Of Thought
I live here
breathing in the screech of a poorly managed system listen to the cluttered steps passing by ignoring me
while i lull myself to sleep with piss cement blocks for sheets
I am here
representative of the underbelly of these so called streets
the catacombs of an eyes wide shut city Feel me
in every devastatingly dirty train car rattling through the tunnels of my home
I cant go home
So I claim this for my own
You’ve seen me
every piece of blue plastic you sitin or pole you wrap your grubby fingers around holding on for dear life
praying to whoever that its your stop so you dont have to talk to me
Down here is a new hierarchy
i am king if the meek shall inherit the earth then i get the subway
the crying children and filthy tracks
hobos homeless guys bums and sideshow acts
the peddlers and loiters or the guys who hop up & down the aisle holding out thier hats
sharing sob stories of grave misfortune so you ll cut them some slack
people shoveling McDonalds trying not to look fat
hustlers thieves every MTA employee who takes his job way too seriously killers robbers rapists & drunks
We all are here
YOu pay admission to witness our society at its finest from Brooklyn to the Bronx and back
we are the back of a jungle laying on its back
legs open and willing for any customer that dips his card in the turnstile
turn while peering at the surface of the plate glass
we are your reflection
gurgling below the pavement craving retribution
Three Lettered Word
How can I just sit here, stagnant?
The insomnia kicking me in my side, unable to resolve the issues about which I write. Seems like they grow fast, like the hairs prodding my skin. The future looms. I don’t know where I’m going only where I’ve been. It’s sickening, these three lettered words are inseparable. Tossed through the air without affection. Devotion to the voices within that won’t speak.
This isn’t making any sense. My body paces yet I lack the spirit to leave. The problem lies with me? Alone in the struggle. Questions running rampant as the clock ticks. Still here I sit.
In love and suddenly impatient with these three lettered words. Honey dipped lightening laced with the essence of fresh roses petals. Unparalleled. And it all came down to a three lettered word whispered in the dark for fear they’d actually be true, that maybe light would reveal my heart doesn’t feel quite right. It never did.
I miss him, its just hard to say sometimes. But words hold no weight in a world constantly moving, they can be broken as easily as eggshells on pavement. I guess I had hoped if I stood still long enough and felt my emotion sink past my heart to the bottom of my feet. I could shove it down and keep it there.
The Last Hope
She doesn’t give a fuck
having stuck
so closely to depression
that she can feel him up against her back sweating
rode in the haul of death’s ship
stopped in hell’s kitchen and licked the pot clean
she’s been pimped, sold
and let the memories jangle around her ankles
She’s your Mother
Sister Friend Neighbor
Girlfriend Grandmother Teacher
She’s so open from centuries of exploitation
that still goes on to this day
Someone grab her, she just got on the A train
Headin downtown with some guy
The embodiment of hope
The last key
If only she cared enough to open the door
Sonnet 116
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
― William Shakespeare
The Dancer
Her only audience, the room
the posters hung, turn their heads, watchin’
the windows jockin’,
admires the glistening girl’s glow
and talks to walls knowing they’re in for a show
Suavemente besame te quiero sentir tus labious besando me otra vez
The words married to the beat, eagerly
run from the speakers
dancing with her about the floor
the spectators beg for more
a twist, a turn, a bound, a leap
a smile creeps cross her moistened face
pent up aggression released from her limbs
Strumming my pain with his fingers
Leaked from Lauryn’s lips
the crowds’ roars quieted to anxious whispers
she stops and listens, fatigue lingers
her movements slower, crisper
meaning held in every muscle flexed
tense from holding back bitter tears
from lost loved Nana’s hugs and
visions of strange kisses from her mama’s man
silent smiles fill the room as the ballerina
prances out and on her gloom
no more will she play the victim
to him, them
she spins, round and round she goes
flinging doubt and woes about the opposite sex
she struck a pose
and the towel curtains closed
leaving the room, her only audience
Poetry Was Like This
Poetry was the memory of adolescence
It was my mother’s sad face,
the yellow bird on a neem (margosa)tree,
my little brothers and sisters
sitting at night around a fire
of dry fallen leaves,
father’s home-coming,
the ringing of a bicycle bell—Rabeya, Rabeya—
and the opening of the southern door
at the sound of my mother’s name.
Poetry was wading through a knee-deep river
across a fog-laden path,
the morning call for prayer, or the burning of paddy stalks
after the harvesting, the lovely dark dots of rye
on the plump crust of a homemade country cake,
the smell of fish, a fishing-net spread out
on the courtyard to dry,
and Grandpa’s grave under a cluster of bamboo leaves.
Poetry was an unhappy boy growing up in the forties,
a truant pupil’s furtive attendance at public meetings,
freedom, processions, banners, the piteous story
of a fierce communal riot told by my elder brother,
returning from the holocaust a pauper.
Poetry was a flock of birds on a char (sandy river beds)land,
carefully collected bird’s eggs,
fragrant grass, the runaway calf of a sad-looking
young farm wife,
neat letters on secret writing pads in blue envelopes.
Poetry was Ayesha Akhter of my village school
with her long loose flowing hair.
–Al Mahmud, Bangladesh
The Poetry Corner 