That we head towards
our separate End
and know it only
by the name of Death…
But makes this life
with you more dear.
And having known
this joy and you
so tender
without a fear
I face this life
so beautiful
and in the End
will with pain
surrender
the sight,
the touch,
or memory
of You.
–Stephany
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly.
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
–Maya Angelou
R.I.P always
spanish
spanglish
hispanic
is north america’s second language
taught poorly in schools
coached in offices
shouted from rooftops
and cackled in homes
my mom really only spoke fluently
when she was angry or gossiping
it never sounded romantic to me
like its own heaviness
a language
to be muttered
under the breath of grumpy puerto rican men
as morenos walk by
for second generation children to scold their children
and for Hollywood
whenever a character
needs to curse in a pg-13 movie
Take the pen in your uncertain fingers.
Trust, and be assured
That the whole world is a sky-blue butterfly
And words are the nets to capture it.
–Muhammad al-Ghuzzi, Tunisia
I plucked my soul out of its secret place,
And held it to the mirror of my eye,
To see it like a star against the sky,
A twitching body quivering in space,
A spark of passion shining on my face.
And I explored it to determine why
This awful key to my infinity
Conspires to rob me of sweet joy and grace.
And if the sign may not be fully read,
If I can comprehend but not control,
I need not gloom my days with futile dread,
Because I see a part and not the whole.
Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted
By this narcotic thought: I know my soul.
–Claude McKay
This eerie video features Billy Collins short poem ‘The Dead’.
Who doesn’t love the Nightmare Before Christmas movie just the way it is? Well, maybe Tim Burton’s original concept idea might change your mind. If anything it’s pretty cool to watch!
Take a day to heal from the lies you’ve told yourself and the ones that have been told to you. –Maya Angelou
The Poetry Corner 