By Janiru Liyanage
A pound of
Bruised mangoes
Cleaved into halves, chilied and salted like the heads of
Dead fish, which…
Bruised mangoes
Cleaved into halves, chilied and salted like the heads of
Dead fish, which…
Explore Poems: Ars Poetica
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- By Megan DentonWhich way to the monster cage? I am in my god body now—
in my sandy foxhole
sat backwards in a chair… - By Joseph MillarYour friends tell you the writing
is good but you’re not actually buying it—
so much idle conversation… - By H.D.He and I sought together,
over the spattered table,
rhymes and flowers,
gifts for a name.
He said, … - By Kimiko HahnIambic lines drafted in silt
are revised when glaciers melt
so verses ending in heroic couplet
are more… - By Lisa LowAfter not showing in a poem how I once was boring, I spend weeks collecting proof from my past for …
- By Vievee FrancisI keep rifles in the front closet.
Trespassing can be a glance.
A good shot,
I practice with bottles… - By José OlivarezMigration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move…
- By W. S. GrahamDo not allow me to sink, I said
To a top floating ribbon of kelp.
As I was lifted on each wave
And made… - By Beth BachmannThe best-known German goldsmith of the sixteenth century, Wenzel Jamnitzer, is also remembered for his…
- By Ocean VuongBecause the butterfly’s yellow wing
flickering in black mud
was a word
stranded by its language.
Because… - By Tommy PicoWherever we go, needs feed and I find it harder and harder to
believe benevolence is the thing Thousands… - By James Weldon JohnsonTiny bit of humanity,
Blessed with your mother’s face,
And cursed with your father’s mind.
I say cursed… - By Elizabeth AlexanderPoetry, I tell my students,
is idiosyncratic. Poetry
is where we are ourselves
(though Sterling Brown… - By Jane KenyonI am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am the maker, the … - By Wallace StevensI placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround… - By Jody Gladdingnot self
of violence
against will not be gainsaid
will brook no argument
won't suffer the fools
… - By George QuashaI'm feeling by ear.
Consider them gods and not cruel but ecstatic.
They have trick tongues and can'… - By William Butler YeatsWe sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and… - By Heather McHughWe were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets…