bell hooks

“All academics write, but not all see themselves as writers. Writing to fulfill professional career expectations is not the same as writing that emerges as the fulfillment of a yearning to work with words when there is no clear benefit or reward, when it is the experience of writing that really matters.”

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November

Jam the thumb
into the barrel
refuse the wine to flow
onto unhollowed ground
join together the brisk knees of grass
to birth the dust tearful

and yesterday will be
buried beneath boots
shhh the foxes hear
midnight claims
its moonlight tiptoes of the BANG!!!
goes the grassy knoll,
sunrise again.

 

Creative Commons License
November by Doris Su is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at dorsu.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at dorsu.com.

Well, I Have Lost You by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that’s permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I outlive this anguish—and men do—
I shall have only good to say of you.

*
Show me a song sadder than this

Family

brings along stress, burdens, fights, headaches, vows of never going back, impatience, shame, anger, guilt, frustration, exhaustion, regret, clutter, complaints, pressure, pride, pain,

& leaves behind a fridge filled with groceries, a drawer crammed with vitamins, and an empty room filled with love’s lingering warmth.









i have found what you are like

i have found what you are like
the rain
             Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
                                        with thinned
newfragile yellows
                           lurch and.press
–in the woods
                        which
                                  stutter
                                           and
                                                 sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
                      your kiss

e.e. cummings

kidnap poem

By Nikki Giovanni

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i’d kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you wrap you
in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i’d kid
nap you

Lyon

I am from invisible Power Ranger battles
always fighting with my little brother.
I am from stolen glimpses of my mother’s
red eyes and wet cheeks in the bathroom mirror,
Of my father’s crescendoing voice coming down the hall.

I am from blonde wavey hair and big blue eyes,
hearing about their soccer games and sleepovers.
I am from failed attempts to do my makeup
like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.
I am from failed attempts to do my makeup
like Lucy Liu and… Lucy Liu.

I am from my own dreams,
created and birthed in secrecy on my own bed.
I am from conditional parenting with unconditional love.

I am from the discovery of the color Yellow,
and how it fits in with red, white, and blue.
I am from the East and the West,
and now from the West to the East.

Under my bed, there is nothing
In a room I have just placed my displaced self.
I plan to keep a box below, as I
Redream, rebirth, remain myself upon my bed.