Double dares Took root in night soil. Yusef Komunyakaa My Father's Love Letters audio only Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.
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Jasmine I sit beside two women, kitty-corner to the stage, as Elvin's sticks blur the club into a blue fantasia. I thought my body had forgotten the Deep South, how I'd cross the street if a woman like these two walked towards me, as if a cat traversed my path beneath the evening star. Which one is wearing jasmine?
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If my grandmothers saw me now they'd say, Boy, the devil never sleeps. My mind is lost among November cotton flowers, a soft rain on my face as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes of chance on his upright leaning into the future.
The blonde, the brunette— which one is scented with jasmine? The trumpet's almost kissed by enough pain. Give him a few more years, a few more ghosts to embrace—Clifford's shadow on the edge of the stage. The sign says, No Talking.
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Elvin's guardian angel lingers at the top of the stairs, counting each drop of sweat paid in tribute. Our bodies sway to each riff, the jasmine rising from a valley somewhere in Egypt, a white moon opening countless false mouths of laughter.
The mothers woke us up from our summer games, But the fathers took our hands more sternly and more proudly than never before. The fathers left work for the market, Carrying heavy bags and All kinds of thoughts and rubbish in their heads. We left toys with wilted smiles on the beds, Little sisters and brothers in the windows, Grandmothers who had combed our hair and Crossed us as we were leaving home, To meet with God, or our first teachers. Again, light backpacks Are hanging like crosses upon our weak shoulders and White shirts— Like sacrificial lambs, we make our way to the last class.http://nttsystem.xsrv.jp/libraries/10/civ-kann-man.php
Irakli Kakabadze Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. Teach This Poem.
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tilt-shift by Kate Tough
She pours out her heart to a Virgin who traces her lineage not only to Guadalupe and Bethlehem but also to wild, snake-charming Aztec goddesses. Elsewhere, poets have the cultural status of our rock stars and the income of our romance novelists.
Even the most acclaimed could scarcely dine out twice a year, let alone make a living, on the sales of their poetry collections. Enjoy it, revel in it.
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