Written by
Maya Angelou |
Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy HANDS bunched on layered hips
Where bones idle under years of fatback
And lima beans.
Her jowls shiver in accusation
Of crimes cliched by Repetition.
Her children, strangers
To childhood's TOYS, play
Best the games of darkened doorways,
Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of
Other people's property.
Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Into a den of bereaucrats for her portion.
'They don't give me welfare.
I take it.'
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Written by
Victor Hugo |
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
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Written by
Quincy Troupe |
in brussels, eye sat in the grand place cafe & heard
duke's place, played after salsa
between the old majestic architecture, jazz bouncing off
all that gilded gold history snoring complacently there
flowers all over the ground, up inside the sound
the old white band jammin the music
tight & heavy, like some food
pushin pedal to the metal
gettin all the way down
under the scaffolding surrounding
l'hotel de ville, chattanooga choochoo
choo choing all the way home, upside walls, under gold eagles
& a gold vaulting girl, naked on a rooftop holding a flag over
her head, like skip rope, surrounded by all manner
of saints & gold madmen, riding emblazoned stallions
snorting like crazed demons at their nostrils
the music swirling like a dancing bear
a beautiful girl, flowers in her hair
the air woven with lilting voices in this grand place of parepets
& crowns, jewels & golden torches streaming
like a horse's mane, antiquity riding through in a wheel carriage
here, through gargoyles & gothic towers rocketing swordfish lanced crosses
pointing up at a God threatening rain
& it is stunning at this moment when raised beer steins cheer
the music on, hot & heavy, still humming & cooking
basic african-american rhythms alive here
in this ancient grand place of europe
this confluence point of nations & cultures
jumping off place for beer & cuisines
fused with music, poetry & stone
here in this blinding, beautiful square
sunlit now as the golden eye of God shoots through
flowers all over the cobbled ground, up in the music
the air brightly cool as light after jeweled rain
still, there are these hats slicing foreheads off in the middle
of crowds that need explaining, the calligraphy of this penumbra
slanting ace-deuce, cocked, carrying the perforated legacy of bebop
these bold, peccadillo, pirouetting pellagras
razor-sharp clean, they cut into our rip-tiding dreams carrying
their whirlpooling imaginations, their rivers of schemes
assaulted by pellets of raindrops
these broken mirrors catching fragments
of sonorous words, entrapping us between parentheses
two bat wings curved, imprisoning the world
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Written by
Majeed Amjad |
Here she comes, onto her “rooftop-terrace,” smiling
With a muted message in her fleeting glance !
This hazy air tinged with dusky reflections,
This desolate path … deserted lane … quiet evening,
The low wall of a house at the street corner,
Upon which is gently laid
A diffuse and silent spell !
This rooftop-terrace … familiar
With the sound of someone’s soft step,
This secluded place … echoing
With the strains of songs
Someone hums to herself !
The charisma of someone’s lips
Spreads dreamily on all sides
Like angel dust . . . light-specks of smiles,
Delirium raining down
From the sweet wine of someone’s gaze,
Someone’s slender, silver-bangled arm
Raised in a silent gesture of greeting !
With her elbows resting on the parapet,
And the air of a Diva,
Stands someone … coyly blushing and silent
With a muted message in her fleeting glance !
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Written by
David Lehman |
He woke up in New York City on Valentine's Day,
Speeding. The body in the booth next to his was still warm,
Was gone. He had bought her a sweater, a box of chocolate
Said her life wasn't working he looked stricken she said
You're all bent out of shape, accusingly, and when he
She went from being an Ivy League professor of French
To an illustrator for a slick midtown magazine
They agreed it was his fault. But for now they needed
To sharpen to a point like a pencil the way
The Empire State Building does. What I really want to say
To you, my love, is a whisper on the rooftop lost in the wind
And you turn to me with your rally cap on backwards rooting
For a big inning, the bases loaded, our best slugger up
And no one out, but it doesn't work that way. Like the time
Kirk Gibson hit the homer off Dennis Eckersley to win the game:
It doesn't happen like that in fiction. In fiction, we are
On a train, listening to a storyteller about to reach the climax
Of his tale as the train pulls into Minsk, his stop. That's
My stop, he says, stepping off the train, confounding us who
Can't get off it. "You can't leave without telling us the end,"
We say, but he is already on the platform, grinning.
"End?" he says. "It was only the beginning."
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
(a) orihuela-time
the sun in orihuela calms the dust
and people glide about the streets at ease
(problems left indoors to cool themselves)
time has grown fat and no one cares
to pin each minute to its proper place
the day is long tomorrow's not yet real
doves and old men occupy the squares
nattering to each other in such tongues
that take the clock away from what is time
i could be moorish strolling in this heat
past tiled seats paved stones and dusty plants
a town that knows the desert's not far off
only the traffic fusses about like now
fuming and farting worse than any horse
desperate to catch up centuries of drift
and get the people moving like machines
a modern bustle seeps up through the drains
where buildings fall to caterpillar tracks
that night we're in a garden roofed in glass
a hothouse cafe where candles play at stars
sipping iced drinks and talking casually
a silence green and golden threads our bones
and tapestries contain us - time's come unstuck
each gesture shall be / was - the present glows
(b) spanish day
all i hear at first are sparrows
i come to the window - they are foraging
across the grassless ground their chirps
are business voices grunts of satisfaction
a comment on the nature of their find
the morning's cool - some fifteen trees
in rows with broad-splayed leaves are caught
by breeze and flutter like the hands
of pale young ladies gathered half-undressed
a car glides past the hedge with muted sound
a lorry chugs uphill - the sky is trembling
out of grey with that first flat blue that says
the sun is indirectly on its way
the breeze is cool but being spain i stand
in short shirt-sleeves - my forearmed hairs
accept the ruffling breeze and wait for warmth
i follow a car's noise down the hill
it fades - a silence stands with arms outspread
catching all breath - i listen more intently
from my cell-like room where cubby holes
of dark have not yet given into morning
a sharper breeze now roughs it through the trees
and every leaf would run away but can't
so stays and rattles off complaints metallically
the sparrows beat their beaks more urgently
and i am thrust at by a stab of sun
the rooftop opposite has a golden cowl
rays slide down and leap into the trees
the breeze desists the leaves play mute
in no time sun has occupied the square
my room's invaded - dark stains are blanched
coolness abandoned for the next few hours
the heat-to-come has come - the spanish day
has no fancy way to sell its onions
you take it or you leave it – sweatingly
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