Morning Coffee #8

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. Brigit Pegeen Kelly doing laundry on sunday So this is the Sabbath, the stillnessin the garden, magnoliabells drying damp petticoats over the porch rail, while bicyclewheels thrum and the full-breasted tulipsopen their pink blouses for the hands that pressed them firstas bulbs into the earth.Bread, too, cools …

Morning Coffee #7

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. The Good Life BY TRACY K. SMITH When some people talk about moneyThey speak as if it were a mysterious loverWho went out to buy milk and neverCame back, and it makes me nostalgicFor the years I lived on coffee and bread,Hungry all the time, walking to …

Morning Coffee #6

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. Blackberrying BY SYLVIA PLATH Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,   Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a seaSomewhere at the end of it, heaving. BlackberriesBig as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyesEbon …

Morning Coffee # 5

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. April Rain Song BY LANGSTON HUGHES Let the rain kiss you.Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.Let the rain sing you a lullaby. The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.The rain makes running pools in the gutter.The rain plays a little sleep-song …

Morning Coffee #4

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. AFTER THE SPRING The first hay is in and all at oncein the silent evening summer has comeknowing the place wholly the green skinof its hidden slopes where the shadows willnever reach so far again and a fewgray hairs motionless high in the latesunlight tell of …

Morning Coffee #3

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. BODIES, FLOWERBEDSfrom Bird From Africa by Viola AlloThe earth, carved up, engraved with bodies,this hollow vision of death: people restingtogether, bodies beneath a bed of flowers. We soften death into poems and stories.The art of writing is just a way of wailingfor the earth, carved up, sculpted by …

Morning Coffee #2

Where the author pretentiously post a poem he enjoys. BY ARUNDHATHI SUBRAMANIAM After A.A. (1967–2015) It’s 2005 and we are almost glamorous, the five of us— the chairs are cane, my shirt batik, the sunshine Goa and Heineken. We’re past the clumsy brutality of eighteen— we’ve deleted makeshift faces, borrowed persuasions, stances without journeys. We’ve forgiven …

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