#poetrycoalition

[inbar-frishman]

[talesofa-dreamer]

I love you

#spilledink

#blackgirlpoet#herwordisgold

#literature #poeticliterature #blackgirlswhowritepoetry#sea #body#poetsofinstagram

#powerfullyworded #poems #blackgirlswhowritepoetry #traumasurvivor ###poetrycoalition #poemsinenglish #englishpoetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofig #poetry #handwritten #creativewriting #creativeminds #poem #spilledthoughts #spilledwords#poetsglobe#darkpoetry

#unrequitedlove #toxicrelationship

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[thecommonmag]

Poetry and Democracy: Part Three

The third installment of our joint series with The Poetry Coalition exploring the theme “What Is It, Then, Between Us?: Poetry & Democracy” is up now! Read poems from Peggy Robles-Alvarado and Erica Dawson, link below.

https://bit.ly/2ENAjNv

[whosebodyproject-blog]

Jericho has partnered with Dodge Poetry as part of our Whose Body? Project.

Jericho Brown is the recipient of a Whiting Writers’ Award and fellowships from the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation, the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Brown’s first book, Please (New Issues 2008), won the American Book Award. His second book, The New Testament (Copper Canyon 2014), won the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award and was named one of the best of the year by Library Journal, Coldfront, and the Academy of American Poets. His poems have appeared in The New York Times, The New Yorker, The New Republic, Buzzfeed, and The Pushcart Prize Anthology. He is the director of the Creative Writing Program at Emory University.

[godobe]

25 poets. #OnePoem. One cause: #BlackLivesMatter. Thanks for the great event, #poetrycoalition—donation sent to #UntilWeAreAllFree! 🙏🏻 https://www.instagram.com/p/CEDXZ3wpMf0/?igshid=17s9b09pq25vs

[fallenpoets]

Psychosis Day 2

Whispers in Half sleep, Escape languid Ear drums

Building hunger Brain on Power saving

Grey matter clockwork Faulty cogs.

Cognitive pause

I just wanna Drift….

~deAngelo

[hunnyluv222]

Nuggets...

If you have done something Particularly kind Or thoughtful For someone you love, PLEASE Do Not tuck the memory Away Coveting it Like some deliciously tasty nugget Until...... That person behaves in a way That just doesn't quite meet your approval When you carefully unpack it AND RUB IT IN THEIR FACE It cheapens the experience It cheapens you as a human being

[praetentioes-pathetisch]

Untitled

dire thoughts vigorously violating the ceasefire that had once been declared between mind and body dire dismal thoughts dissolving in veins and blood vessels ungraspable unobservable but silently they still leave their marks or should i say scars because the body hears everything the mind whispers

[kundimanforever]

Poem about THINGS THAT RISE by Elaine Wang. 

[awawards]

First Light by Chen Chen

I like to say we left at first light        with Chairman Mao himself chasing us in a police car, my father fighting him off with firecrackers,        even though Mao was already over a decade dead, & my mother says all my father did        during the Cultural Revolution was teach math, which he was not qualified to teach, & swim & sunbathe        around Piano Island, a place I never read about in my American textbooks, a place everybody in the family        says they took me to, & that I loved. What is it, to remember nothing, of what one loved?        To have forgotten the faces one first kissed? They ask if I remember them, the aunts, the uncles,        & I say Yes it’s coming back, I say Of course, when it’s No not at all, because when I last saw them        I was three, & the China of my first three years is largely make-believe, my vast invented country,        my dream before I knew the word “dream,” my father’s martial arts films plus a teaspoon-taste        of history. I like to say we left at first light, we had to, my parents had been unmasked as the famous        kung fu crime-fighting couple of the Southern provinces, & the Hong Kong mafia was after us. I like to say        we were helped by a handsome mysterious Northerner, who turned out himself to be a kung fu master.        I don’t like to say, I don’t remember crying. No embracing in the airport, sobbing. I don’t remember        feeling bad, leaving China. I like to say we left at first light, we snuck off        on some secret adventure, while the others were still sleeping, still blanketed, warm        in their memories of us. What do I remember of crying? When my mother slapped me        for being dirty, diseased, led astray by Western devils, a dirty, bad son, I cried, thirteen, already too old,        too male for crying. When my father said Get out, never come back, I cried & ran, threw myself into night.        Then returned, at first light, I don’t remember exactly why, or what exactly came next. One memory claims        my mother rushed into the pink dawn bright to see what had happened, reaching toward me with her hands,        & I wanted to say No. Don’t touch me. Another memory insists the front door had simply been left        unlocked, & I slipped right through, found my room, my bed, which felt somehow smaller, & fell asleep, for hours,        before my mother (anybody) seemed to notice. I’m not certain which is the correct version, but what stays with me        is the leaving, the cry, the country splintering. It’s been another five years since my mother has seen her sisters,        her own mother, who recently had a stroke, who has                          trouble recalling who, why. I feel awful, my mother says,        not going back at once to see her. But too much is                              happening here. Here, she says, as though it’s the most difficult,        least forgivable English word. What would my mother say, if she were the one writing?        How would her voice sound? Which is really to ask, what is my best guess, my invented, translated (Chinese-to-English,        English-to-English) mother’s voice? She might say: We left at first light, we had to, the flight was early,        in early spring. Go, my mother urged, what are you doing, waving at me, crying? Get on that plane before it leaves without you.        It was spring & I could smell it, despite the sterile glass & metal of the airport—scent of my mother’s just-washed hair,        of the just-born flowers of fields we passed on the car ride over, how I did not know those flowers were already        memory, how I thought I could smell them, boarding the plane, the strange tunnel full of their aroma, their names        I once knew, & my mother’s long black hair—so impossible now. Why did I never consider how different spring could smell, feel,        elsewhere? First light, last scent, lost country. First & deepest severance that should have        prepared me for all others. 

********************************************************************

I was absolutely stunned by this gorgeous poem published by the Academy of American Poets in honor of #wecomefromeverything. I hope it brings you a moment of contemplation in this crazy week.---Joey Reisberg, NE National Student Poet 

[gregsantospoet]

My poem "Litany" which originally appeared in a slightly different version (originally titled "Nomads") in issue 20.3 of @ricepapermag has been shared in postcard form as part of the #WeComeFromEverything migration poetry project. Thank you @kundimanforever! #gregsantos #postcardpoetry #poetrycoalition #poetry #poetsofinstagram #instagrampoetry #writingcommunity #poetrycommunity #migration

[ruknowhere]

New York, NY (February 6, 2020)— This March, the more than 25 organizations nationwide that compose the Poetry Coalition will launch “I am deliberate / and afraid / of nothing: Poetry & Protest”, the coalition’s fourth annual programming initiative. For this collaborative effort, the organizations will offer a range of events and publications that speak to this timely theme. This programming is made possible in part by grants from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the Ford Foundation which were secured by the Academy of American Poets.

The line “I am deliberate / and afraid / of nothing: Poetry & Protest” is from the poem “New Year’s Day” by Audre Lorde. The theme was inspired by a number of occasions taking place this year, including the 100th anniversary of the 19th Amendment granting women the right to vote and the 50th anniversary of the tragic shooting of student protesters at Kent State University. It also speaks to the role poetry has played in encouraging civic and grassroots engagement, and contributing to public debate and dialogue. All organizations and others interested are invited to program on this theme in March and share their efforts using the hashtags #PoetryandDemocracy and #PoetryCoalition.

[thecommonmag]

Poetry and Democracy: Part Four

The last part of our series in conjunction with the Poetry Coalition, exploring the theme “What Is It, Then, Between Us?: Poetry & Democracy,” is up now. Read more in the link below.

https://bit.ly/2uvnW48

[poisonwinegallery-blog]

Better the warfare than our homelands

The constant battle against our purpose is what lends us against the gutter The fall is hard enough to convince any man that he is not built for war That's what it comes down to when you finally fall over the edge The light of day dies with the hope in your eyes And it doesn't help at all that the idea of serenity that you so highly behold constitutes a society that shames soldiers who bear scars That's how it all begins The red reflection of the sun against your eyelids disappears during a prayer and the night, your haven of tranquility turns its back on you Darkness and silence take turns with you; they nibble softly on whatever's left of you - of your sanity Soldiers who endured the gore of combat relate this experience with being cuffed onto a chair and thrown into the ocean Tell me, how do you win a war that's as old as life on earth without the prayers of your people guarding your soul? There is no honor in the culture that we have risen to dominance We have carried with us, traditions rooted to an era we openly despise, and rightfully so, yet somehow we find fault in 3rd generation worriors who open up their wounds for us to dress them The return of our soldiers from war takes from us more than it gives back From some, it has stolen the basic touch with reality - the only memories they have of life before war are outraged hearts and voices in their heads constantly screaming with pain Are you ready to teach our soldiers how to cry yet? Poison Wine

[solviturc]

Writing Is The Solution

Don't forget about the #ebook #giveaways , #roleplayer #ebook lovers and #PoetryCoalition #writingcommunity https://t.co/FHneI2wkyd https://twitter.com/SolviturC/status/1059506423011389440 Join the fun @ http://solviturchartar.com/

[hyejungkook]

Postcard Poem #28, "Gold Leaf (I)"