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Quote by Sir John Waller

“Golden-haired boy on the edge of a street In his tight blue jeans on his lonely beat Hush! Hush! I'm rather afraid Christopher Robin is looking for trade.”

Quote by Sir John Waller

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Sir John Waller

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“إذا لم تفتح الكوّة لن تطيرَ إلى غرفتك الحمامة . ... كيف نحملُ العبء ، وننهضُ بعد الطوفان. كيف نمضي ،مرّةً أخرى إذا ما جاءتنا أيَامٌ عرفنا فيها أعاصيرَ لا تكفّ عن اقتلاع الأشجار من جذورها . ... دع التيّار يأخذ ما يُريد. دعني أبقَ في مكاني. أعطني هذه اللحظة ، ودعني. أريد أن اسمع القصة. ... كيف بدأت ،متى تنتهي ، ضدَّ من هذه المعركة . من بقيوا ،قرأوا الكتابة على الجدار. من هاجرَ، لم يجد الأرض الموعودة. ... لا مهرب : فالأرض ستربطنا إلي خصرها ولن تترك لنا أن نُفلت ، مثل أم مفجوعة ،حتى النهاية . ... وإذا ما صرخنا إذا ما أفصحنا عن اصواتنا الأخرى فحتى الملائكة ستخفي رؤوسنا تحت أجنحتها الثقيلة لئلا تسمع الصرخة . ... شارة الانبعاث اليومي كفت عن الأضاءة :ف آخر النفق، لم أعد صالحا للإنجراف مع المناخات الزائلة ربما كان هذا هو المعنى أن تترك المحطات خالية وراءك أن تُغادر قبل أن تغادرك الأشياء وأن تتعلم كيف تحيا ، هكذا . ... كل ما نحلم به ألا تعصف بنا هذة الاعاصير زاوية ننام فيها ، صفحة بيضاء حيث لا تكذب الكلمات . ... هذا العالم حديقة اشواك.”

Poem
Author:عظمة أخرى لكلب القبيلة، سركان بولص
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“There is a We in this poem To which everyone belongs. As in We the People-- In order to form a more perfect Union-- And: We were objects of much curiosity To the Indians-- And: The next we present before you Are things very appalling-- And: We find we are living, suffering, loving, Dying a story. We had not known otherwise-- We's a huckster, trickster, has pluck. We will draw you in.”

AmericaPoetryUnited StatesPoemUnityUsaUnited States Of AmericaDifferenceUs
Book:Duende
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“The looks, the heat Every smile, so sour, so sweet. All I had known was that you made me complete. Everything I needed, I never wanted more, Yet every time I was run down straight to the core. Every kiss, every step, every dance on the floor, Everything was nothing. When you left me...out that door. Our life, our plans, our future, in your hands. Like a stab or a wound. I'll get better...if I can. I know it's not the same, forever is the blame. I tried so hard, for one who wanted more, for someone's heart Who won't be allowed to be tamed. It was the best, a love, never small but when one Leaves the other, the rest will fall. Let the tears drop. Let the feelings fly. Because at least not in public, I will not cry. My heart still beats, locked in your chest. It's pitiful, sad, but I love you, dear traitor. If you can stay, you can trample my heart, but don't ever go away But if not, you're gone, I don't expect less But if it's true just lay with me and rest Help me rebuild me Out of whatever's left.”

Poem
Author:Jessie
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“Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of… Anyway . . . You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time . . . Well . . . Anyway . . . You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone." A poem by - Eva H.D.”

ArtPoemPoems
Author:Eva H.D.
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“Nine Negro boys in Alabama were on trial for their lives when I got back from Cuba and Haiti. The famous Scottsboro "rape" case was in full session. I visited those boys in the death house at Kilby Prison, and I wrote many poems about them. One of those poems was: CHRIST IN ALABAMA Christ is a Nigger, Beaten and black-- O, bare your back. Mary is His Mother-- Mammy of the South, Silence your mouth. God's His Father-- White Master above, Grant us your love. Most holy bastard Of the bleeding mouth: Nigger Christ On the cross of the South.”

PoetryPoemSouthTrialsAfrican AmericansBlacksAlabamaWrongful ConvictionScottsboro Boys
Book:Good Morning, Revolution: Uncollected Social Protest Writings
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