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Quote by Emiko Jean

“Eriku is a free verse. Passion, energy, and rhythm. But Akio... Akio is waka, carefully composed, controlled, polished, and elegant. There is something timeless about him. Everything would be---and was---so easy with Eriku. But he doesn't challenge me enough. Not like Akio does. Love is so many things. And for me, it's a push and a pull.”

Quote by Emiko Jean

Book:Tokyo Dreaming
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Tokyo Dreaming

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Emiko Jean

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“নদীর বৈকালিক ছায়ার মতো শীতল হয়ে আছে— স্তব্ধতার বালুকাময় শবাগার। যখনই মনে পড়ে সুপারিবাগান ঘেরা মাটিরঙা স্মৃতিগুচ্ছের কথা, তার কথা, আলগোছে ভাবি, ফের যদি ডাক দিই তাকে? ফের যদি নতজানু হই। সহসা নিশ্চুপে আমি আমাকেই বলি, ফের তুমি নতজানু হবে? কাকে ডাকবে? কাকে ফের জানাবে আমন্ত্রণ? কার প্রতি নতজানু হবে? দায়হীন বেলুনয়ালার মতো যেকোনো দৈনন্দিন অছিলায় তোমাকে বাতাসে উড়িয়ে দিয়েছিলো যে, তার প্রতি? তার অন্তিম উচ্চারণগুলো মগ্নচৈতন্যের মতো করাঘাত করে আমার নিরেট সদরে-অন্দরে। আমি আমন্ত্রণ মুছে, ভাবনা মুছে, স্মৃতি মুছে, বালুকাকণা ঝেড়ে ফেলি আস্তিনের ভাঁজ থেকে, ইচ্ছে আর আকাঙ্ক্ষার রঙিন চিরকুটগুলো নিস্পৃহ বাদলা হাওয়ায় উড়িয়ে দিয়ে ধীরে ধীরে ফের তীক্ষ্ণ ইস্পাত-অস্ত্রের মতো শিরদাঁড়া সোজা করে হেঁটে চলে যাই অবিরল বিস্মরণের দিকে।”

PoetryPoemBengaliBangla
Author:সিরাজুল ইসলাম
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“A Vigilante Stalks by Stewart Stafford O slain avenger on the mortal shore, Moral compass of an immoral craft, Virtue cloaked with malignant wings, Intravenous vengeance on two legs. Grinning charm gave way to coercion, Cold eyes unwavering from the prize, Art critic and thief in a rogues' gallery, Breaking fingers reeking of corruption. Serving a brew of fear to the fearsome, Never made you a flavour of the month, Festering secrets spewed in last breaths, Before they made you yesterday's man. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

JusticeCrimePoemRevengeVengeanceVigilanteAvengerAvenging AngelVigilante PoetsGet Carter
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. Some nights you feel like you're on an alien planet or some kind of time machine entering a liquor store with its neon signs and retro touches; besides the new done up stores looking like a polished toilet. I prefer the beaten down, rough and strange liquor store. I’m a regular and the man at the counter always asked me about my latest book, he told me to stay away and write until old age. Anyways got my shit, walked out and the alarm beep went off, barely covering the tax. Took the long way home, to get away from that haunting typewriter. Sat down at some park bench, as I started to open my poison, a memory rushed into me. A empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the Christmas tree. I thought my dad would want another drink, so started to pour my bottle into the dirt and cry as the moon went over the horizon and crossed into the section where my heart was filled up with the hidden moons glow.”

LoveArtEarthSpacePoemDrinkMoonChristmasCelebrateFree
Author:Brandon Villasenor
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“"Listen," he said, reaching for her wrist distractedly, eyes on the page of the book as he pulled her closer. Holding the Dark, the title read. By a poet named Melanie Cameron. Emeline leaned back against the shelves, watching him. " 'I didn't know it would go like this,' " he recited. " 'I didn't know I would find you in the dark...' " Emeline stared at his mouth, captivated by the cadence of his voice. His expression was hungry as he read on, as if he'd discovered some delicious secret and wanted to feed it to her. Like a ripe red strawberry dipped in chocolate. "When I lie against you with my eyes closed, I bring your body with me, into the darkness, I bring your whole body inside me. And in that darkness I know you so much better than hands and mouth can know, I know you, as though you were the darkness inside me." He glanced up from the page, fixing her in place with that same hungry gaze. Warmth pooled in her belly. "It's nice," she murmured. He raised an eyebrow. "Nice?" The corner of his mouth turned up as he lifted his hand, bracing it against the shelf beside her. She wrinkled her nose at him. "Pretty, then." "How about tender. And..." His eyes dropped to her mouth. "Intimate." There was the oddest feeling in Emeline's chest. Like a million tiny stars on the cusp of bursting. Sparks crackled in the air between them.”

PoemSensual AttractionDark Desires
Book:Edgewood
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“CHALLENGES TO YOUNG POETS Invent a new language anyone can understand. Climb the Statue of Liberty. Reach for the unattainable. Kiss the mirror and write what you see and hear. Dance with wolves and count the stars, including the unseen. Be naïve, innocent, non-cynical, as if you had just landed on earth (as indeed you have, as indeed we all have), astonished by what you have fallen upon. Write living newspaper. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance level for hot air. Write and endless poem about your life on earth or elsewhere. Read between the lines of human discourse. Avoid the provincial, go for the universal. Think subjectively, write objectively. Think long thoughts in short sentences. Don't attend poetry workshops, but if you do, don't go the learn "how to" but to learn "what" (What's important to write about). Don't bow down to critics who have not themselves written great masterpieces. Resist much, obey less. Secretly liberate any being you see in a cage. Write short poems in the voice of birds. Make your lyrics truly lyrical. Birdsong is not made by machines. Give your poem wings to fly to the treetops. The much-quoted dictum from William Carlos Williams, "No ideas but in things," is OK for prose, but it lays a dead hand on lyricism, since "things" are dead. Don't contemplate your navel in poetry and think the rest of the world is going to think it's important. Remember everything, forget nothing. Work on a frontier, if you can find one. Go to sea, or work near water, and paddle your own boat. Associate with thinking poets. They're hard to find. Cultivate dissidence and critical thinking. "First thought, best thought" may not make for the greatest poetry. First thought may be worst thought. What's on your mind? What do you have in mind? Open your mouth and stop mumbling. Don't be so open minded that your brains fall out. Questions everything and everyone. Be subversive, constantly questioning reality and status quo. Be a poet, not a huckster. Don't cater, don't pander, especially not to possible audiences, readers, editors, or publishers. Come out of your closet. It's dark there. Raise the blinds, throw open your shuttered windows, raise the roof, unscrew the locks from the doors, but don't throw away the screws. Be committed to something outside yourself. Be militant about it. Or ecstatic. To be a poet at sixteen is to be sixteen, to be a poet at 40 is to be a poet. Be both. Wake up and pee, the world's on fire. Have a nice day.”

YoungPoetryPoetPoem
Book:San Francisco Poems
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